When I Worked At Borders

I’ve had a lot of jobs. I’ve been a retail clerk, a waitress, a childcare provider, a receptionist, a high school English teacher, and now a freelance writer extraordinaire (tell your friends!) I even had a three-hour stint as a telemarketer, where I harassed people at home for money. I called myself Cassandra, because I’ve always liked the name Cassandra, and because I was so ashamed I couldn’t admit my real name. I may have also talked in a hybrid English/ Scottish accent unique to the region of my head.

My favorite job, however, was the year-and-a-half I spent as an employee at Borders Books and Music in Buffalo, New York.

You can see where this post is going.

If you love books, there’s obviously no better place to work than a gigantic bookstore. God, I loved that store. After I was unexpectedly fired from a position a week after September 11th (a sad story for another day), I applied at just one place: the bookstore I retreated to when I wanted to get away from it all. I was hired and put in charge of the children’s department. Soon after, I was promoted to training supervisor. Later, I popped out a 9.8 lb child. It hurt so bad, I decided not to work again for a long time.

I’ve got great stories from that place. My second week there, I overheard a guy talking about me in the back warehouse. (I was the new girl, so I was subject to scrutiny.) No one noticed my searching for a book among the warehouse stacks, because I am quiet, like a little library mouse. (I was skinny back then.) One of the sales clerks said to his girlfriend, and I quote: “Yeah, she’s hot, but she’s dumber than a bag of nails.”

Now, if this had happened yesterday, I would’ve dismissed the dumber-than-a bag-of-nails bit and focused on the hot part. I would’ve been delighted! Back then, though, my skinny butt was mortified. And stuck.

How was I going to get out of the back room without being discovered?

By crawling! On the floor. Where I came face to face with my newly-formed arch nemesis. Or rather, face to knee.

“Just… getting something,” I whispered. Then I got to my feet, walked briskly out, and cried for twelve hours straight.

“They think I’m stupid!” I sobbed to my husband.

“Who cares?” he said.

“We’ve never even had (snivel) a conversation (snivel) before… why would he say such a thing? Why does he hate me?”

“He didn’t say he hated you.  He said you were dumber than a bag of nails."


“I won’t go back there! I WANT TO DIE!”

I went back. Aside from a few awkward encounters that involved me shoving my GRE scores in a certain person’s face, all was forgiven.

The store was large, with books that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Literature, biographies, memoirs, books about science, business, anthropology, cooking… you name it; Borders had it. The literature was on the far left, bargain books toward the front, the expansive music department filled the back. Borders employed people from all walks of life: freaky looking teenagers with shaggy hair and rings hanging out of their noses to grandmotherly types who manned the registers during the holidays. Some employees had been there for many years, taking comfort in the daily routines, the quiet of the store in the early morning, and the assurance that there would always be books to stock, people to help, titles to track down.

As a training supervisor, I made sure new employees knew where popular books like Tuesdays with Morrie, Founding Fathers, and The Millionaire Next Door were located. I taught café workers how to make a frothy cappuccino and music employees how to re-wrap CD cases that had been ripped open.

The store was full of interesting, quirky people, including the customers. I mainly resided in the children’s book department, where I stocked shelves, gave impassioned readings of The Monster at the End of this Book and There’s a Wocket in my Pocket during Saturday morning story hour, and was a brave arbiter during a divorced couple’s weekly Sunday morning child swap.

One evening, a graduate student came in and demanded books that had pictures of Lake Ladoga in Russia. She needed it for a presentation that was due the next day.

“I find it hard to believe you don’t even have a calendar with a picture of Lake Ladoga in it,” she said.

“We have calendars of the Finger Lakes,” I suggested. “Your classmates probably wouldn’t know the difference.”

She left in a huff.

Another day a Krispy Kreme opened next door, and we welcomed a whole new breed of clientele, like the man who came in every Saturday, selected five different magazines, and carried them (along with a half-eaten donut) into the bathroom for a mid-morning poo. I was made aware of this tradition by the café staff who had been watching this take place for weeks, but were too fearful to say anything.

“He goes to the bathroom, and then he returns the magazines to the shelves!” We agreed this was gross. I confronted him, and it went really, really well. I offered to hold his magazines while he did his business, he handed them over, and we never saw him again.

Another time, I confronted a woman who was taking advantage of the free coffee sample promotion we had going on. This did not go as well. To this day, I argue that filling your travel mug with coffee meant for sampling is “stealing.”

I had close encounters with celebrities. I sold Ani DiFranco some tea, took Rudy Giuliani to the bathroom, and helped a woman chase down Johnny Cochran at the airport after he gave a talk in our store. (She really believed he would take her case.)

And then there were the perks you weren’t supposed to talk about. I read The Lovely Bones, I Don’t Know How She Does It, Stupid White Men, and The Nanny Diaries before they were released to the public.

I listened to “Sweet Baby James” over 100 times on the loudspeaker.

The first time I puked after I became pregnant was in the Borders women’s bathroom, and the first book I bought for my son, I Am a Bunny by Richard Scarry, was purchased on a Monday before I left the store for the night.

Every now and again, I would go back and visit. Two years ago, I was unnerved to discover that the music selection, once the largest in Buffalo, had dwindled down to a few paltry shelves full of movie soundtracks, copies of Bach’s Greatest Hits, and the latest Britney Spears. There were, however, shelves full of stationary, lip gloss, journals, iPod cases, and other gift items.

I cried when I heard they were closing.

I don’t want to discuss why they failed- it’s moot at this point- I just want to say that my store was a really great store, and thousands of other Borders employees feel the same way about their stores.

Borders employed stores full of book lovers. And what better people to work with than with book lovers? And is there a better work environment than one filled with books? (And scones. Lots of scones.)

This Sunday, the last Borders stores will close their doors forever, including the flagship store in Ann Arbor.

I will miss them.

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Think you could have worked at Borders? Take the quiz! It’s fun! http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/09/09/borders.quiz/index.html

Ralph Waldo Emerson vs. Peggy and Pam

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. Emerson.


There are many drawbacks to working from home. Here’s but one example: Ella has, for whatever reason, removed all of the erasers from my Papermate pencils. Curses!

On the domestic front: lately, my house looks just like the shack featured at the end of The Blair Witch Project. Dingy with children’s hand prints all over the walls. There are no dead or possessed people standing in any corners, however.

Yet.

We’re having serious problems over here. Like biblical plague-type problems.

We had a moth infestation in our pantry. I had to open the pantry doors and then duck for cover, lest I should inadvertently consume a moth. They got into the flour, cereal, pancake mix, oatmeal, rice, etc. I had scrub the shelves, throw out a lot of food, and vacuum up larvae (yes larvae) attached to the ceiling.

Our front yard is also crawling with moths. (A completely different type of moth, by the way, which you have to admit is a little freaky.) They burrow into the dirt and subsist on our already plagued-with-weeds grass. If you look, it appears that our front yard is mobile. So, we have to call the lawn people in to spray more poison all over the yard. I don’t get why no one else in the neighborhood seems to be suffering. I hired a lawn service this year just like everyone else.

Something is eating the leaves on my large maple tree in the front yard. This appears to be a different type of insect. I love that tree. If something happens to that tree, so help me God, I will throw a fit.

But you know what’s really disgusting? Going to get some meat out of your freezer to find that said freezer apparently died a couple of days ago and all of your food is rotting. The smell of death is overwhelming. You might throw up a little in your mouth. Which will happen again after you go get the rubber gloves and begin pulling decaying chicken carcasses from bacteria-ridden water at the bottom of the freezer. Goodbye ice-cream sandwiches, fish sticks, freeze pops, hamburgers, and hot dog buns.

I’m contacting a priest to exercise the demons.

That doesn’t look right.

Exorcise the demons. Though exercise works. Run them around and really wear them out, then give them a mop and bucket and put them to work in the kitchen.

I shouldn’t joke about the demons.

The messy dirty house is of course mostly my fault. Well, my kids’ fault, but I haven’t been on top of things. I need to get proactive. I’ve contacted a maid service, but I feel compelled to clean before they come. I don’t want them to think I’m a slob. God forbid.

So I ordered another self-help book. This is why self-help books continue to fly off bookshelves, or rather, electronic databases, faster than copies of The Bible: suckers like me who truly believe one truly excellent self-help book will solve all their problems. This particular one is called Sidetracked Home Executives. I was drawn to the term “Home Executive.”

The authors, sisters Pam Young and Peggy Jones, are funny. They list a “table of excuses” messy people use to avoid cleaning, which include:

I don’t have enough energy.
It’s too hot.
It’s too cold.
I’m not in the mood.
I’ve got too many kids.
I’ve got cramps.
My house is too big.
My house is too small.
We just moved in (three years ago).
I don’t have enough time.
Nobody cooperates with me.
I’d rather play solitaire (updated for 2011- Angry Birds).
I don’t want to do it.
I’m too intelligent for such remedial work.
I hate housework.
Nobody appreciates it anyway.
Creative people are messy.
I’m pregnant (I’m not).
I’ll start tomorrow.
I was up all night with the baby.
It’s the flu season.

My additions:

I’ve got moths.
I’ve got rotting chickens.
I have no more edible food.
We’re recovering from hurricane Irene.
I have an excessively hairy and destructive dog.
I’m currently very busy creating a playlist of New Wave love songs.
My husband works too much.
I think my house is haunted, and I don’t want to be in it.
I’m exhausted; I’ve been exercising the demons.


People keep telling me I need a routine. That sounds horrible. I don’t want to know what I’m doing every Monday, especially if it’s: “cleaning the upstairs bathroom, washing all the whites, making lasagna for dinner, and changing the sheets.” How very the opposite of droll.

Nothing scares me more than thinking that all the weeks of my life will ride the never-ending waves of laundry, dirty dishes, grocery shopping, and scrubbing stains off the toilet seat.

Yet, Peggy and Pam insist that if I get a routine going, cleaning will take up a small portion of time, and I’ll have the rest of the day to read romance novels, watch Dr. Phil, and take naps.

They said that. I’m not even joking.

I don’t like Dr. Phil.

But there’s no other month like September to get it together. I think I’d be happy if it was September all year long. And the other day, a friend called to ask if I could keep an eye on her son for a few hours, and I almost said no because I didn’t want the seven-year old kid to see my house. This is a problem.

Honestly, I’m tired. I go through dramatic mood changes. One day, the sun is shining and I truly believe: I can do this! Today, I will prepare three meals, dress my children in appropriate attire, put them on the bus, workout, take a shower, play hide-and-seek with the twins, write for three hours, do three loads of laundry, make doctor and dentist appointments, update my calendar, clean at least one bathroom, correct Caleb’s homework, scrub the crayon markings off the wall, sweep the kitchen floor, fix my hair before greeting the husband, and floss.

Other days: This is pointless. I am useless. Who ate the last oatmeal cream pie I will kill you. I hate flossing the dental hygienist can kiss my @#$.

The doctor calls it bi-polar disorder.

I call it motherhood. Some days are decidedly better than others. Would a routine help? Or is it just another goal I will fail to meet?

Also- someone has broken into my house and taken ½ of every pair of socks. I am sure of this, but the policemen think I’m crazy.

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely...” Emerson.

(The serenely part is really funny.)

The Toothless Miser

Ben lost a tooth today. It was so gross. There was blood all over. He lacks those two front teeth, the ones so many children covet at Christmas-time. The gaping hole in his mouth doesn’t seem to bother him, however. He had other things on his mind, like how much his tooth was really worth.

“I’ve heard of kids getting $5 for their teeth,” he said.

“I’ve never heard that,” I responded.

“But I washed my tooth and it’s very white.”

“What are you saying?”

”I’m saying that you should call the tooth fairy’s boss for me.”

I may have called the tooth fairy’s regional manager once to complain about lack of service here on our street. The tooth fairy had an appalling habit of arriving late to our house.

The regional manager was quite apologetic. She even had the tooth fairy call to tell Ben she had been suffering from flying sickness and was very sorry for her tardiness.

“You really think your tooth is worth more than other kids’ teeth?” Ben nodded his head fervently. “Why?”

“Because it’s so cute. Look at it.”

Good grief.

Happiest Girl...

Married 12 YEARS! This calls for the dedication of a supremely cheesy yet very sweet song...

Skippidity doo-da

Thank you Lord for making him for me

And thank you for letting life turn out the way

That I always thought it could be

There once was a time when I could not imagine

How it would feel to say

I’m the happiest girl in the whole U.S.A.

Beware the Nevi

Unfortunately, I grew up with the skewed belief that if I kept at it religiously, I would become a person who tanned well. This led to years of blistering sunburns. I read somewhere that each blistering sunburn increases your chance of getting skin cancer by like 900%, so it’s no surprise that in the past few years I’ve had several basal cell carcinomas freeze-dried off my face, shoulders, and back, each time leaving a small, shiny, white recessed scar. (I call my doctor Mr. Freeze, like the Batman villain. He seems to get a kick out of it.)

It’s a highly unpleasant process.

We watch my moles like hawks. In the past year, a freckle beneath my eyebrow started expanding like it was Napoleon and my face was continental Europe. So the doctor shot novocaine into my head, removed the thing with a scalpel, and sent it off to be biopsied.

“I’d be highly surprised if it’s melanoma,” he said.

Never say the word “melanoma” in front of a pale person whose major regret in life is that her vanity led her down the path of sunburns, sun rashes, and some dehydration that may have led to mass faintings. Especially is she has libertarian leanings. She’s liable to go all Yosemite Sam, shooting at the ground and vowing to destroy melanoma varmints like she did when she discovered the sudden appearance of an ugly black mole on her chin. Thankfully, her self-diagnosis proved the spot to be completely benign (chocolate cake batter) and a crisis was averted.

(If I could go back and kick 16-year old Holly’s skinny little a@$, I would. Then I’d douse her with SPF 30 and tell her to stop skipping gym class; she’s gonna fail the semester and have to make it up her senior year.)

Last week, a nurse called me with the biopsy results.

“Your biopsy came back. It showed a dysplastic compound nevi.”

There was a moment of panic. A dysplastic compound nevi sounded like major cause for concern. I glanced at my poor sweet children who were playing happily with blocks, completely oblivious to the fact that I was suffering from a dysplastic compound nevi. The sun kept shining, my neighbor kept mowing his lawn, the world kept rotating in spite of the fact that I was sitting there with a severe case of dysplastic compound nevi.

“Oh no,” I said.

“Nah, this is good. That’s just fancy terminology for a benign mole. No cancer. Okay?”

I strongly believe she should have led off with the benign mole bit.

Crisis averted again. I remain happy, relatively healthy, and pale. It’s disconcerting, however, that the husband doesn’t seem to understand that I have to lay pretty low for the next month or so. I had a dysplastic compound nevi surgically removed from my eye. Or above my eye. Same thing. It was traumatizing. I demand chocolate pudding and popsicles.

And sunscreen. Lots of sunscreen.

The Nighttime Visitor

Four children, and not one of them had ever crawled into bed with us in the middle of the night. Nor have they bounced on our bed on Christmas morning; they howl from their rooms, as if we’ve imprisoned them in there, “Waaaake uuuup!!! MOM! DAD!” Most consider us lucky, but I always felt like I was missing out on something. I like cuddling.

Two weeks ago, Daniel woke up in the middle of the night screaming. I walked in his room and he started blubbering about a weird noise, the rain, a bug, the rise of China and the threat of global warming. He was bereft. So I gathered him in my arms and brought him into our bed. He burrowed down into the covers and lay completely still, like a warm loaf of bread. He let out a tiny sigh, went to sleep, and stayed perfectly still until 7 in the morning.

It was glorious.

My other three children are cuddling failures. Caleb slept for the first four days of his life and then took up a hobby: screaming at the top of his lung until he turned purple for large portions of the day and night. He adamantly refused to go asleep on his own. He required to be moving in his swing at about 80 mph or bounced on my knees for a good half hour before he would drift off. Forget about trying to set him down. The moment he felt that easy drop toward his crib, he would wake up and passionately recite a speech by Benito Mussolini. My life had been taken over by a 10-pound fascist dictator with no teeth and a penchant for drooling.

For the first four months of his life, I ended up curled up on the couch with Caleb, where I lay perfectly still and came in and out of uneasy, murky sleep. Living a life in perpetual fear of waking your dictator child is not really a life at all; I had to break Caleb of his habit. Which was like trying to unseat Mussolini, minus the hanging bit.  Since then, Caleb has been a restless, twitchy sleeper who gets about seven hours of shut-eye a night and is not one for cuddling.

Ben’s a good sleeper- has been since day one. He’s squirmy, though. We shared a bed once, and I woke up in the middle of the night with his heel in my eye. I gently moved him back into position and woke up 20 minutes later with no covers and his other heel in my eye. I pity his future wife.

Ella is too social to cuddle. She wants to talk. And sing. And discuss plans for her birthday, which is seven months away. She wants to jump on the bed and tickle feet and recite a monologue by one Dora the Explorer. She wants to dabble in Spanish and make animal shadows on the wall. She wants to giggle, randomly, for no apparent reason. She wants to know where her twin is; she sleeps well next to him. She refuses to be still with the rest of us.

A few nights ago, Daniel came into our room and tapped me on the forehead until I woke up. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was upset about something. I grabbed him and he molded into the side of me and stayed there until the morning. He’s so squishy and soft.

Sadly, it hasn’t happened since, so I’ve been telling him some slight untruths. Like the following:

1. The book “There’s a Nightmare in My Closet” by Maurice Sendak is based on a true story.
2. So is “Where the Wild Things Are.”
3. Sharks swim in oceans, but occasionally make it to Lake Ontario. Occasionally.
4. The buzzing sound in his room is probably a nest of bees in between the rafters, but they won’t get in unless they find that tiny hole in the corner.
5. I don’t think his stuffed animals came alive at night and gave him that bruise on his leg, but I can’t be sure.
6. Sometimes mommy forgets to lock the front door, but bad guys only rob yellow houses. Our house is yellow? Well, I guess mommy should start locking the doors!
7. Sometimes dogs turn into werewolves in the middle of the night, but only dogs who live in yellow houses.
8. Come to think of it, yellow also attracts aliens. Maybe we should get new siding?
9. Did I ever tell you the story about when an alien stole me from my bed and took me to his planet and made me eat copious amounts of peas?
10. Yes, that’s why aliens are green. Because they eat a diet solely consisting of peas.

Any night now…

Obedience School

Holly's Turn

Dog obedience training at the local community center was postponed a week due to inclement weather conditions. Last week, I went to an informational session without Kiah, which was nice because there were no children or dogs there. Just a bunch of harried looking dog parents with questions like “How can I get my dog to stop chasing my cat?” and “How can I get my dog to stop chasing the mailman?” and “How can I get my dog to stop chasing me?” The girl next to me was the frazzled owner of a young golden retriever. As I looked over our training materials, I commented that my dog was going to be the worst dog in the class. The girl next to me insisted her dog was going to be the worst dog in the class. The argument escalated from there, both of us stubbornly insisting we had the worst-trained dogs in the entire world. There was arm crossing and glaring. When your dog’s bad manners become a point of pride, something is wrong. It’s like bragging to New Yorkers that Rochester’s crime rate is higher than New York’s.

Anyway, yesterday was the big day. I dragged Caleb along. Walking into a room with nine other dogs, quite frankly, filled me with a lot of anxiety. Kiah used to be really good on the leash, but this past spring, she went rogue. It has become impossible to walk her. Last week, I had two elderly gentlemen say, “Who’s taking who for a walk? Ha ha ha.” Real original, guys. Real original.

Kiah pulled on her leash and started walking on her hind legs, as she is apt to do when I won’t allow her to just run up to a strange dog. Caleb grinned as I pleaded with Kiah to behave herself.

All in all, the session went pretty well. Our first lesson was to teach the dog not to pull on the leash. Then we worked on sit and topped if off with the more advanced sit/stay combination. Kiah is a smart girl and catches on quick; I just need to be more consistent. One thing I’m really good at is the high-pitched gushing that dogs respond so well to. I was praised for my dog-praising technique, which consists of baby-talk and lots of scratching behind the ears. I say things like, “She’s such a good shmooki lovey boo boo doggie woggy yes her is and I loves her! Yes I do! I loves her!” Caleb rolls his eyes at me when I talk like that.

“That’s kind of embarrassing, mom.”

“Yeah, well, you loved it when you were four months old.”

“I doubt it,” he says.

The last ten minutes are dedicated to free play, which means the owners let their dogs off their leashes and allow them to run around the gym to sniff one another’s butts. I’m a little surprised this is legal in the state of New York. The trainer explained the rules for free play. She called the most submissive dogs to the center of the gym first, followed by more friendly dogs, followed by the most dominant dogs.

Molly, a meek black lab, went first. After she was let off her leash, Molly ran with her tail between her legs to a corner, cowered, and shook like a leaf. Next went Jenny, a yippy terrier. She stood in the middle of the gym and, well, yipped. Brody the chocolate lab went next. The two Codys were called, as well as the golden retriever puppy.

Kiah was called last.

Last.

The alpha dog went last.

We have a lot of work to do these next few months.

Kiah’s Turn

Last night, my non-fuzzy adopted mother and my non-fuzzy adopted brother accompanied me to a special program that trains adults to perform tricks while we canines watch them with amusement. Watching my non-fuzzy mother jumping up and down like an imbecile because I sit is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Yes, I can sit! I’ve always been able to sit. Why we’re celebrating this now is beyond me, but okay. It seems to make her happy, so I acquiesce.

There were so many other dogs there! I sniffed everyone’s butt. Every single one. There was this little tiny dog there; I’ve never seen anything like her. I took my paw and pushed her and sure enough, she kind of fell on her side. So I stepped on her, you know, just to let her know I was big and important and she was small and insignificant. Holly was mortified. She pulled me away and said, “No Kiah. Play nice.” The funny thing is, even though Holly’s bigger than I am, and I mean big- the woman is enormous- she has never pushed me over and stepped on me.

She is an inferior being.

We did a lot of walking around in circles. I’ve always been a proficient circle walker, but Holly felt she needed the practice, so we trotted around and the trainer scrutinized Holly to make sure she was performing well. She wasn’t. She was pretty much the worst walker in the class. It was kind of sad.

Then, the canines were taught how to train our non-fuzzy parents to jump up and down and make ridiculous noises when we sat and stayed. If you have the opportunity to try this at home, I highly recommend it. Watching grown men and women say things like, “She’s such a good shmooki lovey boo boo doggie woggy yes her is and I loves her! Yes I do! I loves her!” is a good time. It’s hard to believe this is the species that created the wheel, modern medicine, and those wonderful chew toys they call Nerf.

Before we left, everyone went leash-free and we had an official butt-sniffing convention. Brody peed on the side of the wall. I think he was trying to prove something, so I knocked him over and stepped on him. Holly kept trying to make me act in a manner to which I am not accustomed, and she knows I hate that. I think she’s jealous because I am social and loved by everyone, and she’s kind of shy and awkward and let’s face it, ridiculous with that high-pitched voice. I don’t know why she was even there. She did not sniff one butt. It was kind of rude.

We have a lot of work to do these next few months.

Mimosas for Breakfast

NYC at 100 degrees is only fun if you go with your best girlfriends. I know. I was in NYC this weekend with my girlfriends while all the smart people were leaving Manhattan in hoards. Thankfully, in NY there is always a shop or a café with air conditioning to patronize or a window air conditioner dripping condensation from above.

The weekend is a little hazy because the weather was hazy, and also perhaps because I started off each morning with mimosas for breakfast. I sweat a lot. On Saturday, I didn’t go to the bathroom between 1pm and 8pm, despite drinking over 40 ounces of water and one diet coke. This was shocking to me because I pee, on average, every 47.5 minutes.

My friend Lyd and I drove this time, hoping to save both money and Holly’s stomach, which is still funky after her flight back from Dallas. We didn’t even make it to Geneva before we got stuck in a 2 ½ hour traffic jam. We were upset about it. There was complaining. And then we found out a tour bus had pulled out in front of a tractor trailer, was immediately set on fire, and that the tractor trailer driver perished.

We felt a wee bit bad about complaining.

I have a love/hate thing going on with the British woman on the GPS. I love her because she knows where I am when I have no clue, but I hate her because she’s bossy and takes me through the Holland Tunnel when the George Washington Bridge is the better route.

We did find free parking one street away from Christine's apartment for the entire weekend.  This is a miracle akin to turning water into wine.  Or mimosas.

It took us ten hours to drive to the Upper East Side and six hours to drive home via the George Washington Bridge.

Lyd and I are not quite assimilated to the Big Apple, though we try to fit in. Lydia is, strangely, single. Otherwise I WOULD NOT be checking out handsome men in uniform on the street because I am happily married to a suit.  I'm trying to help out a friend. 

Holly: Lyd, did you see that cute pilot over there?
Lyd: Ooooh, yeah. Danny!
Christine: That’s a doorman, guys.

I was also concerned about how crowded all of the coffee shops were.

Holly: Is it always this crowded in these places? Even in the dead of winter?
Christine: Yes.
Holly: (Deeply concerned.) But then where can all of the writers go to pen their great novels?
Christine: It’s the stupid writers that make it so crowded in here. They sit and they don’t move for days. (Glares at girl sitting at table with laptop.)
Holly: Oh. I feel sheepish. (I did not say that. But sheepish is just how I felt.)

I took fewer pics than I usually do, but here are some of them with commentary:

On Saturday, we ventured out to Governors Island, which is located at the bottom of Manhattan near the Statue of Liberty.  Formerly a military base, the government is in the middle of preservation efforts, turning the island into a sort of park/ historical destination.  You can access the island via ferry (the port is right next to the Staten Island Ferry port.)  The island was pretty dead; of course, it was 100 degrees out.  Once on the island, you can rent a bicycle, fly a kite, enjoy a free game of mini-golf, eat lunch, and appreciate the view.  Here's me and Lyd at one of the many modern sculptures located throughout the island. 

A tourist boat sailing by the island.  The orange boat is the Staten Island Ferry.

View of lower Manhattan from Governors Island.

View of Libby from Governors Island

Castle Williams located on Governors Island

On Sunday, we had Brunch at Cafe Lalo, which is the cafe from You've Got Mail.  (Which I wrote about recently, right here. Tom Hanks goes to meet Meg Ryan, who sits waiting expectantly with her rose and a copy of Pride and Prejudice.)  The cafe is renowned for their vast dessert menu.  They offer an "Around the World" brunch.  Christine got the New York brunch.  Holly stupidly got the Irish brunch.  If you ever have the choice between a New York brunch and an Irish brunch, go with New York.



At Cafe Lalo.

  

I love corner flower shops.

There is a Food Emporium located under the 59th Street Bridge.  Wegmans has a nice ambiance, but this makes grocery shopping quite elegant. 




We went to Tiffany's because Christine had a return to make.  So, there you go.  The inevitable Holly Goes Lightly at Tiffany's pic, sideways, because she can't seem to fix the Blogger pic problem.  I'm wearing my brand new Angel Batista hat. 

  If you happen to go to Tiffany's with a same-sex friend in the next few months and want the Tiffany salespeople to simply fawn over you, pretend you and your friend are getting married, and you're both getting 5-karat engagement rings.  I swear, they will go nuts.

We did not do that, of course. 

Christine, by the way, lives one street away from Holly Golightly's fictional apartment building.  I failed to get a snapshop, yet again. 

We did too many things to list.  Some stops:  The GreenFlea Market, Zabar's (where I got Lydia a bag of coffee because John drank the last two brought home from NY for her), The Strand, of course, Pylos Greek Restaurant, etc, etc, etc. 

It was good times and noodle salad, despite the heat.

Walking around with my girlfriends, I don't feel like a 33-year old mother of four.  I feel fifteen again, wandering about with no resonsibilities, feeling a tiny bit rebellious having a mimosa with breakfast even though I'm of age.  For three days, it felt like no time had past between now and the tenth grade. 

Today, I feel very much 33.  Daniel is waiting for me to open the garage.  I better do that.

No one has their very own garage in Manhattan.  Poor saps.

Top Ten Reasons Holly Should Get a Pool in 2012

1. The home in which she rears her children and works lacks central air. Yet, the long-suffering and meek individual that she is, she rarely complains.

2. She enjoys swimming and is exceptionally good at the side-stroke.  Her children ALSO enjoy swimming.  Studies show that families who swim together stay together, and children who come from homes with pools are 88% less likely to fall into drinking and drugs.  It's true. 

3. A pool is the perfect place to hold "2012 the world is ending" parties.  If should also be pointed out that since the world is coming to the end, concerns about paying off the pool are moot. 

4. She feels bad that every time a friend calls for a play date, she asks if they have a pool. She’s starting to feel desperate and rude.

5. She is currently undergoing a rigorous physical exercise regime that will ensure that by the summer of 2012, she will look perfectly acceptable in a bathing suit.

6. She gave birth to twins.

Vaginally.

And one jumped of them into the world feet first.

She feels she should also mention the epidural was not working at full capacity toward the end.

It should be mentioned that she breastfed said twins for 15 months, saving $3000+ in formula costs. Of course she did it because it was the best thing for her babies, but she can’t help but also point out that a pair of perfectly lovely 34Cs were absolutely ruined in the process.

7. She acquiesced to becoming a dog owner and has, for the last 10 months, been responsible for 90% of poop-pick-up duties, despite promises made by certain individuals who shall remain nameless but know who they are. Yet, the long-suffering and meek individual that she is, she has not complained, even when picking up steamy feces before her rambunctious children run barefoot into the backyard.

8. Two weeks ago, she purchased a $50 Walmart pool with filter, commissioned a friend to help her put it together, and filled it up with fresh water from a reliable hose. Exactly 5 hours later, a certain individual who shall remain nameless let the aforementioned dog run outside, jump into new pool, and rip open pool with claws which resulted in the demise of the pool. Yet, the long-suffering and meek individual that she is, she has not complained.

9. She’s pretty sure that inserted into the wedding vows was, “after twelve years of marriage, I promise to buy my wife a pool. Not doing so allows the wife to run off with Timothy Olyphant who will provide her with multiple pools and cosmetic surgery to restore her boobs to their former glory."

10. Holly is "nice."  Niceness should be rewarded with pools. 


Postscript:

Holly reads post to husband.

Husband:  I feel like this post is leading up to something.
Holly:  What?
Husband:  You asking me for a pool.

Can't pull anything over on this guy. 

What My 6-Year Old Would Buy If He Had a Credit Card

As I was cleaning out my purse last week, Ben stood next to me and looked intently at its contents. 

"I can't wait until I have a credit card."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah.  When I'm a man."

"And what would you buy with your credit card?"

"Man things."

"Well, of course.  But what man things?"

"Guns and swords."

Naturally.

Yesterday it was unbearably hot and muggy, but our basement stays nice and cool.  I allowed the boys to play Wii for the majority of the morning.  At one point, Ben marched upstairs with purpose.

"Mom?  We need more Wii games.  I'll need your laptop."  A yell came from the depths of the house.  "Oh yeah.  And your credit card."

"No.  Absolutely not."  Best to nip these thoughts in the bud.  Ben's shoulders fell and he wandered defeated back into the basement.  A few seconds later, I heard him shout the following to Caleb:

"Yes I was!  I was VERY CUTE!"

I'm hiding my purse.

Neurotically Yours

Woody Allen:  Neurotic Looney-Bird

Dear Blog,


Today, I was absolutely certain a man was following me in Wegmans. I turned down the soup aisle; he turned down the soup aisle. I skipped four aisles and went straight to frozen foods, which I never, ever do, and so did he. Then, abruptly, he grabbed a box of ice cream sandwiches and briskly passed me on his way to the checkout line.

I don’t know what his game was. It’s very possible he just needed soup and ice cream sandwiches. But that seems unlikely.

This incident prompted a conversation with the husband.

Holly: I think I have the neuroses.

John: Excuse me?

Holly: Neurotic. I think I’m neurotic.

John: What do you mean?

Holly: Don’t you know what neurotic means?

John: I know one definition of neurotic.

Holly: What?

John: Never mind. Why do you think you’re neurotic?

Holly: I’m not telling you until you tell me your definition.

John: (Sighs.) Well, when a girl starts acting all crazy, guys will say, “she’s neurotic.”

Holly: Oh. (Pause.) You never say that, though.

John: No. Never. I would never say that.

Holly: I should hope not. Okay- I think I worry too much about little things that don’t matter. I worry constantly. I’m highly anxiety-prone. I apologize like a fiend for silly things. All indicators of the neuroses. (Silence follows, followed by what sounds like snickering.) Are you laughing at me?

John: No! I would never.

Holly: See, now I’m feeling like it’s not neuroses at all. Perhaps my anxieties are well-founded.

It went on like this, but I’ll spare you the rest, and move on to a conversation that took place yesterday:

So yesterday, my brother and I were discussing Betsy Lerner’s classic book for writers, The Forest for the Trees. In it, Lerner addresses six different kinds of writers, including: The Ambivalent Writer, The Natural, The Wicked Child, The Self-Promoter, and The Neurotic. Despite my self-diagnosed neuroses, I do not quite fall into the category of “The Neurotic” writer. I’m an Ambivalent to the core.

(Josh never said what he was. He’s probably “The Natural.” That would figure. He’s hitting ‘em out of the park like Ray Hobbs while I’m picking daisies out in left field.)

Here’s the first paragraph of Lerner’s chapter on “The Ambivalent Writer.” My thoughts are in italics.

Do you have a new idea almost every day for a writing projects? (Yes!) Do you either start them all and don’t see them to fruition or think about starting but never actually get going? (Yes! Both! Indeed!) Are you a short-story writer one day and a novelist the next? (I wear many colorful writing jackets.) A memoirist on Monday (Well, there’s you, dear blog…) and a screenwriter by the weekend? (Nope. No screenwriting. Too technical.) Do you begin sentences in your head while walking to work or picking up the dry cleaning, sentences so crisp and suggestive that they make perfect story or novel openers, only you never manage to write them down? (Yes! Such a waste.) Do you blab about your project to loved ones, coworkers, or strangers before the idea is fully formed, let alone partially executed? (No. But only because I’m shy.) Have you ever accidentally left your notes, diary, or disk behind on a train or plane and bemoaned the loss of what certainly had been your best work? (Yes, yes I have.) Have you ever been diagnosed with any combination of bipolar disorder, alcoholism, or the skin diseases such as eczema or psoriasis? (No. Dear God, no. Maybe the first a little, but no skin diseases. I do abuse Benadryl.) Do you snap at people who ask how your writing is going? (Yes.) What’s it to them? (Indeed.)

Do you fear that you will someday wonder where the years went? (I do. I do.) How it is that some no-talent you went to high school with is being published everywhere you look? Or some suck-up from graduate school is racking up prizes and being interviewed in the “At Lunch With” column of the New York Times, a series you used to enjoy. Now you can’t read it at all without thinking back to your classmate and the fawning way he used to schmooze your professors. (I know just the student. He wrote magical realism novels. He thought he was freaking Marquez.) God he was so transparent. (He really was.)

If you can relate to the above, you certainly have the obsessive qualities, along with the self-aggrandizement (Ouch. Was that necessary?) and concurrent feelings of worthlessness (It’s true. I am dirt.) that are part of the writer’s basic makeup.

It goes on. It’s a great book.

In order to arm myself with evidence that I am neurotic (because neurotics are forever in search of tangible proof), I took a test by the foremost authority on psychological matters: the website Psychologist World. According to Psychologist World, I am 86% neurotic, and should probably have my head shrunk on a daily basis.

These results are rather shocking.

Thankfully, I do not have OCD tendencies like some neurotics (it seems like very hard work to be a neurotic writer. How annoying it must be to have to have 12 perfectly sharpened pencils and a coffee with exactly two teaspoons of sugar before you started writing at exactly 8:32 in the morning? Gore Vidal had to have coffee AND a bowel movement before he could start writing.)

Instead, I worry about bizarre things. Is spending an hour writing a travel article as lucrative as spending an hour clipping coupons? Will wearing my hair in a pony-tail every day make me go bald? Why has everyone forgotten that Arkansas was raining birds a few months ago?

All of this to say that for a person who is suffering from both the neuroses and the ambivalence, I wonder how it is I'm faring so well. In fact, I think the quiz results might be greatly exaggerated and I'm rethinking my fervently held for 1 hour conviction that Psychologist World is the foremost auhority on all things psychological. 
So- no major self-realizations in this post.

And with that, dear blog, I must go. I have to finish my novel before the man from Wegmans finds me, murders me, and throws me in a freezer right next to the ice cream sandwiches.

There are worse ways to go, I'm sure.

Neurotically Yours,

Holly

Caleb Gets Political

At the 4th of July parade Monday, passer-bys in floats threw candy at the hoards of children, who scurried to nab as many tootsie rolls and dum-dums as they could before older, larger children swooped in. In a moment I am not proud of, I actually stepped on the stick portion of a dum-dum before a rather fat, vulturous child could pick it up in order to give it to Ella, who had chosen that moment to stare blankly at the sky.

When we got home, Ella had four pieces of candy while Caleb had half a bag full. I combined all four bags of candy, put it in a large bowl, and have been rationing it out at various points during the day.

“That’s not fair," complained Caleb.  "That’s MY candy. Why are you doing that?”

“Well, it’s not fair that younger or slower kids should suffer because you were greedy and would not share. Sometimes moms have to even out the playing field. This is the decent thing to do."

“I think that’s communism, mom.”

What really concerned him was that I had chosen to become a communist on Independence Day of all days. I explained that I’m only a communist on parade days- and Halloween. The rest of the year, I aim for benevolent dictatorship.

“That’s fascism, mom.”

Whatever.

Happy 4th of July just the same!