NooNoo Chapter Nine: The Queen

She who must be obeyed rules over her subjects with just the proper hint of divine right befitting such a situation. She sprinkles her royal fairy dust generously over her courtiers and ladies, and they in turn pledge their undying fealty.

It’s a shame we don’t use words like fealty anymore incidentally, probably because we no longer engage in tales like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and their ilk (ilk, another long lost word!), but be that as it may, I know where my allegiance stands! To her majesty, of course.

Apparently, this feeling of abject loyalty is ubiquitous throughout the court as well. Quite simply put, she’s won over the kingdom and the people have laid down their arms (or put them up as it were) for Nootchie the Queen!!!  And her beneficence is ample repayment to her subjects. As she’s carried out of her quarters each day to greet the admirers, she extends her arm graciously and blesses the multitude with that beaming, toothless grin that captures all hearts.

Oh, but what’s that I hear. . . . the Divine One cries out?  I must go at once, as her every wish is our command. I believe what she desires at the moment just may be the coveted sauce of apples. Or perhaps she craves the elixir of life, a drop or two of water in her uniquely designed chalice, the one called “sippy.”

She may even need a hug or two to alleviate the uncertainty of her careworn young brow. Indeed, uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. We oft find that baby talk works wonders too.

The world of sovereignty works in mysterious ways! What should we make of all these fortuitous, rather occult coincidences from the majestic macrocosm of the heavens that rain down their good fortune upon our blessed heads? This is the ninth chapter in the saga of her first year of rule, and The Royal Nootch as it happens has just turned nine as well! Nine months, that is. . . .

But what of it? Can true divinity be measured in human years? I think not!

                                        

                                      

Hysteria. . . Part Three: Irvine and Two Conditioners

Are you plugged in yet?

Surfer muzak puts that extra spring in your step in the 6:00 a.m lobby of a Marriott in Southern California.

Bright eyed and leary biz types with strangely alert a.m. buzz already dot the café chairs in their wrinkle free shirts; such garments are made of unnamed chemicals that keep the material fresh and ready for just about anything. Starbucks Grande Latte Extra Watery sits on several tables along with the ubiquitous laptops. These are white collar indentured servants with many years ahead of them on the rack- and that only if they’re lucky enough not be axed in the next downsizing.  Large buses outside wait to transport them to some gigantic, mind numbing gathering as they gulp their morning rations.

Across the road the huge, slightly terrifying Taco Bell sign hovers over all, though not especially comfortingly. During the day it’s not that noticeable; at night it sits large and bright, forlorn on the horizon, and if you happen to be staying at the hotel it also serves to tell you when to exit the freeway. The sign makes you glad you do not work at any of the corporate headquarters in this or any other world. It beckons not with the green light at the end of of Daisy's dock, but with rather a garish sort of pink, like the polluted air around certain urban centers.

As if all that weren’t enough, on my first morning after a jet lagged sleep, I discovered to my horror that instead of bringing my very favorite, sample size magical shampoo and conditioner- (that which would have saved me from the merciless and cruelly hard hotel water with no pressure that thus prevents effective rinsing)- I had instead managed to pack two conditioners. In other words, no shampoo, just two (now useless) goddamn conditioners. Like a bad dream I suddenly saw it all in a flash. Hard Water. No water pressure. Hair bedlam. No real inclination to get to a CVS in my PJs before showering, not that they would stock this salon grade life saving potion anyway. And even if I were willing to swallow my pride and drive over there coffee-less, clothes rumpled from the night before, so as not to waste even one of my precious, fresh outfits stashed in the burgeoning carry on, I’d still be forced to settle on some inferior product, possibly a store brand. . . . 

The sun already is blazing unusually hot as I peel open the tiny cream cheese packet in pill box size that came with my frozen bagel. A brochure on a nearby table blaring “Welcome to the Center of Orange County is all about the man & woe-man made “community” of Irvine, a thing I repeatedly want to call Irving because it sounds so much more human.  As I toy with the “bagel” on my paper plate, I go over the list of all the startling advantages the place purportedly has to offer, and then I transliterate the whole thing into reality (see parentheses):

“Irvine was master-planned. . . .”

(think Stepford village, on steroids baby, like you can't believe)

“A leading business center with more than 100 corporations”

(Actually, they own it, they are it, and it is they)

“Family oriented. . . multicultural. . . celebrates diversity”

(In three trips I’ve seen exactly one black person)

“Beautifully manicured office parks”

(office parks???)

“Recognized as America’s safest city”

(This definitely scares me)

I gaze out the window and muse that yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the dazed, I shall fear no evil, master planning or otherwise. . . .  Then I finally accept the breakfast situation, smear the tiny dollop of cream cheese allotment onto my “bagel” and take a swig of the Grande Watery.

Skoll. L'Chaim. Down the hatch. Here's looking at you, Irvine.

Hysteria. . . .Part Two: Up, Up & Away!

Three hours into our flight the skies were looking no friendlier than an hour or so after dawn when we shimmied our way through the soon to be compressed cabin air to find our seats: a couple of amazingly tiny, uncomfortable and ergonomically nightmarish stools with hard backs that pitched dangerously forward if you dared to move, even slightly. My travel companion agreed to sit in the middle and act as “therapist.”

The dry, noisy air sucked the very life out of me halfway to our destination and prompted more than a few really-have-to-pee emergencies. This rather difficult, brave journey as you may know entails standing tentatively on one foot or the other while tripping over yourself as you carefully move down a measly small, single aisle, bumping into seated, jutting elbows, hopping your way to the back of the cabin.

This new "better!" winged contraption that naively races through the clouds these days is astonishingly narrow. You realize this as you continue to wriggle your way to the bathroom, the wee plane rocking happily back and forth. Once you finally pry open the folding lavatory door, you are more or less flung into the WC rather rudely while trying hard not to fall down; in truth, if you even attempted this headlong maneuver- i.e. falling to the floor- you would wind up wedged in a rather awkward position between the bowl and the sink. There simply is no place to fall. Flinging your body randomly against walls however is totally allowed as you try not to miss by achieving just the right position.

Back in my seat I feel as if I am devoid of every drop of moisture that keeps the engine of my parched organs running smoothly. Can one continue to exist in this state for a period of time and actually still be classified as "alive?"

Halfway through I have my first panic attack. It’s relatively low level (real terror of course does not take hold until landing), and I successfully manage to desist running up and down the aisle naked and screaming, flailing my arms erratically and demanding to be let off the plane immediately. In fact, I am quite proud of having avoided the temptation to be escorted to the rear and tranquilized by the men in the little white jackets by acting like a lunatic.

Be all that as it may, I soon am convinced there is something very, very wrong with the ventilation system and the cabin pressure, which explains why suddenly I am gasping for air. The twenty-something in her hoodie who is tucked near the window thinking she will live forever without warning put up the window shade, sending a blast of sharp, unforgiving beams of blinding illumination right into the center of my pupils. For the most part, everyone plays dead, eyes closed either in sleep or shock.

O thank you so much. . . orange juice, yes. No, no ice. Thanks!

How the hell will this ridiculous, plastic cup with the sticky liquid swishing around like the seas during a tsunami not go flying all over my new shoes? The teenie, tiny cocktail napkin won't be of much help either with the cleanup. . . . 

And people actually do this for fun.

Only three more hours. . . .


(Next week part three: I arrive!!!)

Hysteria, Fear and Boredom: A Three Part Series on Travel

Part One: Getting out of the House

He-e-e-ey, Guh Mawnin!

The driver, a pleasant fellow, obviously feels pretty good about uttering these words- clearly he has done this before at odd hours.

Whassup the toll taker automatically mumbles back. His face is slack, his eyes semi-dead.

The whassup is not a question as the toll collector does not give a damn about what actually is “up” at 6:00 a.m. on a dark, chilly autumn morning while a stream of zombie driven vehicles jockey thru the moat leading to JFK; at this hour there is not even the threat of real light and the world sleeps.

In a weird way I totally understand the driver’s cheery if misplaced attempt to keep himself awake at dawn. But will he succeed. . . . I decide not to think on this further.

As usual we’ve booked one of the earlier flights to avoid getting stuck in the LA rush hour, a snaking thing of despair that goes on pretty much 24/7 but oddly offers a brief break between noon and 1:00 p.m. With the three hour time difference, by landing at 11:00 you have a small chance of making it to your destination without experiencing the lingering and deleterious effects of traffic nervous breakdown. . . .  It’s a tiny though strangely merciful window of time.

 

An 8:00 a.m. flight sounds so civilized when you first book! It does! At least it’s not the 7:00 a.m. you say to yourself smugly. The truth of course points to a 4:45 a.m. wake up call consisting of horrific high pitched bleeps coming from your beastly little phone. By the time you’re lugging your carry on and wheelie to security you’re ready to kill in a sleepy, dopey, somnambulist sort of way, while at the same time forced to prove you’re a normal citizen and not a terrorist by exuding extreme pleasantness and calm as you’re full-body x-rayed and patted down.

But all that is the easy part. The real horror of course has already occurred- that of getting out of the house (and no, it does not depend on how early or late you’ve packed, because between then and now there will have been at least several “emergencies”- think ingrown toenail for example, requiring painful encounter with the spurious science of podiatry the day before the trip- yes, the toenail that suddenly rules your every thought!). Then there’s the obligatory ritual of repacking, a ceremony that can take place the night before and stretch into the very morning you alight, if only as a symbolic gesture in which you banish then repatriate some stuff.

Finally, there’s the securing of a taxi, either by attempting to hail one and hoping the guy is fully conscious at dawn, or calling for one- an experience with its own set of abuses and a process that frequently can be more daunting than being 38,000 feet aloft during turbulence while thinking about the last plane that went down.

The car service dispatcher- if you go that route- often sounds like an especially irritated member of a teenage street gang combined with a vague intimation of Mafioso retribution. I usually find this somewhat comforting however as the terrible, angry sounds the dispatcher emits in between telling you to hold on somehow assure me that the lucky, chosen driver actually will be there as grudgingly promised. And in truth this beats grappling with some call center in northern Wyoming where all they really want is to get their sticky fingers on your credit card; local service is cash and carry all the way!

Lastly, need I remind that “Uber” with that intimidating umlat over the u that nobody can pronounce quite correctly, and its demand- nay, command!-  that you text really does have a whiff of mind control. . . .

(Next week part two: Up, Up and Away!)

Stepping Over NYC: Colors of Fall

East side, west side, all around. . . there are so many colorful and curious images to step over on the storied sidewalks of New York! It’s especially resplendent in October.

First you have the many squarish metal covers that provide entrance down, down into the steep hearts of darkness that live below street level leading to the myriad storage cellars beneath the trendy and not so trendy shops; these sidewalk “doors” range in hue from shiny, corrugated, recently replaced light silver to dismal, overly stepped on bent, dirty charcoal of a heavier, bygone material;  but they all make the same hideous, ominous, clanging sound when one dares step on them directly, rather than scooting around in order to save a precious second or two. I can never decide whether to take the dare and chance being sucked into one of those doorways to Hades in mid air, or simply slip around and be safe, though this maneuver may risk my bumping rudely into strangers. Seconds do seem to count while racing along the sidewalks of a New York minute. Seeing how fast you can get on foot from one light to the next, while squinting in the clear October sun as you dodge cars, trucks and careening delivery bicycles, actually becomes a kind of quest, not just a matter of expediency. You start to enjoy it, a kind of guilty pleasure under a perfect blue sky.

As a kid I was especially fascinated by the subway grates and the thrill of standing on one of these as a train roared by underneath. This innocent joy was seconded only by the sparkling diamonds in the schist, or engaging in the concentrated act of cautiously stepping over the cracks while the leaves crunched underfoot.

But back to the present, and the more insidious, smaller stuff you scrupulously must avoid, utilizing fight or flight responses that most natives actually have encoded in their DNA by the time they reach toddler-hood: gum, once pink, now black (speaks for itself- forget about ever using those shoes again); dog doo (a time honored city tradition that maintains it will bring you luck- yeah, right. . . ); liquids of all sorts from even more dubious sources (the spilled orange smoothies being truly among the grossest). In short, it’s a mess out there.

Finally, there are the sidewalk sleepers and their piles of Dickensian rags straight from a mid-Victorian set, a motley riot of faded color jumbled together in a heap on a late autumn afternoon, under which a body lies crouched and which you can partially discern, still breathing; or in nicer weather, the sprawl of sunny sidewalk sunbathers in various stages of disheveled dress or undress on the littered beaches of Broadway.

A metaphor here, for sure, though I wish not explore. Just keep walking.

For Helene

If Helene and Leo did not arrive at our doorstep for one of our lunches at least fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, Gil and I would admonish her for being “late.” This became our communal shared joke because she was so punctual, so exact, and she did not disappoint. Moreover, nothing got by her.  I cannot imagine a world without Helene taking off her coat in my living room while handing me a book and inquiring if the new doorman actually learned our names yet as he seemed to have waved them on without ringing up. . . .

We met almost forty years ago as new English teachers at Bronx Science, two perfect alter egos awash in a sea of intellectual arrogance; for that first semester we both hid out in the teacher’s lounge talking books, philosophy, relationships, people, our own kids, life, books. As punctual as she was, so unfashionably late I remained; her Delaney book held orderly pages that lay flat and clear and calm, unimpeded with notices and loose cards- she could find things if she needed to; mine displayed the remnants of a tornado, wisps if not  entire sheaves of paper sticking out from every end of a battered, red plastic cover; her grading book was concise, neat, readable, mine a series of smudges and crossings out. She favored Burberry raincoats in solid, primary colors and had a propensity for logic while I occasionally experimented with things fuchsia if not speckled altogether, only to regret it later. And in fact it is due to these very differences I cannot state the exact year or date we met, though I know it was around 1978 but will not swear to it, lest she hear me.

Helene’s union with Leo was a long and happy one; he was my beloved teacher as a child; now I had the marvelous Helene as newfound sister. These two were in sync in so many ways, and they lasted, through time; together the two of them fielded me through two marriages and the occasional disaster in between. You might say Helene appeared somewhat traditional in lifestyle and demeanor, and yet she knew more about real life than many self-styled worldly friends; she had a most unconventional mind and unique sensibility,  a sharp sense of humor and a wicked wit. I once asked her how she managed to get to the heart of things so perceptively and still lead such a time-honored, seemingly conventional and decorous existence (you see, she had this amazing ability to cut through the crap); without skipping a beat; she quickly replied, I read a lot.

And so she did. She was the archetypal avid reader and book swallower, a published critic and fast thinker. A true aficionado of all things literary. She also was the most ardent fan, astute analyst, and devoted grammar checker of my own weekly fiction blog, and if I did not have that installment posted each Friday by 9:00 a.m. there was sure to be an email in my inbox; if this laxity dared stretch into the 10:00 a.m. realm, a phone call was in order, asking if all was OK.

And no, all is not OK, because I cannot picture a world without her. She adored her family. She especially abhorred academic pedantry and phoniness of every stripe and loved the metaphysical beauty and truthful simplicity of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. And so some years ago when grappling with a particularly annoying grad course in textual criticism- led by a particularly annoying, pedantic prof- as a means of surviving it I composed the following sonnet, with Helene very much in mind and her voice in my ear; because to a great extent, she lived what she believed, not what she was supposed to believe, and that is inspiring. So I will post this on time Helene, and we will miss you.

Final Edition

For Helene Benardo

By M. Reinhardt

I took a course in textual critique-

the prof? He put me in a state of pique.

A Harvard lad with pencil very thin,

He tossed my hopes into the rubbish bin.

My topic was the Venerable Emily,

just 16 lines of simple poetry.

The task? As sublime as a flock of birds,

a mere 38,000 succinct words.

Was she a metaphysic or a loon?

A seer or a feministic goon?

But why was her behavior so damn odd?

And what about ol’ Mabel Loomis Todd?

On so many levels did I perceive her,

It finally seemed much easi’r just to be her.

Fall Poetry Fest: On Reading Barbara Pym

When reading Barbara Pym,

the sets are like a scrim;

you see right through the characters,

be it a her or him.

To all the English preachers,

(of whom she cannot say enough),

and all the English teachers,

those learned folk who read her stuff-

I wish that I could write like Pym

of life’s peculiar lots,

I think like Twain but so far sound

like Stephen Dowling Bots.

Twain is to be studied,

Shakespeare is revered,

but when I want to just relax,

to Barbary Pym I’m geared.

The Adventures. . . Cont'd., Chapter Eight: The Sigh

Nootchie has learned to sit up- by herself! She’s so ecstatic about this feat, yet another wonderful and newfound vicissitude of her tiny existence, that all she can do is shake, rattle and roll, mainly her rattle that is, but with marked brio. Alas, she still does not have the complete know how yet as to how to form discernible and real words like Wow! Wowee! This is so cool!!! But she has figured out how to emit this long, soulful sigh.

The sigh is somewhat deceptive and at first seems to carry the weight of the world on her diminutive shoulders. It emanates from way down in her essence and is low and plaintive, a kind of soft growl. It trills. If she were in glee club she definitely would be singing harmony, if in jazz she’d be scatting. But there’s also a distinct “nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” aspect to this quietly forceful though subtly spirited ribbon of sound. It is quite moving.

Upon first hearing the sigh I imagined she had channeled all the philosophers of the world and settled finally on the existentialists, or maybe  the nihilists. I began to see Nootchie as a weary octogenarian who had just hobbled to the supermarket and was in the arduous process of shlepping her bags home, or perhaps a young public school teacher at the end of a long day and more than a few unruly students. A surgeon following a difficult transplant, or an exercise nut who had finally overdone it. A member of the clergy saddened and disillusioned by the flock. Shades of a favorite poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins poignantly immortal “Spring and Fall to a Young Child,” suddenly came into mind: Margaret are you grieving over goldengrove unleaving.. . .  All the cares of the universe seemed ineluctably captured and encased in that one weary exhalation of tension freeing yoga breath.

But then I realized that somehow I had gotten it all wrong, and as usual it was just a matter of perception. This clearly was a sigh of pure exhilaration. I can sit and almost turn over, twice she thinks, and soon I will be able to get across that room on hands and knees without being carried like a warm, smiley, happy lump- exceedingly cute and cared for, but still a curious bundle of dependent adorableness with limited free will. Si-i-i-gggghhh! This is so completely Wowee- on steroids baby- and frankly, I can’t wait. But first, a nap.

Everything Was Huge, Part One

There comes a time, usually at the end of August, when I become obsessed with the idea- at least for a short while- that a nice home in the country is exactly what I need. This fantastical domestic scenario offers instant if somewhat subdued nirvana with a working fireplace and no mosquitoes. In such a fairy place troubles dissipate like delicate soap bubbles that have popped into quiet oblivion with a silent, peaceful ping, and suddenly all becomes well. Serenely I gaze out onto lush fields of clover and hollyhock and thank my lucky stars.

  

Needless to say, this fantasy leads to all sorts of improbable excursions, long road trips into the land of late summer farm stands and spurious For Sale signs. It is here that one encounters picturesque, old red barns, antique dinner plates hanging raffishly askew on uneven walls, smallish rooms with checkered curtains, cozily flooded basements, toilets that don’t always flush and lots of dubious new construction that beckons as the alternative to all that charm.

As a result of such meanderings I once looked at a condo where everything was huge, really, really, really huge, totally out of scale for ordinary, mortal home dwellers. And I do mean everything, walls, ceilings, fixtures, even people and voices. It was the weirdest thing.

It started out several years ago on one of those exceptionally promising weekend mornings in early fall when the sun hints at all things wonderful and the notion of mortality temporarily recedes; only great enterprises seem possible on those days, even in real estate, or especially in real estate, given what was going on in the market at the time. It was quite early in the morning, and I had just gotten out of bed, not really awake yet, still deciding what to do with the day and perhaps the rest of my life when the realtor called.

Good morning! Did I wake you? What are you doing today? Are you free? C,mon up! This is too good to pass on, he said- you’ve been looking for a while now and we both know these kinds of places are few and far between- it won’t last long (he let his voice trail off here in that special realtor way).  Can you make it up here by noon?

This incident took place in the early days of the boom, when there was widespread, palpable panic about “finding a place,” that magical spot somewhere, anywhere, other than where you presently lived and breathed- your smartest investment in lifestyle and the road to eternal security.  I immediately knew what I had to do, and do it fast; there was little time to waste; anyone could beat you out on a sweet deal like this and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days regretting losing something I already was in love with, despite never having seen it.

So I jumped into the shower, did a much abbreviated shampoo and skipped the conditioner, even though the forecast predicted an excessively hot and humid day and I was desperately in need of a trim- why had I let it go so long? Dressing as fast as I could, I barely had time to grab a pair of tiny earrings before starting up the car, but in my haste I dropped one of the little backs from the earring post under the dresser and had to spend another two or three frantic minutes scavenging for it. Clearly this was a sign of some sort, an augury to be sure, but I paid no heed. In the end I was feeling a bit sticky, dusty and overheated but ready to face whatever might ensue, my locks still quite damp, not really sure how it all was going to turn out- the hair or the property- yet feeling lucky. . . .

The Adventures. . . A Page From NooNoo's Summer Diary

She loves the grit and humidity, the insufferable heat and street theater, and of course the energy, no matter how sticky and sweaty or unbearable it gets. And then there’s the ebullient, complicated hand moves she’s noticed here and there while doing what she does best in the world- looking all around. People seem to swat the air in New York as they converse, which is always, or at least often, and frequently quite loudly. And even though she’s not on solids yet, she’s managed to glean something about the food. The sight of all those big round bagels, the smell of the sidewalk trucks, the jingle of Mr. Softee!!! Pizza, pizza, more pizza!!!! Talk overheard about something called “pastrami” which sounds intensely exotic. These and more await, somewhere up the line, teeth or no teeth. She will not be denied.

And now she’s goin’ back- she cannot believe her incredible luck!

At the moment NooNoo is busy packing for the return trip to the Apple and practicing the word Nootchie, her New York name, giggling at the sound of it now that she is old enough to laugh properly. What should I bring? She’s decided to leave her winter snuggly at home but definitely will be including bloomers and sleeveless tops, perhaps some sneakers for later on- okay, much later on- that perhaps she can leave there for eventually toddling around those mean city streets, when she learns to toddle that is.

Let’s skip the socks for now, especially since I’m not even crawling yet, much less walking, and it can get damned hot over there- bare feet will give me lots of opportunity to exercise some of my new yells, yelps and howls, which go so well with exposed toes anyway. I definitely should take the tutu for one of those inevitable formal Gotham evenings. Maybe I’ll even pick up a small headband there and an “I love NY” a t-shirt. I wonder if they’ll take me to the theater, or come up with some flimsy excuse instead about how I am “not old enough.” Balderdash!  If they don’t take me to the high line this time I will keep them up all night for sure- who can bear to hear a baby cry so pitifully without scooping her up and promising to move mountains??? Is this really too much to ask? Such thoughts continue to fill NooNoo’s head as she ponders what else she can throw into the baby bag. In the end though all she can manage to say to her parents (and anyone else who will listen) about the upcoming adventure is ooh, uh, eeee, ga! Da! Eowww!!!!

Gosh, I wish I had some more real out loud words already, because I just know this trip will be so awesome, swag, cool. . . .    

The Adventures. . .Gosh, We Need a Change. . . .

Nootchie is fed up with all the media attention to the next big election! Fed, fed, fed, fed, up! Upsky!

She hears it on the street, catches the drift from the older sibs of baby friends, senses it in the air, left, right, up, down, whoopsy daisy round and round, politics shmalotics!!! She definitely needs a change- fast- and not just “diaper.” What she’d really like is some screen time of her very own without having to wait out the rest of the two years in the screen-less desert that began with her birth as a “precaution” of some sort; for now she is relegated solely to cutsie board books and other such boringly innocuous parental choices purportedly designed to protect her tiny though burgeoning intellect. Hmmmph! She’s really not all that into “smart” at present- any idiot could see that as she drools and grabs for your eyeglasses, or maybe an earring- though she’s not above manipulation when she needs to get out of the stroller. But that’s another story. A girl has to live. You make choices, you stick by them. It’s time to party.

Through the Gaga Grapevine she’s gathered that there’s this really cool show called something like “Sissy May Treat” with a furry, funny blue monster that loves cookies and she’s dying to catch it. There are no doubt other cool shows too, super cool! But for now, all the screen time in the world seems to be devoted to adults watching other adults blabbering about shmalotics and something called the “bee dates” or maybe “dee bates” or perhaps “dee dates” which she thinks has to do with dried fruit arguing with each other about who should “run” or be the “candy date.” She can’t wait to run! But first of course she has to learn how to crawl. Why would any kind of candy “argue” when it’s just there to be eaten and enjoyed? Okay, she actually hasn’t tasted this goody yet, but through her contacts she’s heard. . . .

Anyhow, for now she’s just plain sick, sick and tired of the whole thing, which is why after practically no thought whatsoever she has decided to run for Baby President.  After she gets them to change the age limit through extensive lobbying and the unswerving backing of other babies- and just check out any playground these days if you want to get an idea of her support numbers - the mainstay of her platform will be simple, direct, a cake walk, literally, occasionally with whipped cream on top. Her platform? A walk in the park: “Fun! Fun! As much fun as we can get!!!” The logo will be a set of plastic keys of course. Babies love keys- it’s a no brainer. She’ll get some onezees made up with her picture. Photo ops will take place mainly in the bouncer since this definitely is much more fun than being strapped into the car seat contraption that feels like two consecutive life sentences in Alcatraz.

It ain’t easy being one of the little people, but with determination she is sure she can effect change. We concluded the interview with her nap.

The Adventures. . . . Everyone In the Pool!

Everyone’s already in the pool and there’s a tremendous racket going on, lots of squealing and laughing and the slap happy sounds of pool fun bouncing off the walls making a huge, blue echo. They’re all splashing and kicking while the mommies are holding and propelling them along and doing these kind of upsy-daisy actions, the water  brimming with a bunch of really, really small people who mainly wear the “T” size in footies and even smaller in sleepers.

But somehow Nootchie- who has traded her NooNoo identity here for a more playful, adventurous and slightly hardier name as befits the activity- has managed to get past the gate even though she is not actually a toddler yet nor can she sit up all by herself; and now she’s in the water, getting soaked all over with the best of them and appearing to be sort of kicking, though not entirely because it’s actually more like a small, quiet, fluttering underwater step as the friendly waves carry her along and tickle her tiny feet.

Her ruffled and polka dotted bathing suit bottom- she’s forgotten the top today- bounces up and down as she does what she always does best: looking! Looking all around! She looks here and there and everywhere, at the instructor who playfully and gently jabs her foot-  this obviously part of some karmic footsie destiny- at the mommy-baby couples swirling all around her, at her mommy and the aqua water and noisy spray and bubbles and the little crowd, and she’s thinking and thinking and thinking. . . that maybe this just could be okay.

It definitely does in fact seem okay in, at least minimally okay, definitely tolerable and maybe even more than that, though she’s not entirely sure what to make of it. I could get into this-like totally- is what she possibly would say if she could say if she was old enough to have real words. For now though she says it in the usual way, with her eyes. As she’s hoisted into the air again and feels herself slowly and gracefully being swished from side to side she accepts and gives into it all with a kind of curious yet calm infant dignity. What’s going on here? Hmmm, perplexing, yes, but interesting nonetheless. . . .

Nootchie has decided simply to go with it and be in the moment. This is not rocket science. She’s got absolutely nothing to lose and can figure it all out another day. Plenty of time for all that! For now it’s more upsy daisy and wheeeee-  let come what may! 

                                      

The Adventures. . . NooNoo Meets Unkee Kee

Unkee Kee is long, slim and somewhat woolly of face at the moment, with a scruffy beard and light brown curly hair. Out of this forest of variegated DNA shine two eyes of piercing blue curiosity. He sits on the couch opposite NooNoo, who is propped up facing him against a small pillow as they stare each other down, each one trying to make head or tail of the other.

NooNoo’s eyes also are blue, but of a softer, deeper, less startling shade; she is not at all woolly and tall, but creamy and pink and smooth, and what’s more she is quite tiny, being just a tad over two months. In fact, Unkee Kee could stow her in a back pack with minimum fuss, but Unkee Kee prefers to travel even lighter than that.

After a few days of much staring, a significant amount of jiggling and occasionally plopping her head down so that it may sit restfully on a tall shoulder, NooNoo flies back to the west coast thinking she’s done with Unkee Kee for a while. But guess what? Suddenly Kee shows up in California! What’s more, while staying at her very own house, one day he takes his big, grown person’s foot and begins nudging NooNoo’s diminutive little person’s foot steadily back and forth- she in her rocker way down on the floor, he sitting way up high on a chair- and on it goes for what seems like an infinity. Back and forth her toes and heels find themselves tumbling ever so slightly, ever so lightly. Again, the two face each other in wonderment, niece and unkee, each not quite sure what to expect. However NooNoo has decided to meet the challenge of the new adventure head on, or toe to toe as it were.

As is their practice, NooNoo and Unkee Kee thus continue to stare each other down while engaging in a strange but rather compelling tug of footsie war. Is this what the adults call fun? It’s obvious I will have to humor them, continue to maintain my cute-as-a-button look and pretend to enjoy this silly activity, she thinks. She tries to pull herself up, unsuccessfully of course, but musters a kind of mesmerized expression and manages to puff out her irresistible cheeks even a tad more. Mom and dad glance over expectantly, smilingly, glowingly as they prepare breakfast.  Oh what the heck, she thinks- admittedly not the most intriguing game I’ve played in this world yet but I’ll give it a whirl, do my totally irresistible thing and show ‘em once again how unbelievably adorable I am, as if they ever needed reminding. . . .

The Adventures. . . NooNoo Goes to New York

NooNoo is about to pack up a few one-zees, stash some diapers in the bag and head out for the Big Apple. In her world this name probably translates into something resembling a big candy apple, even though she does not yet have one baby tooth in her tiny, adorable mouth but the most irresistible gummy smile imaginable.

The adventure will entail being whisked through security, charming the TSA folk so that she doesn’t have to take off her booties then flying on a big, big bird for several hours across the entire country from the west coast to the east. This clearly is the most ambitious outing in which she has been involved since her birth, even though she already has been to the beach.

Since NooNoo is less than two months old she won’t even have to pay for her ticket- what a fantastic deal! She will take advantage of this freebie until the age of two, when rather mysteriously she suddenly becomes a "big girl" by fare rules, even though she is still quite small.  Of course this also means she will be entitled to some crayons, a couple of cookies perhaps, and her very own seat- not that she necessarily will stay in it for the whole flight, but that’s another story. As for baggage, at the moment it’s actually NooNoo herself who comprises most of the “carry on” and so she’s decided to travel quite light since her parents have agreed to do most of the heavy lifting.

It’s early April in New York and the golden forsythia and pink- white cherry and apple blossoms as well as splashy magnolias that decorate the parks and streets are all but fidgeting around like crazy, impatient little buds just about ready to burst out of their small protective coverings; they barely can restrain themselves! These infant flowers are simply waiting on tenterhooks to explode onto the sidewalks at the perfect moment. They will create a kind of magical, fairy tale setting reminiscent of an early twentieth century operetta or a silly Hollywood musical after a long, gray and pretty well freezing winter. The last of the snow banks finally has melted, the plastic flying saucers and sleds have long been put away with the puffy “puffer” coats, and everyone from age a day to a century is ready for some serious sun warming and bright new greenery.

The evenings on the east coast are still a bit chilly, so NooNoo’s parents have thrown in a swaddling blanket or two along with a couple of cozy, long sleeved sleep sacks patterned with cute, smiley little animals to keep her company while she is sleeping and dreaming. At least several of these dreams will offer up fantastical images of of the many things she's already heard about the Big Candy Apple: brick oven pizza, Central Park, knishes, the Great White Way, taxis, small, cozy book stores, bialys, street vendors, hot dogs, walking all over the place if  you're old enough or being wheeled all over the place if you're not, street musicians, fast talkers, slow traffic, New York cheese cake and of course rugelah, also spelled rugelach. But no matter, a pastry by any other name. . . . 

                                             

Your Little Summer Reader: The Adventures of NooNoo

Chapter One

NooNoo had at least seven names when she was born in addition to the ones that appear on her birth certificate.

The other six and then some in no particular order were given to her by various members of the family because they simply were inclined to do this and also because it had been a family tradition for as long as anyone could remember: Nucci, Navahnoo, Navahnoonoo, Lil’Bean, Navy Bean, Navel and of course “The Nootch.”. Her real, given first name incidentally was “Navah,” and on occasion “Navah Bea,” but it was tacitly decided for reasons unbeknownst to anyone that this appellation might not be used with any frequency until she was more grown up, or grew into it as it were, at which time no doubt other nicknames, offshoots and terms of endearment would emerge, “Vivi” being a favorite frontrunner of her maternal grandmother. Two additional possibilities were Navalah and Navacita, although Navahnootchka and Navootchka surfaced one day, as Navah’s mother apparently was a great fan of Garbo.

NooNoo’s father was determined to teach her at least twenty-seven languages, and so this panoply of exotic monikers fit nicely into the family tableau, simultaneous translations and immersion methodologies to which she was privy on a daily basis. Ironically, since all this started from the time she was just a wee infant, in the beginning all NooNoo could answer in response to the ubiquitous and amazing pologlot chatter was a pure though intensely concentrated version of the sound “uh” in all its various incarnations-  a madcap series of staccato “uhs” and “ahs” and “oohs” uttered with a heavy baby inflection. Nonetheless, she seemed surprised that she could emit even this one syllable at the age of just a fraction over a month and possibly pleased too, though she did play it pretty close to the diaper at that point as babies often do.

When not attempting to improvise on the magical “uh” sound she had discovered- dare I say precociously!- one day while energetically exercising her arms and legs (and in answer to all the conversation going on around her), NooNoo aka Navahpooch became content simply to enjoy the barrage of unabashed, love struck baby babble being recited by a devoted assortment of blubbering companions and earnest diaper changers. Then with all the happy singsong cadences and made up words and sounds of extreme silliness presenting themselves to her little ear from any larger human near enough to hold, cuddle and shamelessly coo at her, she had an important realization: these blubbering, funny, idiotic beings leaning into the crib and hoisting her gently into the air in truth were great fun to hang with!

Shiksa in Shorts, Part One of Three

The other Shabbat as I ambled past the local chabad in the neighborhood on my daily walk, I happened upon a most unusual scene.

This particular gathering place for Sabbath worshippers calls itself “Jewish Youth Library” and is on a leafy, suburban street near the corner of a fairly busy road. It also sits at the bottom of a hill on the top of which stands the high rise in which I live, so I pass it almost everyday when I leave the house. Seeing it from “above” like that as I make my way down the incline offers an interesting vantage point in terms of view. You get to look at the whole picture before telescoping further into the details. From afar it seems like a modern congregant's Breugel with a touch of Grandma Moses- grownups and children in colorful Saturday finery dotting the green landscape as members of this gathering come and go. It always imbues me with a waft of nostalgia for an illusive, earlier, simpler time; a longing for a mythical conglomeration of settings that exists only in dreams.

The chabad is housed in what easily could pass for a private residence, albeit a fairly large and newish one, with red shingles and a gabled roof. There’s a white picket fence that borders on two sides or at least a simulacra of this type of barrier made from some sort of composite material; also an outdoor, grassy play area with bright plastic toys, a slide, a red, yellow and blue kids’ climbing apparatus. A long flight of outside stairs leads to the main door located on the second level. Sometimes through the large upstairs windows you can see men davening and praying, bowing slightly as they sway back and forth. I never see any women engaged in this activity but perhaps there’s a section designated for them on the other side.

On this particular Saturday early in June the weather was pretty near perfect and services already in progress because there were no adults or children cavorting on the small, grassy play area.  Everyone was upstairs doing their thing. I was making my way down the hill and about to cross the street when I spotted the two figures. I guess the initial shock of what I saw seemed so intense, as so often happens, because of contextual factors; given the circumstances, nothing in the tableau unfolding in front of the “youth library”  jived, at all. The little scene in fact made absolutely no sense whatsoever and at first glance looked quite out of place. The entire picture blared a quality that can only be described as “naughty”- perhaps of the mild type occasionally found in slightly suggestive, soft porn cartoons. We don’t very often use that term in earnest anymore, naughty, even with children, and in some ways this is a significant loss- such a great word. . . .  

Clean White Jackets

When I see women in clean white jackets

(blazer, baseball or those that look like tennis rackets),

diaphanously buoyant yellows bowls of hair

and pink scalps shining luminously through,

I know that they’re RESPECTABLE,

but kind of old and poor.

Other aging firebrands in fashionable yoga straps

(or completely braless, excepting when they’re doing laps),

and sheep-sheared blondes with style gel itch,

who covet SLATTERNY, SLUTTY looks

and thoughts they cull from trendy books-

are “youthful,” and seem rich.

                                        

                                          

                                       

Southern Belle, Part One

Death may be like finding out the kettle is whistling before you’ve had a chance to prepare the coffee grinds because you’re busy doing something at the sink. Oh Kat, up until the last day you lost your fight you never left the kitchen long enough to realize you were disappearing.

When I think of Kat there’s a quote from Macbeth that comes to mind. The line, spoken by a minor character, occurs at the start of the play and refers to the death of the Thane of Cawdor: Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it. Cawdor has his tangle with the grim reaper, loses of course, but comes out smelling like a rose. The same fate awaits Macbeth- in essence, it’s life as a series of moats, crossbows, the occasional and inevitable ferocious battle, after which you expire, and in some cases, nobly.

What does all this have to do with Kat? This may be a far cry from a Shakespearean tragedy, I definitely am a minor character on the world stage, and in essence it’s just the story of an ordinary woman. But along with the noble strivings and cruel smites of destiny, it did occur to me that Kat’s demise was like a twisted version of that very sentiment from Act I, only in reverse- it seemed nothing “became” Kat’s family so much as her departure from it. That is not to say they were “evil” and certainly not overly ambitious, as in truth they mostly liked to hang out and get high. But did they really have to soak up all those condolences in the same stupid, smiley, self-centered, mindless way in which they sucked the life out of her?

You’re probably wondering what I mean by that allegation, so let me begin at the beginning. . . .

Tutu Lore (a May Day parable)

NooNoo has a tutu.  Oh, a tutu! 

It's a tutu basically in size zero of pale lavender that slips nicely over her onezies and seems to go with just about everything. She wears it easily and proudly, and totally unselfconsciously. When NooNoo plops herself upon her mama's lap, the gauzy folds spread out around her like a prima ballerina taking her final, glorious bow in Swan Lake  moments before the bouquets arrive. She's Sleeping Beauty and Titania and Giselle all rolled into one, and the effect is indeed indescribable.

In truth, her arms are not quite as graceful nor as long yet as one would expect in order for her to star in such demanding roles, but this is due mainly to all those adorable folds, creases and delectable pouches that adorn them, and also of course because of her age; nor is her hair perfectly styled or sufficiently abundant at this point to hold a tiara; and being less than three months old naturally she is not nearly tall enough yet for a rousing and flawless pas de deux. Nonetheless, she's irresistibly engaging, with a certain transcendency of movement that causes an audience comprised of all sorts of otherwise rational adults to go simply gaga over her diminutive little tutu presence; they demand and eagerly anticipate more and more of her irrepressible encores, which usually occur after naps and diaper changes.

And yet despite all the baby fanfare, hullaboo and overload of attention she receives- especially when NooNoo hams it up with those sillynilly expressions of clueless wonder- there is a certain natural grace to the way she casually drops her head onto your shoulder and delicately, almost imperceptibly choreographs a kind of seamless cheek to cheek. . . .

Orange Not Black cont'd. . . .

It’s all an illusion of course, the milk & honey-bountiful mythology of a sun drenched, ocean rimmed utopia just north of Mexico. In actuality the most populous state in the union (38.8 million and counting) is a land of parallel universes: the “haves” and those whose job it is to serve them- a multitudinous mulch of mainly Spanish speaking illegal immigrants and their families hustling like crazy to remain. They’re washing the produce and chopping it up in the back of Whole Foods and keeping those hacienda bathrooms spiffy. Honestly, the whole thing makes me nervous, fodder for a revolution and Viva Zapata!

Okay, perhaps I am exaggerating, but if not a bona fide armed revolt, then surely a wagon load of resentment with a little middle class guilt thrown in on the side from those folk neither rich nor poor but intent on saving the world. In truth it’s a jungle of self-absorbed tummy tucks and ubiquitous churches in SoCal, inspired evangelical aphorisms of inanity and itinerant lost souls wandering in and out from other parts of the great land. And just to note, too much sun also has been proven to melt the imagination and dim one’s sense of heightened consciousness, making individuals prone to Camus-like moments where suddenly all they want to do is obliterate the first person they see after walking the beach on an extremely hot day.

Or perhaps my dim, over-analytical east coast view simply has gotten the better of me. Nonetheless, the not so hidden hillside hideaways of SoCal, egregious, stupendous opulence tended to by an underclass of underpaid house cleaners and overworked gardeners sit prominently on crests of potential mudslides in places like Laguna, whose name sounds like “iguana.”  

I’m convinced there are definite underpinnings of Tennessee Williams behind those dreamlike, hillside “cottages” on which the ultra violet light shines so relentlessly; either that, or I’ve read and/or seen far two many mid-twentieth century dramas that reveal the horror of it all and the moral destitution of humankind in general. Perhaps I’ve witnessed too many movies like the Perry Mason episode where the brakes mysteriously give out on a car perilously careening down the Pacific Coast highway. That image combined with the many tales of post modern spiritual destitution and millennium nihilism constitute serious recipes for doubt! Dreamers still may look westward to the land of the golden sun, but the world has changed and have you ever asked yourself why Turgenev is making such a resurgence with book groups these days? Have they even heard of Turgenev in some of those far flung outposts of the empire?

Just to clarify, in truth I’m not a philosopher, a social reformer or latter day suffragette and still have not even acquired one of those bumper stickers that query, “Are you ready for Hillary?” My utopian fantasies always have grappled with animal farm moments of deep cynicism.  Perhaps I overstate the case or simply do not cleave to giant representations of Mickey Mouse and it’s just not my scene there. . . .

So in closing, nothing more to say except th-th-th-that’s all folks!

                                               

                                                               

Orange is Not the New Black

Driving out to the airport on a freezing, rainy March morning under a  sky barely awake via the Grand Central and the infamous Van Wyck, it’s easy to envision a world consisting mainly of Dunkin’ Donuts and Marriotts- a complete study in shades of grey and charcoal in concrete for weary travelers and millennial Willy Lomans.

But grimy and non inspiring as the pathway to the friendly skies may appear along the underside of Queens at six in the morning in the last weeks of winter (and does anyone ever actually use the Van Wyck except for this express purpose???), the area is indisputably located in the shadowy if far flung orbit of the Big Apple, still close enough to catch a whiff.

Arriving in LA six or seven or eight hours later depending on the security lines and the flight tracks and the delays and the cabs and the freeways and the traffic, you find yourself gazing up at those weirdly tall, thirsty and ominously looming palm trees, and suddenly  you’re longing for even those dismal, far edges of the borough boonies, the place where snow removal lags. The weather of course is better in SoCal, but civilization as you once knew it hours earlier  lies somewhere on the other side of the continent, three thousand miles and three time zones away; however at least it's still there and the effects of weather can be highly overrated.

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. No use trying to weasel out of this. I am decidedly not one of those people who waxes all warm and fuzzy about the west coast vibe, particularly that part of the desert-scape seven hours or so south of the Bay Area. I find the entire golden state  kinda’ lacking in that special, glittery ambience that would make me wanna drop my season tickets to the ABT, sell my apartment on a leafy street a stone’s throw from Gotham and move out there the very next day. The Bay Area doesn’t fare much better in my view either, San Francisco coming off as a rather dinky, unconvincing stage set posing as a real town with its dearth of grown up architecture and micro climates every ten miles or so, most of them damp and windy.  

But I really do draw the line at burritos for breakfast, especially when this delicacy constitutes an airport breakfast at the dismal time warp known as LAX. And frankly, health food concerns aside, if I never see another avocado again it may be too soon- as in, did they really have to plunk the entire contents of a giant puckered Haas, whole, unsliced, unseasoned, unlimed and completely untethered, into the delicate bed of my mesclun salad, somewhat like a softball landing on a bunch of daffodils? I mean, they’re just so cavalier about the whole ubiquitous avocado thing over there in that jumble of freeways and malls, probably ‘cause they’re crazy, mad sick of them too.

How many burritos can you put on the head of a pin, or rather, on the side of a bagel? I wouldn’t actually know as finding an example of that essential New York staple, much less a real live bialy or convincing slice of pizza, becomes a pointless endeavor in the wilds of “OC”- the County of the Oranges an hour south of LA, an hour north of San Diego, and basically in the middle of nowhere, though not that far from Disneyland.

Here are some recent headlines from that dazzling journalistic sharpshooter, the Orange County Register:

-Surf Etiquette 101: Before you hit the waves you need to know these rules. . . .

-Octegenarian Jewel Thief Not Ashamed

-After Some Cry Foul, Dana Point Says No to Backyard Chickens

The first two stories appeared on 4/7and the last on 4/8/15, should you require more detail. . . .

Hell's Kitchen, Part Two

The apartment in which Baba and Zada reside in Hell’s Kitchen, their sanctuary from 1938 Poland alternating for Baba with Miami Beach and upstate New York according to the season, takes up an entire floor through, has both a front and back door and in addition to the aforementioned zillion little rooms contains two never-used fireplaces and two bathrooms. Outside Baba's bedroom window a pink neon sign flashes the word "wine" like mad from the liquor store below, and the bed pillows are plump and silken soft with feathers. The huge table in the front room is filled with small, etched wine glasses with gold rims that sit in tiny, matching saucers, a silver chalice, delicate china, polished candlesticks, and a dazzling, embossed white-on-white tablecloth.  There is a clump of large, aggressive-looking, shiny leaves sprouting from a gigantic rubber plant and a cluster of spiffed up children, loud, fast-talking husbands and wives, cousins and great aunts, all firing off in a couple of languages.

The room is crowded and noisy. The six brothers when bunched together are like a bouquet of unruly, assertive weeds-  they also are opinionated, stubborn, funny and charming pranksters and they all like to flirt and kibbitz. They particularly enjoy labeling themselves and each other for the amusement of the kids and others young at heart as the "rich" uncle, the "smart" uncle, the handsomest, the luckiest, the stupidest and so on.  A few of the uncles are amateur sultans with second and possibly third "wives" stashed away in hidden corners around the city and they've had lots of practice being lovable.

As the Passover story gets underway after the "brucha" or prayer, there are murmurs and surreptitious attempts at conversation and other forms of heresy at the far end of the table, mainly from the women, who are loudly shushed by Zada Jake, aka "the boss" who in turn is backed up by his toady son Sol/Shlomo/Shloimele which in turn causes the other brothers to barely stifle their snickers. The previously pristine table is slowly becoming a weird collage of crumbled matzoh, horse radish splotches and red wine stains with the errant stalk of green celery thrown across it for contrast. Later on in the course of the reading the uncles suddenly will point the children's attention to an open front door as they shake the table from underneath to simulate Elijah’s ghost, then quickly drain the prophet’s filled cup unseen in their annual and futile attempt to scare the daylights out of the more gullible of the kids. When Baba finally serves up the fish after an endless droning of every word of the Hagaddah by Zada at his customary breakneck speed, she leaves the head in tact, eye vacantly gazing back up at the Seder guests.  It is her personal revenge for having to cook for the son's wives. 

Zada keeps half a Pall Mall tucked behind his ear, has an observant, aqua stare and looks like a bald eagle quietly biding his time. Baba has darker blue eyes, dark hair, high cheekbones, leathery Florida skin from way too many unblocked winters, and a raspy voice from chronic bronchitis; she appears tortured but in actuality is kvelling - basking in unmitigated, earned glory- while regarding her sextet of glorious male progeny; she compulsively twists an already ravaged mulch of Kleenex in her hands to dab those cerulean orbs. At the end, after all the matzoh sandwiches, the soup, the matzoh snacks, the turkey, the matzoh crumbling, the compote, and the endless talk stretching into the wee hours, the uncles are drunkenly singsonging about some lost lambs.