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September 14th, 2018

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ Once in a while, someone comes across this blog, gives it a read, and fires off a missive to me. Here’s one:

I’ve never seen such a self-absorbed blogger over the age of 12. Boy, are you self-absorbed. Don’t give a shit about that “patient” with dementia. Don’t give a shit about the person working to keep the patient safe and alive. Blah, blah, blah, me, me, me. Get out of your own way and see how the real world works.

I sighed and replied:

Thanks for reading MY blog. About ME. Written by ME. About MY life, from MY perspective. You can feel how you like, but your words don’t bother ME. Have I made MYSELF clear?

~~ A woman interrupts my conversation with a fellow yogini. “Oh, you retired gals have it made, coming to yoga so often. I work full time and that’s impossible to do.” With barely a trace of Zen on my face or in my mind, I answer her before my retired friend can do so. “I work upwards of 60 hours a week, so it is possible.” She looks taken aback (good) and says, “Well, I guess your job is pretty cushy.” Whether it’s cushy or demanding, it’s employment elsewhere, not in the studio, so I failed to see her point. But my friend put her fingers to her lips and giggled, so I gave the buttinsky the most subtle of eye rolls.

~~ Sticking with the cranky theme, I had a strange encounter with a poll worker yesterday while voting in the New York primary. I tell her my name, she makes me spell it, and then she wrinkles her nose as she says, “Let’s see if that’s how they have it in the book.” I remark that it’s my name, and she repeats, “Let’s see.” As she fumbles her way through the book, I clench my teeth. When she announces, “Oh, you’re right!” I don’t part my lips or teeth as I sneer, “That’s because I know my own damn name.”

~~ A reader enjoyed my description of the Uber driver who seemingly immersed himself in a vat of aftershave. Nevertheless, she could top that, she said in her note. “Last year I got in a Lyft car and gagged. The driver smelled like my grandma: mothballs and cats.”

~~ In Dementia-ville, the odors were subdued but the noise level was elevated. You know that commercial for something or other where the guy walks through a door in his house and he enters into a movie theater? I suspected that might have happened if I cracked the door leading into the patient’s area. The music would swell, the defending platoon would come over the ridge, staccato gunfire would go on for minutes, and jet engines would roar while bringing the conquering heroes home to a grateful nation that would raucously cheer them during a tickertape parade.

You think that’s fun to listen to at high volume when you just want to read the paper in peace while eating a whole grain waffle with peanut butter?

~~ At the conclusion of services on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, I got to hold a Star of David fashioned from an ibeam of one of the fallen World Trade Center Towers. It fit in two hands, weighed as much as a gymnast, and pierced a hole through my heart that was still fairly raw. When I handed it back to the rabbi, you know what I didn’t do? I didn’t fist pump like a coked-up WWF performer.

[I am writing this before the hurricane reaches land and before the polls close in NY. So my snarkiness is tempered with concern for lives and my confidence in voters may be severely shaken.]


And now for something non-political:



Dasvidaniya. Have a great weekend! If you're observing Yom Kippur, I wish you an easy fast and a reflective, meaningful holiday. G'mar Hatima Tova.
LET’S GO METS!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!

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