Versailles — L’Etat C’est Moi (The mental state of those who cut in line!)

Waiting on line at Versailles

Well, I know it started with Louis XIV who used his halls as a latrine.  But our trip to Versailles highlighted the arbitrariness of rules and the lack of their enforcement in France.  Inasmuch as my husband and I are both attorneys, we were rather taken aback by this.

To start out, we planned to take a 9:55 AM train to Versailles which is about 40 minutes outside of Paris.  The train arrived early at 9:50 which was when we boarded.  At 9:52, the train left. THREE minutes before it was scheduled to leave.  Here in the states, the train would leave as scheduled or later but not BEFORE.  Is this any way to run a railroad?

We bought our tickets online for Versailles so we wouldn’t have to wait “on line.”  Wrong.  We stood in line for an hour and a half in the blazing sun.  About 45 minutes into our wait, with our backs turned for a second, some German tourists jumped in line ahead of us.  Then the same thing happened behind us with French tourists.  To say we rule followers almost started an international incident is an understatement.

We finally got into the chateau and there were huge signs, billboards practically, bearing a drawing of a camera with a giant black line through it — the universal symbol for “no photographs.” Duh.  We walked through the museum and flashes were going off like crazy; it was like strobe lights everywhere. All of the tourists were snapping away at their cameras.  I was incredulous.  I asked one of the guards.  He said that we were allowed to take photos.  “But what about that gigantic sign downstairs?” I asked.  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “this is France” (i.e., we don’t follow our own rules).

We walked through the gardens for about 2 hours or so.  By the time we got to the far reaches of the estate, our feet (and hips and backs) had given out.  Actually, it was just me who could barely move. We saw a little tram that would take us back to the chateau.   The tram, on an endless loop of the entire estate, was practically empty.  We took out our wallets and the tram operator told us he didn’t have any more tickets.  “But you have all these seats” we implored.  Well, apparently, they are only allowed to sell a certain amount of tickets and after that, they can’t let anyone else on even if the car is completely empty.  Is this any way to run a tram service as well as a country whose economy is based on tourism?

People Acting Paradoxically

Our Friends Pele and Teddy Staying with us a while back -- although both cockapoos, they're not related.

Due to all of my digestive enzyme deficiencies (don’t laugh, I used to be able to eat at a Mexican restaurant with abandon too),  I returned to the fancy pants Apothecary.  For those who are not local, it is like a high end GNC on steroids (bioidentical ones) with a compounding pharmacy as well as lavender creams and anything by Burt’s Bees.  It has that yeasty, health food store smell.The customers who shop there are well-heeled (looking to be well-healed) and a little zombie-like filling their baskets with supplements that promise longevity, serenity, and all that jazz.  I just want to be able to eat beans and onions without ending up in ER with severe stomach pains caused by trapped gas.

There was a young disheveled looking guy (maybe 27 or so) with overgrown hair who looked like an extra from a production of Les Miserables.  Perhaps to get into character, he smelled as though he had refrained from showering.  He was just standing in the middle of the store spacing out and eating from a bag of what looked like granola from a bulk foods bin.  The problem is, this store doesn’t sell food except for those disgusting Lara bars, which taste like bad, raw cookie dough.  Well, I figured, he wasn’t my problem and I stood on line to pay for my purchase.  The young man went to exit the store and as he was leaving, he stopped to repeatedly use the Purell machine.   I found it rather amusing that despite his personal hygiene issues he still was able to recognized the fact that most germs are transmitted via the hands.

Sexism in Sizing (Good Scrabble words!)

At Yosemite two years ago

I wish I had been born a man. Not in a Chaz Bono kind of way.  I just don’t like having to shop for clothing because I am overwhelmed by the choices.  Most specifically, I am perplexed by the sizes.  These days, most women’s clothes are offered in three sizes: S, M, and L.  Somehow, all American women, sizes 0-18 are all supposed to squeeze into one of these three categories.  The garments will just sort of fit.  Occasionally, they will throw us a bone and give us “P” (for petite) and “XL” for women who need a little extra coverage.  (Some wonderfully democratic stores charge more for the larger sizes as a kind reminder that they require more fabric).  The lack of precision in sizes is very upsetting.

Of course, this issue does not exist in men’s clothing. Men’s clothing measurements are so exact that even inexpensive stores like Kohl’s sells shirts that offer different sleeve lengths (i.e., 32/33) and various neck sizes (e.g. 16 1/2).  If I walked into Bloomingdales’ and discovered that I could choose from different sleeve lengths, I would think I was hallucinating.  Of course, men are afforded this same precision in pants — waist size AND inseam!  And then, even in a discount place like Syms, if the pants in your $99 suit needs to be taken out a little, they have a tailor onsite to alter your pants, shorten your sleeves, hem your cuffs, etc. for practically pennies.  Yet, if a woman buys an $800 designer suit at Lord and Taylor, she’s buys it “as is.”  If the skirt is snug, they will merely tell you to go drink a can of SlimFast.

This sizing discrimination starts very young. Even in Boys Department at Sears, the pants are available in not only numbered sizes but also regular, slim and husky.  I just bought leggings.  The medium was too small and large was too big.  All I could hope for is that the same dry cleaner who shrinks the rest of my clothes would be as successful with the Large leggings.

Chicos, my new favorite store, as of today does one better in terms of size options: they offer their wares in sizes 0, 1, 2, and 3.  The true range of the size of the clothing is like a 4 through 18 but with this scheme, everyone thinks they are a small size!  That’s what I call brilliant marketing! And I fell for it hook, line and sinker. Don’t ask what I spent but I finally understand what the expression “retail therapy” means — now if only we can get insurance to cover it! I just hope my husband doesn’t read this post.  I plan to hide the evidence (credit card receipt.)

George Plimpton and Me

My co-author Janice and I with my live idol, Dave Barry at the Bethesda Barnes and Noble at his book signing

I want to be George Plimpton.  Except I want to be alive. And remain female. It’s not his money I want but if someone gave it to me, I wouldn’t complain. I want to be like George in that he was lauded and respected for being a dilettante.

George actually competed in almost every professional sport (as a journalist)) and then wrote about it. He sparred with famous boxers. He went through training camp with the Detroit Lions.  He worked to be an ice hockey goalie with the Boston Bruins. I want to do the same thing except instead of pro sports, I’d like to go on a cruise, get a massage, drive a free Lexus, and eat at great restaurants — all without charge, and write about it on my blog.

George did a little of everything. And he squandered a much fancier education than I did — Exeter, Harvard, Kings College in Cambridge.

But the biggest thing I squandered was an opportunity to discuss this lifestyle with George.  I was at George’s Long Island East Hampton estate with two college friends in July of 1979.  Every summer, the Plimptons hosted a huge party with his own private fireworks. Not included on the guest list were my two college friends and myself. My friend Judy crashes the party every year.

The difference that year was that by the time we got there, the soiree was over and we stumbled upon only George and his wife du jour.  Dilettantes by their very nature are a bit ADD and have commitment issues; George and this particular wife eventually split up. When the Plimptons learned we were trespassers, they kindly (in that Locust Valley lockjaw way Mr. P. was known for — think William F. Buckley or for the TV viewing crowd, Thurston Howell — the “millionaire” — on Gilligan’s Island) asked us to leave the premises. VERY embarrassing.

Judy had invited me out for the weekend to hang out with her and our other friend Ellen who also lived nearby.  Judy’s family summered in the Hamptons in a huge modern glass house on the beach that must have been worth millions.  Her father had a seat on one of the stock exchanges. Previously, I had no exposure to this level of wealth and opulence and also had no idea Judy came from this kind of money. She was very down-to-earth.

After that summer, I transferred to another university but I saw Judy and Ellen over our various school breaks a few more times but then we lost touch.

Recently, I decided to use the Internet to see what Judy might be up to. Judy’s name is very common so I knew finding her would be basically impossible.  Luckily, Judy’s father had a unique name (I have a steel trap of a memory for things that do not make any money). Because Judy’s dad was a big muckety muck on Wall Street, it wasn’t hard to track him down on the Internet.  Well wasn’t I surprised that both Judy AND her father made hundreds of millions as business partners with (drum roll please)……Bernie Madoff. Needless to say, it didn’t end well for them but at least they weren’t prosecuted. My sense of awe of this family had turned to pity and sadness. Judy had been a nice gal pal during a difficult time in my life.  But isn’t that always how it is? When the media interviews the neighbors of someone who has run so afoul of the law they are always shocked and say, “He was so nice and used to help me shovel my driveway.”

The Perfect Gift

Our Frequent Fliers here at the "Waldog Astoria"

Our Uncle Joe is turning 90.  Not only is it difficult to get a gift for someone of this age but it’s absolutely impossible when the person is a man. As it is, I have always had a terrible time shopping for men other than a few family members.

My stepdad was easy because he always used cotton handkerchiefs and you can never have enough of these. Unwittingly, through his lifelong dedication to using hankies instead of disposable tissues, my stepdad was one of the early “green” pioneers (no double entendre there — I hope you aren’t eating).

My father was content with any gift as long as it came from me, his beloved daughter. I could send him a box of sand and he’d be like, “I LOVE IT! It’s just what I needed for my sand collection.”

My husband is also so easy. He tells me exactly which book he wants and I tell him to go order it on Amazon. My husband and I would rather get gifts we want rather than be surprised by gifts we don’t want.

By contrast, women are so easy to buy for! Make-up bags, bath gels, dish towels, candles, herbal teas, the list is endless.

Today, we went to an office supply store for ideas. We thought about a Day-at-a Glance calendar for Uncle Joe.  (For the 90-year old, a Month-at-a-Glance calendar may be a little bit too optimistic.)  This way, Joe could keep track of all of his medical appointments. But then we thought it was too boring a gift.

Something most men love (women, not so much), are practical jokes. That’s why we decided to get Uncle Joe a whoopie cushion and a joy buzzer. We thought this would liven things up in the dining hall at the senior citizen residence where he and Aunt Dot moved to a few years ago.

The whoopie cushion didn’t get much of a reaction because apparently, these are not atypical sounds in most assisted living facilities. Uncle Joe had a lot of fun with the joy buzzer until the shock of it sent his friend George into cardiac arrest.  Aunt Dot called us to thank us for the gifts but gently hinted that for next year, what Uncle Joe could really use is a pocket calendar.

Summer is For Napping

There is an event that has been taking place here in Washington, DC every summer for as long as I have lived here (28 years).  It’s called the Folklife festival and it’s held on the National Mall.  For those who don’t live here, the National Mall isn’t like the Mall of America with a Gap, Pottery Barn and a food court.  Rather, it is the big open space surrounded by the Smithsonian and the monuments.

For those who don’t know, the summers in Washington were modeled after the climate in the underworld except down there, it’s a dry heat.  In my 28 years of living here, I’ve been to the Folklife  festival exactly twice.  There are stages set up where people who hail from countries where you cannot drink the water show off their native cultures.  They have people doing their native dances with their native instruments, selling their native food.  I cannot get excited about indigenous peoples weaving grass baskets when it’s so hot, I feel as though my internal organs are melting.  I don’t get a huge kick out of someone preparing curried goat before my very eyes. I can watch that on the Travel Channel on the Bizarre Foods show with Andrew Zimmern who would eat his own shoes just for the entertainment value. The two times I have gone down to this event in nearly three decades, I spent most of my time complaining about the heat and humidity to whichever unfortunate soul is accompanying me and running from tent to tent drinking endless $7 Inca Colas. And don’t get me started on the parking.

Mirror, mirror and other Horrific Reflections

Shrek and Fiona Pessin

My husband and I recently had some candid shots taken at a social event.  Much to our horror, these photos were posted online. We couldn’t believe we looked that bad. My husband said to me, “Do I REALLY look that old?”  I said to him, “Is my right nostril really that big?”  Amelia Earhardt could have gone astray therein.  Clearly not flattering shots.  The disturbing part was that the photos of everyone else attending the event were extremely flattering so we couldn’t blame the photographer.  It must have been us.  We were oblivious to the fact that we are the Shrek and Fiona of our family. But because they all love us so much (ha!) and are so accepting of our flaws (double ha!) that we are blissfully unaware of our ogre-like appearance. Our 14-year old son tried to cheer us up.  He said, “you guys aren’t THAT ugly.” We reminded him that he is a blend of us.

Good self-image is hard to come by as a middle aged adult unless it was cultivated at a young age. I am thinking back to one particular incident that is very revealing of why I may have some minor (triple ha!) self-esteem issues.

When I was a freshman in college, I brought two friends home with me for a holiday weekend. It was an all women’s college. What was I thinking? I eventually wisened up and got the heck out of there after one year.  It was impossible to get a date. Impossible to meet men. Impossible to remember what men looked like except for the French professor having an affair with the cute senior who lived on my dorm floor.  The prof would use a fake name when he called for “Sue” on the hall phone. Since I have a musical ear and because I had class with him every day, I knew it was him on the phone.  He wasn’t even cute. He was just a guy and we were all DESPERATE. It was really quite pathetic. Some of the upper classwomen had real loser guys living in their dorm rooms with them.  These guys were freeloading off of these very high achieving women who craved the company someone who could grow chest hair. Two other women did the next best thing and got huge dogs.  Needless to say, they were “asked” to leave the dorm. Since it was a school for wealthy girls, the school didn’t want to appear to be kicking them out so the school rented them an apartment off campus to accommodate the Laborador retrievers.

After the weekend when I brought my friends home, my mother called me to express her concern.  She said, “I told your stepfather that you will never meet any guys if you hang around with such unattractive girls.” My stepdad, sincerely trying to defend my choice of friends told my mother: “I disagree. If the three of them hang out together, Sally will look good by comparison.” To borrow a phrase from Dave Barry: “I swear I am not making this up.”  To borrow a phrase from Woody Allen, “20 years of therapy dialing 911.”

Housewives?

At Le Mont St. Michel -- A poster of this adorns the walls of every French classroom in the United States

While taking Jet Blue (with their individual TVs) down to Ft. Lauderdale a year ago, I became addicted to the “Real Housewives of New York City.”  Housewives?  Really? What about these women says “Housewives” to you? Nada.

Four of the seven housewives of NYC were divorced (Kelly, LuAnn, Bethenny, and Sonya), (Jill had also previously been divorced but is now remarried).  Alex is married to a gay guy and Ramona, the one with Borderline Personality Disorder is the family breadwinner — hardly a housewife.

Not one of these women remotely resemble any housewife, dead or alive. My mother calls me a housewife even though I’m a trained lawyer and entrepreneur so I guess the term is misused a lot.  (In my family, if your brother is a doctor, it’s very hard to gain legitimacy.)

Maybe I am completely naive but perhaps, much of the show is staged.  Fake plots, fake husbands, and definitely fake boobs and other assorted body parts.  These women spend little or no time with their spouses (those who have them).  You never see the kids.  They don’t clean their own homes, they don’t cook or deal with anything requiring any effort beyond lifting a glass of Pinot Grigio to their lips.  They have drivers, assistants, stylists, nannies and full-time housekeepers — again — where’s the housewife part?

If they had called the show, the “Spoiled Women of New York City” that would have been much more accurate.  These wealthy,  pampered brats hardly represent the majority of women living in any city, state or town.

I don’t think there are any good connotations associated with the term “housewife.”  It’s a completely nonsensical word which literally implies that a woman is married to her house.  It really has a pretty derogatory meaning because we all know that housewives earn no money despite the fact that they work your keister off (keister — now there’s an antiquated term — I must be channeling Garrison Keiller).

Even the IRS doesn’t bother with housewives: no need to file a tax return — we’re the tax equivalent of pond scum I guess. In fact, I’d rather be able to say I’m ”Christmas Help” or a “Migratory Farm Worker” because at least they get paid.  Unless you get paid for what you do, you get no respect. (Or maybe that’s just in my family).

My Parking Anxiety

I choose doctors not based on their credentials but rather, based on the parking situation. I have tremendous parking anxiety.

Today, I went for a mammogram.  (If this is TMI, stop me or at least stop reading.)  The nurses there are so nice (except for one who could have scored the part as Nurse Ratchet in Cukoo’s Nest).

I was alone in the waiting room in my flimsy hospital gown when my nurse whom I’ll call “Betty” came to explain that it would just be another few minutes. Another nurse, Darlene, walked by all elated and asked Betty, “Did you tell her yet?” I asked, “Tell me what? Did I win a free trip for being the millionth patient?  Where am I going? To MD Anderson Breast Center in Texas?” Betty explained that Darlene was excited because they had just gotten new machines. I asked if the new machines were pain free.  Nope. They just produce clearer pictures making it easier on the radiologist.  Why is that exciting for me? I thought maybe they at least would give out a free beer with every mammogram.

The procedure, (which for those who happen to be male, is akin to having one’s boobs run over by a monster truck) was over and I was told not to change but to wait in the inner waiting room.  They make you stay in your gown in case they have to do more extensive imaging (a sonogram).  Or if they screwed it up the first time and the radiologist calls for a do-over.  All the other women waiting with me for their results were palpably anxious. But I was not worried about receiving my results. I was worried because I only had minutes left on my parking meter. I told them that if they didn’t take me shortly, I was going to run out into the outer waiting room where there were husbands waiting (do I care?), paper gown and all to plug my meter.

Betty said that she promised that if the doc didn’t see me shortly, she would feed the meter. My meter did expire but luckily, they hadn’t ticketed me yet. It’s always nice to dodge a bullet at the conclusion of one’s mammogram.  I had just dodged two.

We are so lucky we get to watch these two so often!

Outrageous Behavior in these parts

At the Continental Divide in Rocky Mtn. Nat'l Park, Colorado Last Summer

I never cease to be amazed by the kahones of certain people. I am on a neighborhood listserv (it actually includes folks in our entire zipcode and some interlopers who aren’t even in 20817).  So, I have a good cross-section of crazies to chronicle.  One person posted the following:

I’m Not Trying to Be Insensitive

Our very groovy pool.

We are so lucky to have access to my mother-in-law’s gorgeous condo pool.  We have it all to ourselves.  There are a handful of people on the deck working on their melanoma tans but they never go in the pool.

The route we take is Grosvenor Lane, which is a very busy road because it connects two major roads — Old G’town Rd. and Rockville Pike. They even have speed cameras.  There is a rehab facility located on Grosvenor Lane and it appears to be for folks who have lost their ability to walk. You will see them zooming up and down on the sidewalk of this major road  in their motorized scooters.  Yesterday, we saw a woman in her motor scooter just sitting on the sidewalk with a giant hand-held mirror in front of her face.  As we passed her, I noticed she was tweezing her beard. I guess the lighting in the rehab place isn’t as good as natural light.  Witnessing this public grooming incident provided Eric and me our “word of the day” which was “uninhibited.”  Each day, I choose a word that Eric doesn’t know and we write it down.  FYI, most of the words that come up while I’m driving are not elegible for the list because they are profane and because Eric already knows them from driving with me for 14 years.  Please don’t call child protective services damnit!

Today, on the same road, we saw a man in a regular wheelchair hitching a ride by holding onto the shoulders of a woman in a motorized scooter.  They were forming a train of sorts and they were moving at quite a clip!  It was some sight! I didn’t take a photo with my phone because I didn’t want to end up in the same place as this little convoy.

My Issues with Public Bathrooms

And they are aplenty. I do appreciate that they are trying to improve public restrooms by attempting to make them more hygienic.  For instance, all of the sensor-driven technology helps you to avoid touching anything lest you pick up germs.

First there is the toilet. We all know how wonderfully the sensor system works. You get up to clean off (if you can remove any toilet paper from the Conestoga wagon wheel-sized roll) and the thing flushes before you are done. Then, you throw all the TP in the bowl and you can’t get it to flush again. You wave your hands all around as if you are trying to conjure up the flushing genie. Nothing. Then, inevitably, while you are inspecting other options with your face two inches from the bowl, unexpectly, it gushes up like Old Faithful spraying you in the face.  And this is a sanitary upgrade? Why can’t they give us the handles back that you can flush with your foot? Better yet are the ones with the pedals!

To wash up, you have to physically pump the soap although some of those dispensers have sensors too but they NEVER work. So now, with soapy, yet germy hands, you wave your hands under the faucet sensor, but no water comes out.  If you are lucky enough to get the water running, it’s cold.  The hand dryer works by sensor and is as loud and forceful as a jet engine. It could blow a small child clear across the restroom. Please give me back my paper towels so I can use it to open the bathroom door to exit! Until they have a sensor that opens the door for you, all of the other upgrades have been for naught.

Riding in a dome car in a canyon in Colorado -- we had to remind the waiter three times to put the tape of the descriptive narrative on. He didn't remember until we were 20 minutes into the trip. Being so out of sync, the narration wasn't helpful but merely annoying as background noise.

Our Trip To The Amish Country

Visiting the Sturgis Pretzel Factory in "LI-ditz" The town whose name sounds like it houses the National Strip Club Hall of Fame

Last summer, we went for an overnight in Pennsylvania Dutch Country in Lancaster.  It sounded exciting – well, not exactly exciting per se but you know, sort of interesting and quaint.  Boy, the Amish are all about quaintness!  You can watch them zip about on unmotorized scooters in their plain yet almost uniform-like apparel.  Also so quaint are the ubiquitous colorful, round Hex signs painted with lots of hearts, birds and flowers.  And these cheerful little disks are supposed to scare away evils spirits?  I know that the Amish are pacifists but this one takes the Shoo Fly pie!

Tourists are fascinated with the Amish.    All of this attention makes the Amish crazy.  They don’t want their photo taken with Flat Stanley.  Not that the Amish don’t take full advantage of the tourism.  They sell quilts, homemade jams, and lots of little trinkets…imported from China!

The Amish like to consume noodles, mashed potatoes and whoopie pie.  I know what you’re thinking.   This is quite an ironic name for a rather puritanical people.  All of this carbo-loading goes to waste because, for some reason, you never see the Amish training for a marathon.   I didn’t notice any horse-drawn buggies bearing a little black and white oval bumper sticker that says “26.2” (which, by the way, is SO obnoxious.  No one cares!  Keep this kind of information to yourself!)

Clearly, they are too busy for competitive sports:  you don’t see the Amish represented in the Olympics.  That’s because their time is spent making home-cooked meals while the rest of us are eating fast food from “Sheetz,” Amish Country’s ubiquitous gas station and convenience mart.  Am I the only one who cracks up every time I see a giant red and yellow sign bearing the name, “Sheetz?”  Unfortunately, my inner Bart Simpson was in full throttle on this particular trip.  We were searching for a nearby antiquing town called “Lititz.”  Navigating, I told my husband that to get to Lititz, there would be a turnoff near “Lebutt.”  My husband who is the adult in our marriage explained that it’s probably pronounced “LI-ditz” after some town in Eastern Europe.  My husband is also the intellectual in our marriage and I’m the buffoon.  But I’m also the fun one.  Especially after a few margaritas. My husband has taught my son all about history and geography.  I, on the other hand, have taught my son how to blow into an empty Coke bottle to make it sound like a steam ship entering the harbor.  My years of flute playing have been put to good use.

My Paper Towel Crisis

Resting at the Arc de Triomphe after a lot running around Paris

Our upstairs bathrooms needed cleaning. Badly. VERY badly. My husband was at work, my son was at his friend’s house, the dog we were dogsitting went back to his owner, so I had run out of excuses about being “too busy” to clean the bathrooms. If you want to know why I do not have a cleaning lady, see yesterday’s post.

I sprayed everything down with Chlorox Cleanup because it is so NOT green but it removes all of the green from my bathrooms and really cleans it instead of merely alleviating my conscience about the environment.  Not like that Seventh Heaven product or whatever it’s called from Whole Foods. I will probably develop a tumor from inhaling the stuff as I clean but at least the tumor will be germ free.

I went to open my new case of paper towels (all you eco folks, don’t fool yourselves — those reusable rags retain their germs for 99 years).  I LOVE Bounty. It’s so soft and has now has the “Select-A-Size” option.  I LOVE options. Even if I never use the smaller size, I love the idea that I can if I want to. Smart marketing folks! However, the new package of Bounty I just opened felt like sandpaper.  Did they change the formulation?  I tried to find Proctor and Gamble’s 800 number on the Internet.

Yes, I am one of those crazy people who calls those customer service numbers on the back of bottles and packages. (For instance, I once called the Pompeii Vinegar company to ask is that gelatinous glob at the bottom of my old red wine vinegar bottle was normal or was it merely that my husband trying to poison me. But I never got through.  So I threw out the vinegar.  Yes, I know, vinegar can be used as an all-purpose cleaner but I’m addicted to the smell of Chlorox Clean-up.) I too a package of 500 paper cups I got at Costco and mailed it back to Georgia Pacific because they disintegrated immediately when you poured liquid in it.  If it didn’t ruin my wood furniture, it would have been a cool magic trick to impress people with.

I called Proctor and Gamble, and of course, got some generic voicemail: “your message is being forwarded by Audix.”  Well, I couldn’t possibly clean with rough paper towels.  Besides, I was so exhausted from trying to contact the paper towel company that I had no energy left. So, once again, the bathrooms got put on the back burner.  When my husband came home, he wasn’t too happy about this. Time to check the vinegar again.

My Cleaning Lady Was Cheating on Me (Updated)

I’ve been cuckolded by a wealthy family in Potomac.  I found out that my cleaning lady was cheating on me with a much dirtier family.  Apparently, she was more “satisfecha” after cleaning their house. She told me she had to quit working for me because I wouldn’t let her use a “bacuum” cleaner on my wood floors.    Supposedly, the other family allowed her to “bacuum” their floors.  Is it really that unreasonable to not want my new wood floors all scratched up? “Rosa” (not her real name — her real name is Lupe) said sweeping with a broom was too time-consuming.  Evidently, she belongs to some cleaning lady’s union where the union steward told her that by collective bargaining agreement, federal law prohibits me from requiring her to use a broom. I wasn’t going to fall for that.  I reminded her that not only had was I an attorney, but that I had been an immigration attorney in the mid-90s and that I still had friends at INS. Then she reminded me that there was no more INS. Oops.

Someone told me to hire “Happy Maids.”  Are they fooling anyone with that moniker? Are there platoons of cleaning ladies who whistle while they work cleaning up your mess?  My issue with these cleaning service troupes is not their pretense at a cheery disposition but rather their lack of hygiene.  They bring their own vacuums, brooms, mops, rags, and buckets that they used to clean HUNDREDS of other filthy houses.  Holy cross-contamination city Batman!

Yes, I realize I am a little nuts. which is exactly what I want in a cleaning lady: my ideal cleaning lady is a person who is afflicted with obsessive-compulsive disorder.  Although that is not my particular affliction, I am now my own cleaning lady, which means I am always employee of the month.

A Shameless Plug for My Book (co-written with Janice Haas) available on Amazon

I Miss Jack

You must go here before you die! (They have one in NYC -- don't know if it's as good as the one in Paris but they may be less snotty).

We met with an estate attorney recently.  The attorney asked if we could pull the plug on one another. My husband can’t even kill a moth in our house. He escorts it safely back into our yard whereupon it returns at a later date to eat his Lord and Taylor suits. (The moths don’t seem to go for the Syms suits for some reason, of course!)  The attorney reassured my husband that if a patient is coherent and can talk, they don’t consider stopping life support.  I volunteered that I had already known that from personal experience: I tried it on my mother in mid-conversation but the nurse walked in on me.  I am the Jack Kevorkian in my family minus the death machine. I don’t believe in suffering. It’s all about quality of life. If I have forgotten basic stuff, like how to make a pina colada, pull my plug.

I recently saw a documentary on HBO about Jack Kevorkian.  It was FASCINATING. He has invented all kinds of cool stuff besides the death machine. He was also a composer and painter.  The interesting thing is that in his final trial (he’d been tried and acquitted several times), he decided to represent himself so that he would lose and could appeal by taking the case to the Supreme Court so they could decide the issue for the whole country.  Sadly, his appeal wasn’t granted.  Now I’m going to have to move to Oregon where physician-assisted suicide is legal.

More Stuff that The French Do To Annoy Me

OK.  I know I am very lucky to have had an opportunity to go to France with my son and husband.  However, the French have a lot to learn about customer service. And when I say “a lot”, I mean they need to learn of the existence of the concept.  They have no clue.  They do not volunteer any information that they aren’t ask to provide — like where the elevator is.  (If you are at all claustrophobic and have no legs, this is not the country for you to visit — the elevators remind me of the old phone booths, only smaller.)

On our last night in Paris, we stayed at the Marriott by the airport.  We thought, at last! Some good old fashioned American hospitality with that “can do” attitude! Well, it was more of a “cannot” and “will not do” attitude.

I spoke to a couple of front desk employees (French) who informed me that Hertz did not have a place to return cars at Terminal One, which was where we were leaving from.  Hertz only had a return place at Terminal Two and we would have to take all of our bags and take a 15-minute tram to Terminal One.  I thought to myself, “how could that be?”  All flights to the U.S. leave from Terminal One and Hertz is an American company so why wouldn’t they have a return desk at Terminal One?

I went upstairs to our room and decided to call Hertz myself — but of course, not from the room phone.  That would certainly double our entire bill.

(Making a phone call from a hotel room is a deadly mistake you do not make twice.  I once called my brother from a posh San Francisco hotel.  He lives in San Jose which he had always told me was in the Bay area.  In the Washington, DC area where no two neighbors have the same area code, you don’t have to pay long distance charges if the area code is different.  The rules are completely different in California.  A 20-minute phone call to my brother in San Jose from the room phone was $124.)  I had a half-hour long discussion with the front desk over what constitutes a “local” call.  I got them down to around $35.)

I planned to use my cell phone, which it turned out, got no reception so that I would be forced to place a $500 phone call to the Hertz office one mile away.

Our “crack” travel agent (and by “crack”, I mean I think she was on it) left out a digit or two of the Hertz phone number she had provided to us.  So, I called the front desk to ask for the phone number for Hertz (they pronounce it “airtz” for your future reference).  The front desk man with whom I had spoken a little earlier sounded put out and asked me, “But why do you want to know that?”  He had already told me that all I should need to know, no?  Well, excuse me, but didn’t they teach you at Tourism University that if the customer wants the Pope’s phone number, you had better go and get it!

Our Nutritional Cognitive Dissonance

Below is the full text of a Letter to the Editor that was published in part in the Washington Post in 2008.  It appeared in the Health Section which no one except my water aerobic instructor reads.  She is very preachy about nutrition, particularly fiber.  She has converted so many people to her high fiber diet that many of her students spend most of the class in the restroom.  To wit:

I read, with complete befuddlement, the article entitled “Healthy Home Economics.” Health Section (Tuesday, May 20, 2008) which described that high school cooking classes have now shifted their emphasis to healthy and nutritious cooking.  It talks about making paella, which, while not the worst food you can eat, is not exactly a paragon of health food.  Shrimp is laden with cholesterol and sausage is usually loaded with saturated fat.  Not to mention, it’s one of the most labor-intensive dishes, taking several hours to prepare.  After hours of pulverizing golden saffron, the novice cook is likely to give up and head for the golden arches instead.  Isn’t the goal to teach kids to prepare quick and healthy recipes?  OK, maybe I’m being a bit overzealous. 

            However, the real reason for my  impassioned response to the article is that I read that one of the students is proud that he has expanded his food repertoire from merely cold cereal preparation to:  Greek cuisine, funnel cake and tiramisu.  Not to rain on anyone’s parade.  But WHOA!  Did you say FUNNEL CAKE?  This is like the plutonium of all American cuisine.  This should only be served by qualified paramedics!  Why are we teaching kids to make funnel cake under the banner of healthy cooking?

Cinco de What?

Did you know that Cinco de Mayo is a minor holiday in Mexico?  It’s such a minor holiday that it’s on par in importance with Dog Walker Appreciation Day.  Then why the heck do we make such a big fuss over it in the U.S.?  Mexican Independence Day is September 17, NOT May 5.  But “Cinco de Mayo” sounds better than “diez y siete de Setembre.”

Most Mexicans who live outside the state of Puebla, Mexico have no idea that the 5^th of May is a special day. I called a few random Mexicans (I just looked up Garcia in the Mexico City phone book – 237 pages of them).  I asked them if they were familiar with the holiday.  Their uniform response: “Que es?”  Which means, “what kind of moronic gringo are you?”  (It’s actually gringa since it’s feminine and I usually am feminine except when I sleep in a sweatshirt.)

Americans are such big partiers that we will use ANY excuse to drink Margaritas (especially the frozen kind).  When my son was in 3^rd grade, I had to send him to school dressed up as an enchilada as part of the school’s celebration of the holiday.  (This was only because I didn’t know how to make a chile relleno costume). They were going to teach the students the Mexican hat dance and play with Mexican jumping beans.  I am sure these are all the most dignified aspects of Mexican culture.

I’m not trying to be a party pooper.  I like Margaritas as much as the next gal.  It’s just that Mexican food no longer agrees with me.  There isn’t enough Beano in the world to assist me in digesting un plato de frijoles.  Muchas fartes!

Suze Orman –who is her dentist?

Great teeth! I'm sure they didn't come cheap!

I love Suze Orman.  Mostly.  I am a bit flummoxed by her platform of choice — PBS.  Because she is so popular, her show always airs during fundraising season which takes place every day of the year except July 21.  Normally, I tape the show and fast forward through the annoy-a-thon.  However, in Suze’s most recent show,  I did watch a little part of the begging break which goes on FOREVER.  I’d rather watch five GEICO commercials in a row than endure the televised guilt trip.

Suze has built a career on preaching penny pinching to people (try saying that 10 times fast!)  She’s so frugal that she had the “i” in Suzie removed from her name because she saves on ink at book signings.  Standing on stage in her $10,000 blue leather coat, she admonishes audience members who spend their money on wasteful things like food and antibiotics.  Then, during the pledge drive, she implores you to make a $250 donation to PBS and you will receive a DVD of the show you are currently watching and have TiVo’d for free.   Huh?

My Corded Phone Shackles

Me on my cell phone calling NJ from Versailles -- clear as a bell!

I’ve talked about our antiquated TV and how we scored a new one (ca. 1995) from a friend who was getting rid of it and also because the friend took pity on us. Well, I’m going to “out” my Luddite family again. We have CORDED phones! I can’t get anything done while I’m on the phone because although the cord reaches pretty far, my ear always hangs up on the person. I cannot cut-up a salad or make a gin and tonic or flip off the door-to-door solicitors through the window. Can’t they read our “NO SOLICITOR” sign? Perhaps that is why they are stuck shilling for some stupid gas company.

I have friends whose husbands cannot stop buying gadgets and their basements look like the electronics dept. at Costco.  However, my husband isn’t one of these type of guys. He would have us using tin cans and string if we got better reception. His concern is over the radiation emitted by the phones.  He read some studies done in Germany where they won’t let kids use cell phones because of brain tumors or something silly like that.  How could he heed the advice of a country where it’s fashionable for men to wear Speedo bikinis in public?

The selection for corded phones is limited to very cheap malfunctioning phones that must have been decommissioned government surplus.  At least we don’t have rotary dial. But the phones we have are so crackly, it’s like everyone we know sounds as though they are calling from the moon.  If you need to get a hold of me, please contact me using smoke signals.

My Dad — updated a bit

My Dad channeling Picasso. This is a painting of me with my guitar by my Dad. I'm just a big blur to him:) Maybe I better suggest he have that cataract surgery sooner rather than later.

My Dad doesn’t read my blog (what does that say?) so I am free to talk about him here:)  My Dad is a widower and has spent his retirement learning to paint.  But only abstract art.  I own many of his paintings so it looks like Picasso threw up all over my walls. He’s actually quite good but waking up next to a woman with three eyes and a nose where her ear should be is tough on my husband (and that’s before I put on my make-up).

One day recently, some Jehovah’s Witnesses came to my Dad’s door.  He told them, “you are not going to convert me but would you like to come in and look at my paintings?”  Oddly enough, they did and he reported that they loved the paintings and even tried to buy one for the cover of the next issue of The Watchtower.  My Dad is in that stage of life where he feels he has nothing to lose so he can do whatever he wants including letting strangers into the house.  I told him that perhaps, they could have been people posing as Jehovah’s Witnesses and it could have been a bona fide home invasion. “Pish tosh” he said.  Actually, that’s not exactly the words he used but because this is a family blog, I am unable to print what he really said.  He doesn’t want me (or his doctors for that matter) to tell him what to do.

Also recently, my Dad received a pre-programmed phone call from his town’s police in suburban New Jersey that there were two black bears on the loose and not to let kids and dogs unattended.  What does my dad do?  He invites the bears in to look at his art work.

My Dad always lived in or near Manhattan and is a bit of a culture vulture.  He reads the New Yorker religiously. Personally, that magazine gives me a headache.  It requires too much brain power.  Except for the cartoons, I really just don’t get it. Particularly the poems.  But poetry has always been a mystery to me. Unless it starts out like, “there once was a man from Nantucket…”  So, my Dad and I were talking about movies. Of course, he likes all the Merchant Ivory-type films and anything with subtitles but guess which one of my favorites he really liked?? Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion!! This from the man who invented the meningitis (HIB) vaccine for Merck! Ha! I don’t feel like such a philistine anymore!

I’m an Addict

My bladder is on the left. Yours is on the right.

(This is reprinted from this past summer.  I am feeling so much better now!)

I am well aware that I have sunken to a new low.  I watched Paris Hilton’s show on Oxygen last night — almost the entire hour.  Someone save me.

For those who do not know, I am battling a chronic condition that recently reared its ugly head after being dormant for 10 years.  It was brought on by an antibiotic prescribed unnecessarily. Oh yay.

The condition I have is an autoimmune disorder called Painful Bladder Sydrome (or Interstitial Cystitis) and it’s debilitating.

“A Harvard Medical School guide states that the quality of life of interstitial cystitis patients resembles that of a person on kidney dialysis or suffering from chronic cancer pain.The condition is officially recognized as a disability.^{“  Wikipedia}

Being incapacitated for the last few weeks, all I can do is watch TV. Today, I watched the documentary about Sarah, the Duchess of York on the Oprah Channel.  Suze Orman was counseling Sarah about money and concluded that her biggest problem is low self-esteem.  Duh!  But the worst was when Suze said, ever-so-smugly, “I have a crush on myself — there is not one thing I would change about myself,” I wanted to smack her in the head.  Yeah, take away all her money, success and her fancy leather wardrobe and see how much she loves herself then!

So, I watch just about everything on Bravo (except for the Housewives of Atlanta, DC or Miami — nothing below the Mason-Dixon line).  I also have been taking in lots of cupcake and cake shows and hang onto your hats, — Mob Wives on VH1.  It’s like The Sopranos with really bad writing.

After all of this TV, I’m surprised I can still form a sentence. My brain is turning to mush.  But maybe that’s the Percocet.

The only book I can focus on is one by the vulgar Chelsea Hendler.  She is incredibly lewd and offensive and you can’t believe any of her fantastical stories.  It’s gratuitous stupidity.  But I keep reading because it’s like a car wreck — I can’t look away and my brain cells can’t handle anything that requires any bit of concentration.

Seriously, I’ve consulted with six doctors in three days and am feeling a little better but if you see me and I’m kind of loopy you will know why – I can’t have caffeine or anything other than pear juice and white rice. Pleasing the bladder is a tough gig. I am currently on a bladder control drug that is in conflict with the diuretic in my hormone pill.  So, if you see me with urine spraying out of my nose and ears, you will know why. (I hope you are not eating).

Me And The Appliance Guy

We regularly dogsit this adorable Shi-tzu

He is just like the Maytag guy on TV.  He is a little lonely and bored. He comes to fix my appliances and we talk.  FOR HOURS.  He has great stories. Especially about the time when he had a contract to maintain the appliances of an apartment complex in Southeast. He went into an apartment and stumbled upon a dead body (murdered, it turned out).

My appliance guy is incredibly reasonable.  Unlike our pest control guy who was a fortune — calls himself the “Mouse Whisperer.”  After getting rid of our rodents, we had no money left over for the plumber so we hired a cheapo outfit called “Early Parole Plumbers.” They all look like the Unibomber. Yikes!

Our appliance guy is so popular and doesn’t want any new customers. Most people don’t want to wait out the two-week period that he’s usually backed up.   So these folks are just wasting his time and tape on his answering machine with their phone calls. He actually told Washingtonian Magazine not to publish his name in their Top Appliance Repair issue.  (And no, you may not have his number).

We had a chalky residue in our dishwasher.  Our appliance guy recommended running a cycle with a cup of vinegar.  He always comes up with thrifty alternatives instead of forcing us to make a costly repair. Did you ever notice that vinegar is always used as a substitute for everything? Especially in cleaning things like windows which you’re also supposed use newspapers on to avoid streaking.  Now, I’ve got cartoon strips and Macy’s ads all over my windows and my house smells like the Vlasic Pickle factory.

Another substance that people recommend as a panacea for all of your practical woes is baking soda — for gargling, or they say to sprinkle it on your carpet and vacuum it up to remove pet odors. Now, instead of dust bunnies under the bed, I’ve got to sweep up biscuits. When you mix vinegar AND baking soda, you can use it to make a nifty eruption for your paper mache volcano with your 6-year old!  Been there, done that. I’m channelling Hints from Heloise but my hair isn’t white. Yet.

The best thing about my appliance guy is that he will make an appointment with you rather than give you a range.  Generally, tradespeople will give you these huge windows of time and say something like, “I’ll be there between 7 AM and July.”  Then, when they do show up, they want a bonus. Immediately.  It’s $99 for the service call. Whether it’s five minutes or one hour, it’s still $99. Huh? No prorating? The last time I had a plumber here and he fixed my drain in five minutes, I made him hang out with me and have coffee for the rest of the hour.

My Splurge at the Apothecary

I haven’t been able to properly digest anything since before Obama was elected.  My gut is on strike from making its own enzymes. I went to a gastroenterologist (I need a nap after spelling and typing that word!)  The doctor told me to take antibiotics for ten days to clean out my system and then put me on a course of probiotics to hopefully, jump start my system. How does this work?  Is it like adding gas to the tank of your car and then after a few fillings, expecting the tank to start making its own gas?  (That would sure solve a lot of our economic woes!)  I haven’t done my online research because that is NEVER a good idea.  Lots of crackpot advice out there!

But, I am acting on faith that this is going to work because I am in a lot of discomfort and if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy! My body refuses to expel the gas from foods.  It just kind of stockpiles it and makes me miserable.

I headed over to the Village Green Apothecary.  For those who are unfamiliar with this place, it’s kind of like the vitamin section of Whole Foods on steroids. It is a rather impressive place stocking the aisles with “nutritionists” to “help” you.  By “help” I mean sell you hundreds of dollars worth of capsules filled with ground up parsley seeds and fairy dust. I showed the particular “nutritionist” who was “helping” me the order from my doctor.  She said that what he recommended was inferior to the bacterial gold she suggested.  My doc’s pills only had 5 billion bacteria per pill.  Doesn’t that sound like enough to you?  Apparently, they sell them in 50 billion denominations.

Then, in came a woman looking for a cure for her parasites. And I thought I had problems!

Pele, the Wonderpoo we dogsat this past weekend