Oh, the Seventies



Oh, the Seventies.  This picture made me burst out laughing when I came across it this afternoon.

That's me.  Wearing a Shaun Cassidy t-shirt.  Yes, from the Hardy Boys.  I also had a light blue satin jacket with his picture on the back.  During Ms. Monson's art class, I splattered paint on it while washing my brushes.  Seemed kind of tragic at the time. 

That's my dad.  With a moustache.  My dad didn't normally sport a moustache and I think the reason is apparent.  Looks like he glued it on.  Quite humorous indeed...I don't think that lasted very long.

And that's my sister.  She just looks cute and cozy.  Seems about right.

Well, that's about it.  Just thought I'd share.  See ya. 

Springsteen and A Raspberry Tart

Today is October 4th, and October 4th is not one of my best days.  It's the anniversary of the day our mom died.  Even so, I was happy today and tried to do fun things that remind me of her.  So here's what I did...

Played a little Bruce Springsteen this morning - good and loud.  Mom was a big fan.  We both thought the "Dancing In the Dark" video was shot live at a concert, and didn't find out until years later that the girl pulled up on stage was actually Courteney Cox.  We were bummed.

Put on a pair of her earrings (she always wore big hoops).  I bought us both a pair one year - hers were olive green and mine were lavender.  Eventually I lost one of mine, so I wore the green ones today. 

Grabbed a coffee to go at Cafe Orlin.  When she visited NY while I was in college, we went to Orlin and sat outside on a warm spring night.  Two guys got in a fight directly across the street from us and smashed a beer bottle on a sign post.  Way to make a good impression of New York, guys.  She ordered a Cafe Latte and pronounced it with the accent on the last syllable of each word: caFAY laTAY.  Cracked me up.

Had lunch at Yaffa on the next block.  She liked it there too and it's one of my old favorites.  Wrote her a little note like I do every year.  When I finished writing, I checked the time on my phone and it was 3:06, the number of the house I grew up in.  Made me smile. 

Walked over to Veniero's and ordered two raspberry tarts.  The best!  This is my yearly tradition because my mom loved that place.  I take one home for myself (of course) and leave the other outside on the ledge along with my note.  Seems there is always someone standing there or sitting in a car watching me while I do this.  Suppose they wonder what I'm up to, but that's the way it goes.  Not to mention the folks at Veniero's.  I imagine they find it a little odd as well, especially if they ever bother to read the notes.  Heh.

Bought myself a pair of boots.  I stood pigeon-toed as I checked them out in the mirror.  For some reason that was my usual stance when I tried on clothes in high school, and my mom always teased me about it.  Apparently I still do it.

Just finished off my raspberry tart.  Deeeee-licious.  Night, mom.  Love you.

  

The Heat Is On

CLANG.  Kerchunk-chunk-chunk.  Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze.

The heat is on.  Despite my best protests and campaigning, fall has apparently arrived. 

Most apartments in New York City, at least every one I've occupied, have steam heat that rumbles up fitfully from cantankerous boilers hidden deep in the basement.  It's an angry and intrusive heat.  A heat that arrives in the middle of the night without calling first.  One minute you're sleeping peacefully, and the next you are shocked awake by what sounds like hammering on metal pipes next to your head. 

The radiator is always painted a fake dull silver, layer upon layer, curling at the edges.  If you're lucky, the knob to adjust the flow of steam hasn't been painted shut.  For the first several years I lived here I didn't even realize that was an option.  Maybe that was for the best, because now I spend my days and nights loosening and tightening this valve compulsively.  It's almost always too hot for my taste - the window stays cracked even in the coldest depths of January.  You can smell the heat the moment you open the door.

Let me just say up front that I am grateful to have heat at all.  Because I know that at some point the boiler will rebel and laugh as we sit heat-less for a day or two or three.  And no amount of sweatshirts and socks will quite cut the chill.  Happens every winter, just to remind us who's boss.

Growing up in Minnesota, we had quiet gentle heat.  Maybe it had to be to offset the malicious winter weather.  We had heat that blew happily from black iron grates in the floor that temporarily branded your feet with octagons when you stood on them.  As soon as we heard that puff of air, we'd run to sit on the grate in the TV room, a blanket tucked beneath us and over our shoulders.  We'd seal in the air until we became human Jiffy-Pop.  The best, though, was when our mom would wear her white fluffy robe.  She'd knot it at the waist and let the air inflate the bottom into a giant bell.  It never ceased to be hilarious. 

So for now I will lie awake and listen to this conversation of clunks and whistles.  Just about the time I think they're winding down and my lids are getting heavy again, a new set of sounds will be invited in to join the party.  After a week or two, they'll all be absorbed into my sub-conscious and I won't give them a second thought. 

Maybe.  It's possible.

Ker-chunk.