Moore or Less

2008-02-13T00:55:00.002-05:00

BONANZA

2008-02-12T07:40:00.001-05:00

So I thought I would buy a lottery ticket today. It is up to $150 million. Just think of all the things I could do?

First, I would buy my mother and father a beautiful beach-front house at the Jersey Shore. The house would have a deck with a view of the ocean just off a kitchen with a large window. I would let mom pick it out, of course, but flex some of my influence to get a jacuzzi outside for nighttime soaking. My dad wouldn't be crazy about it because it would probably be too far from the airport where he skydives, but I would make sure he had the best toys.

I would immediately give my two-weeks notice at work. I like my job and all but come on. Then I would rent a house in the islands for an unspecified amount of time, hunker down, tan and decide what to do next. I would read a lot at first and deal with the financial planning side of the bonanza. I would make sure my friends had what they needed but keep them at arms length.

I would plan a trip around the globe. Now that I am nice and tan I would head to Monte Carlo, Casablanca, Paris and other glamorous sites to waste some money in posh hotels and hobnob with millionaires at exotic beaches and European Chalets. I would drink the finest wines and start my days with champagne.

By this point, I would probably need rehab or at least a place to dry out. So I would look for an Italian villa in Tuscany or a chalet in some cute French town to lie low for a while. I would invite friends and family to come visit me here. Many wouldn't be able to come because of jobs and families.

All the wine and fine dining is probably going to my hips by now so I would schedule an appointment with a pricey plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. By now my mother is probably getting pretty mad at me for my jet-setting so I think I need to head back to Jersey for a visit.

In Jersey, I find my mom and dad have split because they are so bored. Nobody needs to work anymore so my dad has driven my mother mad. They sold the house I bought them and went their separate ways. The Jersey shore pales in comparison to the places I've seen.

I try to get in touch with my friends, but they've all moved on. Turns out I was gone for a while and their children have had major milestones _ all of which I've missed.

So I head back to Manhattan for a dose of familiarity.

In the end, I'm back in an apartment in Manhattan sitting in front of my computer, alone. ... Maybe I'll forego buying the lottery ticket after all.

Peace,
Tina

:Running

2008-01-17T00:23:00.000-05:00

The cold gets into my bones before I even leave the house.

I'm snuggled tight in my heavy running tights, bright pink fleece jacket and layers underneath that promise to wick away my sweat, a headband to protect my ears from the wind, black gloves that I know will come off sometime around the third hill with a new lavender stop watch strapped around my wrist.

I stretch in the house before heading down three flights of stairs to the front door. I do it again on the landing and head down the steep staircase in front of my house on 118th Street.

The construction guys on the corner leer, even though I feel gross and half asleep _ thanks _ and I think briefly about turning back and getting under the covers. I shake it away and start running down Adam Clayton Powell toward Central Park.

I dance around one of those nylon bands they use to tie stacks of newspapers and pick up my pace to make it through a stoplight in front of a bus filled with school-children.

I hear a man or woman on the other side of the street howling to the long-receded moon about Jesus even though its well past 7.

I see a group of African men wearing green and yellow dresses and cross to the other side of the wide boulevard to avoid collison. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm thinking about skipping Central Park and running around the block. Instead, I head to the park.

I can see the start of the first and steepest hill. It is daunting to face such a steep hill at the start of a run but I am already joining a trikle of other runners. I look down so that I don't have to wrestle with the thought of the distance ahead.

My muscles are sore from a workout at the gym the day before but I hear footsteps behind me and I know that it is too late to turn back.

The sounds of traffic start to fade away as I near the first water fountain just as the hill begins to crest and stretch out into a steadier slope. A large, brown dog runs gracefully across the road before me from a path that peeks out of the trees. I crane my neck and look to my right as I run past the path but see no owner. Everything is quiet.

I am concerned for the dog, but my legs are tired. I can't see the end of the hill but continue because I hear the pit-pat-pit-pat-pit-pat of anohter runner close behind. I speed up because it is in my nature.

I can hear the cawing of hawks above me but I cannot see them yet. A squirrel scurries across my path, close, but doesn't seem to care that I am here. I am finally at the top of the first hill when I pass the tennis courts. All I can hear is a hypnotic clop, clop, clop, clop, clop, clop, clop.

I start to think about the yin and yang of this city and my love, hate relationship with it.

This park is beautiful, especially with the sun hanging low and orange in the sky early in the morning.

Around me, I see only an occassional runner or biker. I feel alone, which is incredible in a city this large. I see a hawk with a red tail soaring above me. I'm probably at about 95th Street by now, but it's hard to tell up here because the woods are too thick to see the street.

I begin climbing a gradual hill and am starting to feel warmed up and more confident when the runner who has been behind me passes. Jerk.

On my left, I see the Jackie O. Resevoir. I ran around it many times after work when I lived at 80th and 1st on the Upper East Side. The resevoir is beautiful in the evening. As the sun sets, you can see the light of New York flicker on _ and it is very flat.

I am almost at the museum and I notice flashing police lights to my right and cluthes of people have stopped to gaze down from the raised park at the avenue below. I have no choice but to run over and see what is happening.

I see about a dozen cops with their guns drawn crouching beside police cars and I start searching for my cell phone quickly remembering that i don't have it with me. A couple next to me was also running and stopped to watch the fracus. The cops being to head into the museum with their guns pointed. I realize that I'm standing on a hill and that somebody might begin shooting at any time so start crouching down.

When i notice that the couple next to me isn't following suit, I gesture them to back up. They laugh. Then I hear a man yelling "Cut! Cut!" over a loudspeaker. I crane to see through the trees and see the movie cameras and stage-hands. I look at the couple and laugh at myself. They smile kindly in return.

I continue running on and remember again what I love about this city: It's always suprising, never boring, sometimes mean but often beautiful.

Peace,
Tina

Jasmine RIP

2007-10-28T07:41:00.000-04:00

RIP Jasmine

2007-10-07T01:31:00.000-04:00

I was with Jasmine tonight when she left us, but I still can't believe she's gone.

I met her when I was either 20 or 21. I can't remember for sure. I was having my Fiat fixed, for the hundreth time or so. There were a bunch of kittens in this guy's garage and one of them caught my eye. They were definitely too young to leave their mother, but I knew they didn't have a chance there. So I took her.

My parents weren't excited about the prospect of another pet. They didn't have a cat, but had a dog.

There were a couple years with me away, and they kept feeding her. I probably should have felt bad. But my dad actually took a liking to her. She would climb up onto his chest while they watched television and I think he sort of liked it when she kneaded his chest with her claws.

She would always come to me when I called out to her in the woods, when I came home from school after that. I was even there when she had her babies. Although my mother swears she helped birth them all.

After I met Mark and settled down some, I wanted to bring her to our home. I introduced Mark formally. We'll never forget the way she brought a mouse to him and ripped it apart to show him her resume. It was incredible.

We brought her to our home. It was a big farm home in Pa. at that time, and she seemed to like it. She hung out in the basement alot so I'm sure a lot of creatures died.

Then, we brought her back to Philly with us. When she became and indoor cat, we finally saw the best of her. She would play with us and wait for us like a dog. It was incredible for this outdoor cat.

When we bought our condo in Philly, she loved hanging out on the deck with us. She would stretch out and bask in the sun. Then, without warning, head back inside to the cool. She started to become more and more like a dog, waiting for dinner so she could jump up on a chair and join us at the table.

At night, she would snuggle into one of our nooks, begging us to pet her.

Finally, on Manhattan's Upper East Side, she would take her place on the leather bachelor chair, finally making use of an otherwise useless piece of furniture. I could pull myself close to her and pet her there. She liked that.

In our new place, in Harlem, she loved to lay on the hardwood or curl into the furry house we bought. But she was always out for a piece of shrimp or steak for dinner.

I held her tonight and pet her as the liquid went in. It only took a second and she was gone. Her eyes went black. I don't know how I shall live without her.

tina

Another Day in the Neighborhood

2007-06-24T17:24:00.001-04:00

I'm back. Thanks to those of you who urged me to post during my dry spell. I started to think it was kind of stupid. I mean how narcissistic can you get? Right?

I changed my mind. I just don't get to talk to everybody as often as I'd like. So, I can write amusing things here and you all can check in. Heck, I've even gotten a few notes from strangers who happened upon my blog and wrote to tell me what they liked about it. That's pretty cool. My own little bit of fame.

So, one interesting thing about this neighborhood is the amount of life on the street. There are always people walking around and milling about.

Sundays are a great day to go hat spotting. This mornning, I saw a woman all natted up for church wearing a white, feather sombrero. Swear to God. It was pretty cool.

There's also a huge African community around us here. I wonder if they are from the same country, or the same tribe. Many of them seem to speak the same language. I hope I don't sound too much like a social scientist here. I don't want to come off like I'm some sort of anthropologist observing the locals. It's just hard not to notice these things.

Anyway, Jasmine is rolled up in a ball, stretching her paws forward under the window in the corner. A soft breeze is blowing through the apartment and it feels great. I worked a double shift yesterday, 15 hours, so am taking it easy today. Mark is at work. That's my number one complaint right now. We have opposite hours. Yuck.

Why couldn't I find a lawyer or engineer?

The tops of the trees outside my front windows make me forget that I'm living in the city sometimes. Then, a stereo blasting horn honking SUV passes and I remember.

I was out in the neighborhood today and I saw a young woman riding a pedi-cab asking passersby if they want to see nearby condos. In other words, she's pedaling a little cart around with a seat in the back for two. If you take the free ride, she brings you to some new highrise that's going up on 123rd St. and 5th Ave.

That's interesting on multiple levels. I mean, I'm pretty damn sure she's got a certain type of person in mind when she asks "Interested in seeing condos today?" It's sort of like one of those old time-share letters but there was no offer of a brand new car (or possibly a grill) if you went with her. All you would get is a look at something beautiful that you couldn't afford. (Adam, don't try to steal this sty idea!)

Peace all,
Tina

VIEW OF HARLEM FROM MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS

2007-06-24T16:29:00.000-04:00

Harlem

2007-06-18T00:03:00.000-04:00

When we walked into this apartment, I knew it was the one.

The brightly-lit unit is on the third floor of a brownstone in Harlem. It has hardwood floors, a large bedroom, open kitchen and cozy living room. The three windows on the front take up most of the wall. The two in the bedroom are the same. So a fairly constant breeze blows across the rooms.

The bedroom window leads out onto the roof of the building below us and can be used as a deck. I'm excited to be able to sit outside again without leaving home. Our last apartment, on the Upper East side, had no outdoor space.

Below the deck are the backyards of the houses behind us. They are dotted with large, old trees that provide coverage for them and create an arboretum for me. It's amazing that this extremely urban, highly populated corner of the city could be home to so many birds.

Many neighbors spend weekend afternoons on their front steps, greeting passersby. A clutch of retired men sit along a fence a few doors down on most afternoons. They always say "Hello."

My commute has improved tenfold. It only takes about 20 minutes to take the subway to work from here, as opposed to the 45 plus it took at our last place. The subway is about a block away on Lenox Ave.

Jasmine wasn't too bothered by the move. She woke me with her caterwauling the first couple mornings at dawn, but she's gotten used to it now. Luckily. I was thinking of killing her.

We've been here for just over a week now. So I haven't gotten to see as much of the neighborhood as I'd like. But we joined a gym that's just down the street from the famous Apollo Theatre. Too bad I wasn't living here when James Brown died. Thousands went there to view his body.

Harlem is going through some difficult changes right now.

Properties are getting more expensive elsewhere so people are moving here from downtown. High-rises are springing up on blocks within close proximity to public housing. At the same time, there are few dry-cleaners, restaurants and national-chain grocery stores. This is likely to change.

Most of the people moving into the new buildings make a lot more than Mark and I. Condos on 110th Street _ eight blocks away at Central Park _ are going for ridiculous amounts of money.

Some residents are probably worried that they'll be pushed out, others are probably happy that their property values are going up and that crime has been going down.

It's an interesting place to be right now. Time to explore.

Peace,
Tina
(I'll have photos next time.)

Falling

2007-04-30T09:33:00.000-04:00

As I soared through the air, I thought about how bad hitting the sidewalk was going to hurt.

It's a strange feeling to be completely unable to stop something from happening even though you know the result ahead of time. But I had already set this spill in motion.

I had gone for a run pretty late. It was light when I left but had gotten dark by the time I headed home.

Evening is a great time to run around the Jackie O Reservoir in Central Park. You can see the entire city skyline as you round the oval. The lights are just beginning to flicker on.

The view helps you remember how enormous and beautiful the city can be _ something that's easy to forget when you're in it day to day.

I was in the last block or two of my course, so I was running my fastest on a slight downhill.

I was thinking about something else _ I can't even remember what now _ when my toes struck a partially erupted sidewalk. I think it's what happens when water gets between the cracks and into the dirt beneath the concrete.The sidewalk's slabs act like tetonic plates or icebergs as they bump into each other and rise.

My forward momentum launched me into the air. It seemed like moments went by before I hit the sidewalk. I remember thinking that I should put my hands in front of my face and wondering if anybody was watching.

"This is going to hurt," I said, as I hit the pavement and slid, ripping the skin off my left lower leg, left hip and shoulder.

When I stopped sliding, I rolled to my back, striking the back of my hand on the sidewalk, causing more cuts and bruises.

I didn't lie there long. It's a pride thing, after all, no matter how badly hurt you are.

As I rose, I noticed a workman across the street who was looking at me. "Do you need help?" he shouted over.

"No," I whimpered, "I'm fine."

A bicycle deliveryman who had apparently been at the corner when I fell got on his bike and rode to me. He was not convinced by my claim that I was fine. "Be careful," he said, as he rode away. Too late, I thought.

I limped home periodically stopping to look at my abrasions under the light or wipe the blood that was dripping down the front of my leg. The skin on my hip looked like road pizza, so did the skin on my lower leg. The back of my knee had already swelled up. My palms burned from sliding across the concrete.

But as I surveyed my wounds, I realized I was proud. They were like a badge of honor.

Yes, I had fallen, but I had also gotten up and walked away.

I couldn't wait to show my injuries to Mark and I was already thinking about my next run...

Remembrance

2007-04-16T23:49:00.000-04:00

I still remember a tiny piece of thread that was on the floor at the hospital. It was black and small. It was unremarkable, but I remember it well. I think that's what happens in moments of extreme grief.

A little boy stared at me from his mother's arms in the emergency room. I'm not sure why I remember that, but i do.

I wondered why they were there. Was his brother in the back room lying splayed out on on a table too?

I'm still amazed all these years later _ has it been 20 already? _ how the little things are still so clear to me about that night.

I was at a party with high school friends. It was in Ambler, a small struggling town of blue collar families who were trying to give their kids a better life. My high school was there.

The phone at the party must have rang. Although, I didn't hear it. The party was outside. It was August.

Somebody called me to the house.

I took the phone. It was my best friend, Tara. We had been best friends most of our lives, since first or second grade. She wasn't at the party because her mom had grounded her for something we had done a week or three earlier.

"You need to come home," she said. "Your mom called from the hospital. It's your brother. Pick me up on the way."

She practiced, I thought. I slid down the wall in anguish.

I already knew.

I walked, or ran _ I really can't recall _ to my car.

I hardly remember the 20-minute drive home on the winding, leafy Morris Road. I think my friend Claire was scared. I must have been going fast.

We arrived at the hospital around 9, I think. But it might have been later.

I ran into the emergency room. I couldn't find anyone. Maybe Tara was wrong. "No," she said.

Just then, my parents emerged from the back room where my brother must have been. They looked drawn, tired. I knew it was bad. We sat.

I saw the thread on the carpet and I wondered if it belonged to some woman's sweater who had lost somebody. The little boy looked up at me with his big, sad eyes.

After a while, Claire and Tara and I went to the bathroom. It was one floor up. I remember seeing myself in that ridiculous Gucci sweatshirt. I wanted to change into something more comfortable, normal, warmer. I wanted something to make it all go away.

I vividly remember washing my hands. I'm not sure why I remember that so clearly. But I do. I went back down to the waiting room.

Again, my mom and dad were gone. My mind shutdown. My vision blurred. I think now that I was probably in shock.

A doctor came out of the back and asked me to come with him. I moved in a haze of disbelief to follow him through a door. I wanted to run away.

My parents were in a small room sitting on a sheeted gurney. They hugged me. I didn't want to be hugged just then. I think I pulled away.

I don't really remember if they ever actually told me he was dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure those words were never said.

You know something like that in these moments. Nobody has to spell it out to you.

I remember walking out of there. None of use spoke. I drove to Tara's and stayed the night. I think now I probably should have gone home.

A story ran in the local newspaper the next day.

The newspaper said that my brother had crouched down in front of oncoming traffic on Route 202 at the fork in the road before Burger King and 7-Eleven. The people who hit him were on their way home from their wedding rehearsal at the local St. Helena's Church. They had tried to swerve.

I knew where my brother was going when it happened.

He had asked me before I went to the party for a ride to the arcade on 202 and Route 73. I had said no. I had a party to go and I didn't feel like dealing with him. "Why can't you just be normal???"

He hugged me and he told me he loved me, which was weird. Then, he walked to the top of the street where we had slammed screen doors and raked leaves together and walked into traffic, changing everything forever.

We all live with guilt, I think. But it can be hard. I know there wasn't much I could do. I was a teenager. What did I know?

For a while, you try to forgive yourself or the person who caused the pain. But eventually, you realize that the tragedy will always be with you. That is what you have to accept.

Peace.

The Broker Blues

2007-04-12T23:15:00.000-04:00

They sit in rows like cardboard cutouts behind desks in an office building on Broadway.

Many of them are on the phone. A few are talking to nearby coworkers. Two or three stare straight ahead and wear a look of boredom or indifference. A receptionist chews her gum and plays with the nail on her pinkie finger.

They are apartment brokers _ hated by most apartment hunters and many apartment dwellers.

The bilateral hatred is evidenced on Craig's List, which has a filter that allows renters to cut out the middle man and search for apartments that are being listed directly by owners.

I used to think the website created the filter for people who wanted to avoid costly brokers fees, which start at one month's rent but can go much higher. I've come to believe that it is much more than just a cost issue.

The hungry brokers seem to snarl when Mark and I walk into their cage on the Midtown Manhattan building's second floor. They have no windows to the outside and no walls between them.

Most of them are in their late 20s or early 30s. They appear to be measuring our worth as we stand waiting for acknowledgment.

How much does the couple make? What is their credit score? How much will they pay? How far can I get them to go?

Phones ring and announcements are made from some disembodied voice over an intercom system.

"John Young," the invisible announcer says. "Line one."

We laugh at the office stuffiness and the tight-panted girl who just drew a disturbingly lascivious look from a suited broker.

"Fill this out," demands the receptionist, whom I would assume was the disembodied voice.

We fill out our form: name, address, occupation...

Reason for moving?
"Location." (Somewhat of a lie because we have to move for financial reasons.)

What will you do if you don't find an apartment?
"Go homeless." (Also probably not true.)

The man we had talked to over the telephone walks over and introduces himself. His name is Paul. He is a sexually ambiguous man who falls somewhere between a used car salesman and a waiter. When he's not overselling you just want him to shut up.

Finally, he punches some keys into a computer and pulls up a listing of apartments.

About an hour later, we walk out with his coworker (grunt), Lesley, and a list of apartments.

We look in the Midtown Manhattan area on the West Side first. This would be the best place for us to live - closest to work.

They are all tiny.

In one, you can't open the oven without hitting the fridge. In another, Mark would not be able to get in the shower because it's jammed in so close to the toilet. Neither of them has any closet space. Both seem unlikely to fit our bed.

The third is mottled with mold and mildew and stinks like the person who lived there before never cleaned.

"Are they going to be renovating that," we ask the super.

"No renovation," he says. "That's just paint job."

That's just disgusting.

A fourth unit is on the 6th floor of a spiraling walk-up and consists of a kitchen with two small rooms on either side. There would be no place for a couch, kitchen table and bed. One of them _ and possibly our cat Jasmine _ would have to be sacrificed.

We end the day having a Guinness with our heads in our hands. We've felt the despair of apartment hunting before. But this was going to be even more difficult than usual. We want an easier commute and that's going to be hard to find in our price range.

We tell the broker to head North. We won't mind Harlem as long as we're close enough to the subway and near shops and restaurants.

Our second day begins at an apartment rather than in clone-land.

The apartment in the 100's is a huge improvement over the day before. Although, again, our broker's henchwoman doesn't seem to be able to figure out what keys she needs or the agency doesn't have them. Again, we end up having to buzz all the apartments until somebody lets us in.

"Are you a broker?" a woman asks before figuring us out and refusing to buzz us in.

It seems pretty rude but I definitely understand. I wouldn't want these people randomly ringing my bell either.

Finally, the mail lady lets us in.

Again, no closets, too many stairs. But it is much closer to what we want.

Then, we walk into a sub-first floor apartment.

Here, in NYC, they call them garden apartments. They are actually on the same level os the sidewalk. But the home's entrance is about a floor above street-level.

This is going to be like a cave, I thought, ready to call it a day.

When I walked in the door, the first thing I see is the light shooting into the rear of the apartment, brand new hardwood floors, exposed brick and a high ceiling.

The spacious living room gives way to a set of sliding doors that open to a lawn large enough for a picnic table, grill, flower boxes and baby pool if the summer was too hot.

The bedroom is actually large enough for our bed and a dresser. There's ample closet space.

"We'll take it," I declared.

A couple hours later, we were back at the broker's bland office.

There was already a bid on the apartment. Somebody had put an application in, but it hadn't been accepted. Apparently, this person's credit was less than stellar so they had agreed to paying a year of rent up front. (Can you say drug dealer?)

But, wait, there's a chance. If we would fill out the credit apps and get them over to the landlord (cost $100) there might be a chance.

"I can't make you any promise," Paul said, "Let me ask you this, how much is this apartment worth to you?"

Even the suggestion of getting into a bidding war over an apartment is ridiculous. No matter how fiscally irresponsible I can be, I'm not crazy. We reject the idea and return to crossing our fingers.

We left the office at 6 p.m. after two days of apartment hunting. My legs hurt, feet hurt, head hurt and I was generally frustrated. But I had hope.

It is fading...

peace

Nepal in the nail salon

2007-04-10T00:50:00.000-04:00

So I discovered tonight that the woman who does my nails here on the Upper East side is from Nepal.

It was a shock to me only because I just finished reading a novel that was based loosely on her country's travails.

The book, "The Inheritance of Loss," sucked me in as books about in the region often do. I loved "The God of Small Things" and I've enjoyed the few Salman Rushdie books I've read.

The region is still so raw. Reading about even its current history is amazing.

The Nepalese still haven't been able to become a unified nation in so many ways and have remained much like an early United States.

I'm no expert by any means. But this is from the CIA's site: A Maoist insurgency, launched in 1996, gained traction and threatened to bring down the regime, especially after a negotiated cease-fire between the Maoists and government forces broke down in August 2003. In 2001, the crown prince massacred ten members of the royal family, including the king and queen, and then took his own life.

I mean that's like some Shakespearean shit, right?

And things haven't improved much today. The king dissolved the government in 2005 and retained absolute power until April 2006. The nice king allowed parliament to reconvene in 2006, but the country still hasn't had elections.

I can't imagine what her life has been like. She hasn't been here very long and appears to be about my age.

I wanted to ask her about the scars on her arms, but I didn't. They look like burn marks. But I hate reporters who always have to pry. I mean, I'm not writing a story. I asked her about her country and she didn't offer personal information. So why should I push? Maybe I will ask someday.

But something struck me in our conversation. I talked about the British, who, while they didn't colonize her country, held considerable sway. She replied that the U.S. was good friends with the British.

This is where I had an epiphany of sorts. It rarely occurs to me what people who have moved here from other lands think of us. (That's a little of the "Ugly American" I've always tried not to be.)

I told her that the Brits once colonized America. I told her that they once ruled us.

"No," she said. "You're good friends _ America and the British."

"We kicked them out," I said.

"No," she said.

"We had a revolution to get them out," I said. "We declared our freedom in 1776."

"I never knew that," she said. "I can't believe it."

My knowledge about her country is spotty at best. So, why should I assume she knows everything about this country?

I left there tonight feeling like there's so much that binds us. We just don't know it.

I suppose I'll always be an optimist at heart.

Peace.

Sader for the non-practicing Catholic

2007-04-03T23:57:00.000-04:00

My good friend expanded my knowledge tonight by inviting me to her Seder.

It was a learning experience in more ways than one.

I got to read parts from the story of Passover. And, I gained a whole new appreciation of the religion.

I always had respect for its traditions. But this was the first time I ever sat around with young, interesting peers talking about Judaism in a more intellectual and, at times, humorous way.

I'm not saying I'm going to ask three times. Still, I thought, maybe in gaining a better feeling for one religion I would gain more of an appreciation for all of them. I've never liked religion.

But the night wasn't entirely kosher.

I went off on one twenty-something who does human resources for Deloitte Touche.

Turns out, as a consultant, he sets up plans for "merging" companies.

"So you tell them who to fire," I said.

"Yes," he said. "but I don't feel great about that."

(He really did say it that quickly.)

"So," I said, "You rationalize it by saying somebody else would do it if you didn't."

"Yes," he said.

"That must be hard to live with," I said.

"Yes," he said. "But somebody else gets a job because of it."

"But what about the people who lost their jobs?" I persisted. "What about them and their families?"

There was a very long and pregnant pause. Everyone was uncomfortable. (I also made a comment about how I had heard the "If I didn't do it, somebody else would have" comment before.) I admit, I probably should not have said that.

But my father lost his job after many years because somebody like this young man suggested he should, and we were on our fourth or fifth glass of wine.

Later, we took a cab together, he and I. He was sweet.

"Sorry if I was a bitch to you," I said.

"No, you were fine," he said.

But, to be honest, my apology wasn't entirely heartfelt.

I do think he and everyone like him who's willing to do something just for money is at fault no matter how much he tries to rationalize it. In fact, his rationalization seemed to go against everything I had learned about Passover. What I loved about it was wishing away world poverty, racism, hatred and all other inequality. Yet, in my mind, he seemed to be part of it.

So, again, I had confronted the hypocrisy of religion. This time, it was Judaism rather than Catholicism.

Maybe we all do need to take more responsibility for the things we do, just the way the Seder seemed to suggest. That's the real lesson I learned.
\
Peace.

Mark and Me

2007-04-03T00:16:00.000-04:00

Mark got a job, and his schedule is opposite of mine. We've been in this situation before, but it's much worse now. This is what I wrote about it:

When he goes away, my life is on hold.

It isn't that I don't have fun - I can go to a movie and enjoy it, or
shop without his constant pull - but it's not the same.

After eight years, we've gotten to the point where I'm never entirely
happy without him.

Maybe if I had never met him, I wouldn't know the
difference. Maybe I would think this was happiness.

But it's too late.

I look forward to him when I get up in the morning, and I watch
out the window for his cab at night.

He makes me laugh from my diaphram, and with his kiss on my forehead I
know everything's all right.

Sometimes, I can tell that we are thinking the same thought.

Peace

Birthday

2007-03-28T23:00:00.000-04:00

My birthday is coming up, but I'm not going to tell you how old I am. And I'm not at all ashamed about that.

I believe in the axiom that your only as old as you feel. So why should I let somebody pin me wriggling to the wall.

Instead, I want to talk about the assumptions that people make.

I can't talk to other women my age - thought I might say it, didn't you? - without one of them asking me if I have children.

When I say "no," they shake their heads and their eyes grow large with sympathy: "You still have time."

If I'm in a good mood, I explain patiently that I don't think it's going to happen for me. At this point, I'm actually hoping to end the conversation.

But some women won't quit.

They want to know whether I've tried using a calendar to track my ovulation. Some tell me about their sister or best friend who decided later in life that she wanted children and went through fertility treatment. I try to explain that I just don't think it would fit in my life.

Then I look around my once smoke-filled Upper East Side coffee shop at the clatches of cooing mothers chatting about nursery schools and sipping on red wine while their infants wriggle in their Babybjorns.

Most of these women do not want to hear that I truly do not want children, and I can tell by their faces that they do not believe it.

That's why more and more often I just say, "No, I don't have kids" and leave it at that. Then, I wait for their eyes to widen.

Peace

Scattered Thoughts (Early Mid-Life Crisis)

2007-03-25T09:28:00.000-04:00

I've got a sense of wanting to do something more important, but I'm not sure exactly what it is.

Sometimes I think I waste too much time.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

I want to live on an island that has a beach.

I want to never have to work again.

I want to travel more.

I want to see Asia.

I want to go to Africa.

I want to live in Australia for a while, and Italy.

I want to live on a boat for a while.

I want to live in a house with a yard.

I want to get out of the city.

I want to be tan more often.

Wow, I guess I do know what I want to do. Now I just need to figure out how to do it, and convince my husband to do it with me...

Peace,
Tina

Twenty Years

2007-03-12T16:29:00.000-04:00

A couple weeks ago I received an e-mail reminding me that my 20-year high school reunion was approaching.

After groaning at the reminder of passing time, I immediately cruised the list of 1987 Wissahickon graduates who had also received the now-attorney's nettlesome dispatch.

I remembered some of the names. I was still friends with a couple. One or two revived happy memories.

For the most part, though, I was unable to pull up faces.

I remembered one boy I liked in 10th grade. I vaguely recalled being mean to one girl in my junior year. (Sorry for that, Karen.)

But I couldn't remember the bad things.

I didn't recall who was popular, who was a dweeb, who was a jock, who was a prep. Back then, those labels were often all that mattered. I don't remember ever having a "Breakfast Club" moment where I bonded with my peers regardless of their place in in the high-school caste system.

I do remember making some stupid mistakes. I was a kid, and 14 and 15 were particularly difficult years for me. Everything seemed so BIG and important.

Except for the things that were...

Peace.

Rich guy

2007-03-07T21:51:00.000-05:00

What a strange place, this city.

I thought I would be hanging out with Mark tonight having a few beers but apparently it wasn't meant to be.

He got called into work tonight and I decided I was going to go ahead with my plan: Drink a few Guinness.

So, I went to a bar on the Upper East Side called Doc Watson's because it's a friendly enough place, not a bad place for a girl to read the New York Times and do the puzzle without being bothered.

So there i sat doing the puzzle and trying to mind my own business when all of a sudden this guy sits down next to me. At first, I was guarded. I did my puzzle and didn't look up.

But after a while it became apparent that we were interested in the same basketball game on television, WVU v Providence. So, we started chatting sporadically.

As the conversation progressed, I mentioned my husband and he mentioned his wife, which is good. We quickly discovered we both knew the Bill Murray /Dalai Lama speech from Caddyshack and that we were both from Philly and that he had been to the Tijuana Yact Club, where I tended bar.

So, our conversation continued until we were talking about our childhoods and I talked about my father.

My father worked for the same company for some 35 years and was laid off when Tyco purchased it so that Dennis Kozlowsi could buy extremely expensive shower curtains.

So, I bought him a beer, commenting that he would get along well with my husband, who was also laid off by an evil company.

He has kids, lives in Chicago, wife was a stewardess. All interesting.

Then, as he prepares to leave, I introduce myself. He does the same.

"I'm Gerald."

"Well, i told you what i do. What do you do?"

"I'm president of the New York Stock Exchange," he says.

I laugh nervously and tell him it was a pleasure and that I hope he has a great weekend back in Chicago with his family.

"It was a pleasure talking to you," I say.

Then i wonder if he isn't the very guy I should be mad at. But he was so nice....hmmmmm.....

Pacman

2007-03-06T18:46:00.000-05:00

O.K. I've developed an addiction to Pacman.

Yes, Pacman, the video game that you can now access for free from any Internet server.

There is just something about eating all those little blue ghosts after experiencing the adrenaline of scurrying away from those colorful monsters. I think it's the instant gratification. You can be competitve right at your kitchen table.

Or, maybe it's the price: Free. No more running out of quarters at the back of the Big Dipper icecream shop on Rt. 202.

Besides, it's an excellent way to pass the time while Mark is at work.

That's right, I said work. He's editing parttime. He seems much happier now that he's working. I think he feels more useful.

But, does it have to always be on my days off? Ugh.

Shouldn't complain.

So, here I sit with a cup of coffee so I will be awake when he comes home at 1 a.m. I'll make sure I'm no longer playing when he gets here.

C'mon. Don't judge. It's not like I'm addicted to crack or something.

Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka, Woka.

Cheeseburgers

2007-02-22T21:06:00.000-05:00

Since Mark lost his jobs, we've been eating a lot of cheeseburgers.

It's almost like we're back in our York, Pa., house a decade ago.

We used to go running on the trail that stretched from Glen Rock, a little nowhere town in the bowels of Central Pennsylvania, to Gunpowder Falls State Park in Maryland.

After our runs, we both had to get to our jobs at the York Daily Record for the night shift. Mark was news editor and I was night cops reporter. We didn't have much money. So the typical lunchtime fare was veggie burgers with cous cous.

Today, we try to spice it up with homemade pizza - a deal at about $12 a meal when you put sauce, cheese, mushrooms and onions on one of those store-bought crusts - and pasta with hot Italian sausage.

I really haven't had a problem finding decent wines for $10 or less. I used to average $17 a bottle.

I occassionally miss being able to walk into a French bistro _ Les Halles in Lower Manhattan _ at 3 p.m. on a random day off to order Steak Frites and a nice Pinot Noir. So decadent.

But staying home for meals more often has also been quite nice. We play jazz or blues in the background and usually have a candle lit on the table. How many couples can say they've been married for eight years and still have frequent candlelight dinners?

Not many.

(Although, Mark did get a little pissy with me when I grabbed a handful of fries off the pan instead of waiting for him to divvy them out with a hamburger flipper.)

peace,
Tina

Day 2, Jasmine's Chair

2007-02-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

There's a very large and ugly piece of furniture in my postage-stamp of a livingroom here on the Upper East side.

I have tried to get rid of it each of the six or so times we've moved in our dozen years together. But I've failed miserably.

The chair is leather. Actually, it's pleather. It was probably built in the late 80's and is the color tan you would normally find in a dentist's office. It's a sort of putrid, yellow tan.

When you sit in it, you're forced to recline in an almost full repose. In other words, you end up staring at the top corner of an opposing wall.

But I had reasons other than appearance and comfort for wanting to throw the behemoth away.

The number one reason was its obvious connection to my husband's bachelorhood.

The chair was a constant reminder of the sparce apartment he inhabited when we met. Just the chair, two end tables and a couch. And the more he seemed to fight the idea of tossing it, the more I wanted it to go.

Then, Jasmine stepped in. Rather, she climbed on.

The cat became enamoured with the chair at our house in Philadelphia. Its bowl-like seat is the perfect place for a 15-lb feline to curl up in a ball and sleep. She was even happier after I covered the cold material in an old afghan blanket that my grandmother had knitted.

As a result, I just couldn't take it away from her when we left Philadelphia. This even though we were "paring down" to move into a place about half the size of our home 80 miles to the south. I knew it would give her a sense of comfort that she would need.

Now, she climbs onto the chair at about 11 a.m. and remains there until well into the night. She only moves to walk 10 feet to her food dish or three feet to her litter pan.

That's how I ended up with the chair, and I hope it's going to be with us for a very long time.

peace.

2007-02-18T14:28:00.000-05:00

photo

2007-02-18T14:17:00.000-05:00

The photograph is Tina in Mystic, Conn. It was cold.

2007-02-18T11:51:00.000-05:00

day 1

2007-02-18T10:43:00.000-05:00

So, this is more or less what's happening with Tina and Mark Moore in the Big Apple - a city that Tina finds more or less annoying on a daily basis.

Mark says he'd "like it more if he had a job."

Well, then, that's where we will begin. His job working for an evil Swedish company.

He took the job seven years ago. Back then, we were in Philadelphia, living in an apartment. I was working for the Associated Press at the time, about to move over to the Philadelphia Inquirer - talk about evil empires.

Anyway, his job brought us to New York two years ago. Actually, it brought him to New York. I was just here a couple weekends a month. More often than not, I made him come back to Philly, a.k.a "my city."

Then, as the Inquirer imploded under a new owner, I decided it was high time for me to leave. I tried the Times, the all-so-serious, weighty newspaper that is obviously published for people who don't ride the subway, but was rejected.

So, finally, I gave in. I decided to go to the Daily News instead, a tab, a celebrity concerned, Britney-Spears-loving tab, but a newspaper definitely published for subway riders.

Less than two months after my arrival, I received the shocking call: "They fired me," Mark told me as I stood at the D'Agastino's check-out. After losing the over-priced olives, I rushed home to console him. It sweems the company wanted "a new direction." Bullshit.

That brings us to today.

I'm happy to have more time with him, but the severance is running low and we're going to have to move. And that's fine with me. The commute from the Upper East to the Upper West side invades my senses on a daily basis. The transfer station from the 6 to the E train smells like dirty feet. The subway doors closed on me the other day, bruising my hip. Then, a free-newspaper hawker who was aggressively handing out papers struck me in the arm, hard.

I think he was a Metro guy.

peace.