Seven Year Itchy

I am highly allergic to bug bites.  I know you may think everybody gets a mosquito bite now and then and I should just get it together and join the rest of humanity.  Well, my body's reaction to bug bites is inhuman, so shut up.  No, I do not go into anaphylactic shock but nor do I spend a few days feeling mildly irritated by the bump on my arm.  No, my body finds a middle ground.  I spend at least a week ready to rip off whatever limb (currently my forehead), has been bitten due to the excruciating itch.  The site of the bite grows to the size of a large citrus fruit and looks much like the skin of said citrus fruit. Yes, it is frightening. I have gone to my general practitioner one or two occasions and her reaction has been almost as extreme as my body's.  She actually gasped. Then promptly tested for MERCA (a crazy flesh eating bacteria) and put me on antibiotics with sulfur in them.  I did not have MERCA and the bite did not diminish any faster.
So, I suppose it is excellent that I need not carry an epipen but that knowledge does little to soothe the elbow, shin or finger that has been abused  so harshly by the insect kingdom.  I carry a tube of benedryl and a bottle of bug replent in my purse from April first through November, after all one never knows when an outdoor event that should not be missed will crop up!

My question is, when will the beekeeper's get up come back into fashion?  

The Scent of Culture

I am a frequenter of museums.  I have my parents to thank for this habit.  As a child they would take me to every and any museum deemed worthy and appropriate within a fifty mile radius.  Actually, I should correct that statement.  They would take me to any "Cultural Institution," deemed worthy and appropriate within a fifty mile radius, which would include museums, churches, historic houses...you get the idea.
Each has it's own distinct smell and feel.   Museums frequently smell of paint and new plaster board.  There is also a metallic tinge in the air from brass handles and railings warmed by eager patron's grubby hands.  While churches smell of ancient incense, candle smoke and old varnish and perhaps guilt?   The historic house, however I think has the most distinct smell.  The warm soft scent of decaying wood and paper products mixed with the lemony trace of furniture polish, the hint of acrid fireplace scents and the herbal-sachet-reminder of hiding in your grandmother's closet, wrap themselves around you upon entering their halls.  These scents are familiar and comforting.   I may start a line of candles..."Scents of Cultural Institutions," but who knows how to infuse wax with the scent of guilt?  Perhaps a project for next year...

Stories

Telling stories in my family is not a tradition or habit but rather, a way of life. You are considered good company for your ability to sit and listen, encourage at the right moment and appreciate a good tale. You are also considered good company if you can tell a good story. I will grant you that the people in my family have a habit of ending up in interesting situations that warrant being retold. However it may also have something to do with a mindset that allows one to see the good story in a situation. At any rate good story telling is such a familial establishment that at a very tender age my cousin Gregory (somewhere between 3-6) refused to come downstairs for a family gathering and when asked why, proceeded to burst into tears while claiming "He had no good stories to tell!" I feel strongly that more people should hide from public events due to this reason...but I digress.

My Uncle Ray (Gregory's father,) was an inveterate story teller. He had a repertoire of stories a mile long, that was constantly being added to. Classics, all of them. He led an interesting and adventurous life, even if he may not have seen it that way. He grew up in Philadelphia in a large family (14 brothers and sisters if memory serves, all of whom feature in his tales,) and held a multitude of jobs. He was primarily a school teacher but while he was in school and during the summers he would take these crazy jobs, i.e. roofer, camp counselor, butcher, milk factory worker, and he once told me he worked in a nail polish factory. I thought he was kidding, now I'm not so sure!

One of my favorite stories that I would beg him to tell was a story about the milk factory. I will attempt to do it justice, but I can make no promises.

They would come in these big trucks, you know the kind with the round tank on the back, and deliver the milk. Drive in, from all over, and deliver the milk. I worked in this factory in Philadelphia and it was summer and it was hot. I had to do this one thing. When they delivered the milk I had to hook up the truck to the pipes and the pipes to the big vats in the factory. So one morning a guy comes to deliver the milk. Well I've been there all night, I'm tired and it's hot. The windows are all open, these big windows way up on the wall. So I hook up the truck and get things going. I think everything's fine when I hear from down on the street "Ray! Ray! Ray...the milk!!" I look out the window, and I see milk shooting (Zingo!! the noise the shooting milk apparently made) out one of those high windows on to the street! I hooked up the truck but not the pipe to the vats, when the milk started pumping in it pushed the pipe towards the window! All the cats in Philadelphia lived on that block for a week.

My Uncle Ray was the best of company.

Laundry

I dislike doing laundry. It has very little to do with the process of making my clothes clean. A process that I not only enjoy, but relish it's end result as well. Rather, it is the process of dealing with the people at my laundromat. They are horrible. I can feel my blood pressure rise every time I have to go in there. They will not move when you need to get past them, despite repeated and increasingly louder "Excuse me"'s. They will take your things out of a dryer before they are done, so they can use the rest of the time paid for with the quarters and lint you scraped from the bottom of your purse. They will turn up the heat on a dryer you specifically put on delicate (so your underthings that cost more than should be legal don't come out looking like overcooked bacon) in order to steal more quarters and lint. I walk into this den of quarter thieves, underthings destroyers, and narrow walkway despots to find myself being impatient, snippy and suspicious of the small children running around and causing havoc. (It's true, I think they are spies and diversionary tacticians, you loose focus and your laundry is suddenly sopping wet and on the floor!) So I have decided it is not the people who are all awful, it is in fact the building. I think it may be a portal to hell, which is why it is always so hot (has nothing to do with the 40 dryers,) and everyone is instantly a worse version of themselves once they cross the threshold.

This is why I use the very convenient drop off service. They wash, and fold my laundry. It smells like heaven and all I have to do is pick it up and put it away and I get to avoid going to hell.

Missed Connections

I occasionally enjoy reading the missed connections sections in the classifieds. I don't do it for my usual "people watching," enjoyment, which involves general hilarity at the ridiculous behaviors of humanity. This, is for the sweet wistfulness of humanity.

"When we met a month ago in the West Village, we were at a dinner party. After dinner we went dancing and you were too shy to dance too close to me. During dinner you told me you would take me sailing before we both headed out of town for the holidays. You spoke of the stars above your boat against the deep black sky. You spoke of the shore as you approached the cliffs of Maine from the sea. " -Sailing - w4m - 21 (West Village)

Here is poetry and longing for a kindred heart.

"We managed to get on to the N going downtown from Union Square by fighting the doors open together. It was a mighty struggle. You sat down next to me and we exchanged pleasantries. I wished I would have talked you up and I would have, but I was so tired. (Not much better than a zombie.) You seemed like a charm. I hope you'll forgive me my unfortunate brain freeze. I was in a pea coat and had on blue slacks with dress shoes. You were so stylish and elegant. I hope you'll give me another chance. "-Struggle With the Downtown N Door... - m4w - 24 (Downtown N from Union Square)

I can picture these scenes, and it's like watching little movie clips. I hope for these folks, and wonder what happens to them. What always stuns me is that the writers so frequently seem sure, that their missed connection counter part will find this add and contact them. It is a lovely reminder of the connection that is not missed between the human heart and brain.

New Years

I am not a fan of the hoopla that surrounds New Year's Eve, which is odd as I am a chronically social being . There was a time, when I attempted to find something fantastic to do, that necessitated being dolled up. That time has passed. Perhaps it is a casualty of living in New York, where New Year's Eve is an establishment of drunken behavior at sub-zero temperatures. Or perhaps it is the fact that I am perpetually single on New Year's Eve and don't feel the need to count myself among the ranks of women looking for "better luck," in the new year. (shudder)

Rather I find it to be a contemplative time, where I think about the past year, my accomplishments and my failures and what I would like the new year to look like. It sounds somewhat sad and pathetic, I know. But I look forward to it. It is a time of goal setting, and not the I will lose twenty pounds this year and suddenly look like Jessica Rabbit, type of goal, but the I will be happy with the person I have become at the end of two thousand and whatever. These goals are maybe less tangible than the typical New Year's resolutions, but in the end very satisfying. And after all what else is lent for if not weight loss; such thoughts should not be wasted on the New Year!

This year on New Year's Eve, I have every intention of cleaning my house to within an inch of it's life and cooking a big pot of sauerkraut and pork products otherwise known as Choucroute Garnie (french of course) which is considered good luck. I will let this year of trials and tribulations go quietly into that good night, and usher in a New Year of productivity and ease of mind. A new broom will be purchased for my cleaning endeavors, because a new broom brings a clean sweep. It is with that clean sweep that I will begin my year, happily by myself, with my thoughts and goals.

My Piano

I rent a piano. It's true, this is one of the many amazing things available in New York. I can also have someone pick up my dirty laundry and return it twenty four hours later, clean and folded. I can have groceries, dinner, or alcohol delivered to my doorstep as well. But, I digress. I began renting my piano about a year ago. A friend of mine who is beyond musically talented told me about his piano and I in a fit of covetousness decided I needed one too. I took piano lessons as a child reaching peak proficiency around the age of 15 from which point it was all down hill. I can now only play the simplest of tunes and a few memorized pieces from my halcyon days. One might ask then, why bother renting a piano?

My mother plays the piano beautifully. I can remember as a child falling asleep to the sound of her playing when my parents would have company. Sunday afternoon she would sometimes play when the aroma of a nearly ready sunday dinner had permeated the house. These memories and others like it bring me great joy and a sense of peace. Music in the house whether proficient or not, brings warmth. For this reason, I rent a piano for sixty bucks a month. A bargain by any standard.