All That Glitters...

...is not necessarily gold:

ALL THAT GLITTERS

I must be getting really lazy these days, if I haven’t even done my laundry. Tops and jeans can go on and on, and bras go on and come off. Panties, however… Down to my stretchy semi girdles, I decided to pick up a couple of spares at my local TJ Maxx. They’d buy me a few extra chore-free days.
Of course, they’d have to be the low risers, with just a thin stretch of fabric all but molding itself onto my hips. Unfortunately for me, thongs are all the rage these days. I personally can’t fathom the allure of having something uncomfortably inching its way up between my buttocks. But many women find them comfortable, and sexy. Or is it their men who like them?
Not I. I tried wearing one, once. It made me feel… dirty. The low risers are all I can tolerate. Would I find any? A few. The first one was a jean-colored meshy number with glittery blue flowers on it. It’d do. Then I found a second pair of the same, and one with yucky nylon stripes. Better than nothing. Looking some more, I found a black one: yes! One more, I thought. Sure enough, a third blue sparkly was all I could find. Five: that would do. With a sigh of relief, I took them to the cash register.
That was Sunday. My last careworn black number saw me through Monday. It was time: the new black one served me well Tuesday. Stripes did the job on Wednesday. On Thursday, though, it was sparkly time. The panty was losing glitter right and left before I even put it on, but it fit. And it was a low riser. So I figured I’d survive.
Until I wore it under my rather skimpy nightgown Thursday night, only to discover my computer chair seat covered with specks of blue glitter Friday morning.
That, however, was nothing compared to the glittery blue dots I found all over my sheets. Clumped together like the little anthills you see on the sidewalks. Worse yet, they reminded me of termite droppings: I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime. Two blue sparklies left to go. No way. I don’t even dare wash the one I used. It’ll be hard enough dealing with the sheets.
I had no choice but to wear one of my tight little pseudo girdles Friday. With only one clean panty left to my name, it’s laundry time.
A friend of mine doesn’t mind taking them on, so I’m giving them to her. Dirty one, and all. Fine. Makes you wonder, though, why they hadn’t sold.
Probably because all that glitters is not gold. Some of it is blue.
Gingerly taking the old sheets off the bed, I shook them outside. Now my threshold is covered with blue glitter. So is my face. As is, still, my computer seat.
And that’s what I’m sitting on as I write this, in my bottom-light nightgown.
I’m about to get in the shower. I can handle these blue bits at both ends a little bit longer.
Anything. Anything’s better than a creepy-crawly thong.

Secret Single Behavior

Two years old, but, what the heck? I was in sync with the Fab Four at the time...

SECRET SINGLE BEHAVIOR

Just over three weeks ago, I set out to transform my soon to be new abode in The Grove. The otherwise perfectly appointed condo townhouse had one glaring flaw: its carpeting. Its drab, spotted Berber carpeting that looked like something Horace might have thrown up on, and no one would have known the difference.

Dolphin Carpet and Tile came highly recommended. Its TV commercials looked promising, plus it also carried Roberta’s endorsement. I’d actually called the Doral store at least several weeks earlier and spoken with a highly knowledgeable woman, Evelyn, who turned out to be the manager’s assistant. She realized what I had in mind much faster than it took me to write down and make sense of – let alone, follow – the directions to the store.

And so it came to pass that I went up the Palmetto, got off at 36th Street going west, and turned left at 72nd Avenue. I ended up in some tile company’s parking lot. Trying to get back on 36th Street reminded me of Washington’s Beltway in between rush hours: at least the traffic inched along. Some kindly drivers finally took pity on me. I had no choice, though, but to cross to the side of the street where I knew I wouldn’t find what I was looking for. Carpeting.

It was pushing one p.m. Realizing I was hungry, I recognized the Latin American Grill at the opposite corner. So I drove past it, made the first available left turn, swung back onto 36th Street, and turned into its parking lot. As it was hot and steamy outside, I rushed in to partake of its brisk coolness.

The Latin American Grill is part Cuban, part from everywhere else in Central and South America. La bandera cubana, however, is prominently displayed on its menu. At its Miami Lakes location, I’d recently ingested a very acceptable pan con bistec, along with tostones y mojo. So I decided to give it another whirl.

When my sandwich arrived, I began to dissect it. I put the lettuce and tomatoes on the side, pushed los pedacitos de palomilla onto the plate, and stacked up el pan in the corner. Alternately drenching los tostones and la carne with the mojo, I began to enjoy my lunch.

And then I realized it: I didn’t care if anybody was looking at what I was doing, but I was doing it, nonetheless. Secret Single Behavior: “Things you would never want your boyfriend to see you do,” as Carrie said in “The Good Fight.”

Unlike Carrie and her saltines and grape jelly; Miranda and her Borghese gloves and infomercials; Charlotte and her studious examination of her pores; and Samantha and her intense battle within herself to not fall in love, I put mine out there.

And then I engaged in the most Secret Single Behavior of all: I got in my car, drove back across 36th Street, turned at the second left off 72nd Avenue, found Dolphin Carpet and Tile, and – within a half hour – selected a lovely, neutral, not too shaggy-not too thin, soft – yet durable – slightly pinkish hued carpet for my upstairs.

I must confess I cheated. I had called the store for directions. But I chose the carpeting all by myself: Evelyn can vouch for that.

The Dolphin Carpet and Tile ad just came on over the airwaves--I kid you not.

O Orrechi Mi

O ORRECHI MI

Choice morsels from an evening out at a fundraiser for a certain club in my acquaintance:

Wine Not?

Engaging in a conversation with a very friendly Board member and her husband, or with the Stiff Kraut at my table (can’t remember which), one of them volunteered the phrase. Whoever came up with it, Salute!

Mr. Surplus

Now this definitely occurred while I was in line to buy wine. Looking at a guy’s nametag, there it was: Joe Somebody Surplus. Could I resist asking him about it? Of course not. And of course he’s borne the brunt of his name for many years: he told me that while he worked at a bank, he loved to tell people that the bank carried a surplus.
I wonder if he’s ever been audited by the I.R.S.

Are You Goyim?

At my table, the Kraut had brought two friends. They seemed friendly enough. One had a distinctly heavy accent. The other appeared to be mute.
I was attempting to carry on a bit of a forced conversation with the Kraut. At some point, she mentioned her friends spoke Spanish. One (her friend, who it turned out is the mother of an orthopedic surgeon I consulted, a Cuban Sephardic Jew) had her cousin visiting from Mexico (the mute one – mute because she doesn’t speak any English).
So, of course, again I couldn’t resist. Leaning over a bit, I mentioned to the ladies that I spoke Spanish. By then the Greek lady sitting next to the mute cousin had piped in, as it turned out she also speaks some Spanish. And she’s also a Sephardic Jew.
So what did I do, just to test the waters? I asked the Kraut’s friends: Are you Goyim?
At this point, one of the other ladies at our table, in an attempt to join in the conversation, asked the mute one: Are you going to Mexico?
Everyone’s wires were crossed by then. Are you Goyim to Mexico, indeed?
It all straightened out in the end.
But it was fun while it lasted…