Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving

It was almost Thanksgiving when inside my head
My jawbone was throbbing; my poor tooth was dead

The referral was made by the dentist with care
I wondered if I should just run out of there

Instead I was nestled right into a room
While visions of dollar signs pointed to doom

The assistant took x-rays while I held my finger
The TV had cable, which helped me to linger

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter
I squirmed in the chair, wondering what was the matter

Away to the window I flew like a flash
I wrote out a check; said goodbye to my cash

When what to my terrified eyes should appear
But a bunch of machines, drills, and torturous gear

With the best endodontist, so brilliant and bright
I knew in a moment it would be all right

More rapid than eagles his instruments came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Forceps, now Tweezers, Let’s go, Novacaine!
On Apex Locator, get rid of her pain!

To the edge of her mouth; to the last tooth of all
Now drill away, drill away! Drill ‘till you fall!

So up to my chair the instruments came
With the savior (ever try to fit “endodontist” twice into a holiday
rhyme?), who smiled and told me his name

And then in a twinkling I heard in my mouth
The whirring and buzzing of roots going south



He was dressed all in scrubs, from his head to his feet
He performed flawlessly, without missing a beat

His eyes; how they twinkled! His dimples. . . don’t ask
I couldn’t be sure – he was wearing a mask

He was patient and nice as he worked very late
While I watched the news and pondered my fate

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread

He spoke a few words, asked if I was okay
He completed the treatment, then called it a day

He gave me a Motrin, and a script for narcotic
Which I filled despite fear I’d be rendered psychotic

And giving a nod, to reception we went
My tooth finally filled; my money well spent

A thought came to mind after we thanked each other
Heredity sucks; I have teeth like my mother

And I heard him exclaim as he moved out of sight
“I’ll see you next week, please take care when you bite”



THANK YOU, DR. L !!!!

Haiku Written During Very Boring Continuing Ed Seminar

Seminar Haiku
Shit; I can’t sneak out of here
Lawyers all around

Lamer every year
Star Wars music followed by
Silent Groans of Pain

Oh, no. Here it comes…
Speaker shows baby photos
They had cameras then?

Claims Departments scam
Reduction of overhead
Allstate is the worst

Uses Collosus and
McKinsey Consulting Firm
Process phony bills

Dental expert spoke
Moderator got free teeth
Didn’t help his looks

Next he hopes to find
Specialist to speak about
Penis extensions

Chiropractors suck
Gaps in treatment aren’t good
Who doesn’t know that

Medical reports
A story in themselves; why
Can’t we write our own?

AMA Guidelines
Loss of enjoyment of life
Need for future care

Final prognosis
How much medical treatment
Did they get supplies?

Which one gets most cash?
The one with the biggest tits
Some things never change

Moses! What a bore!
My greatest accomplishment:
Found Dunkin’ Donuts

Time to plan escape
Leave at lunchtime; stroll back in
After second break

Guest Judge advises
Show up and think positive
Try to stay alert

Not funny at all
He’s no Conan O’Brian
Someone tell him…please!

What’s up with his jaw?
Looks like a marionette
Maybe he has mumps

Counting the bald heads
A time consuming matter
Why am I still here?

(whereupon my haiku was adjourned)

“The Arbitration” An Epic Haiku

Plaintiff’s lawyer asks
“Do you have an extra pen?”
Answers cell; strike one

How can he be so
Ludicrously unprepared?
He just burped- strike two

Defendant objects
Plaintiff has interpreter
Language is unknown

Plaintiff’s lawyer reeks
He’s an open collared slob
Bad cologne-strike three

Plaintiff hit by car
His English is not that bad
Fascinating tale

Brother came to scene
“Do you have car insurance?”
He saw dollar signs

Plaintiff lawyer’s tie
Hideous polyester
White socks, black sneaks…Gah!

Dear Lord, what a schlub
He must be single because
Who would sleep with that?

Defense testifies
He is looking right at me
Wishing he could leave

Mumbling Arabic,
Plaintiff bit Defendant’s ear
Defendant afraid

Tried to call the cops
Plaintiff’s counsel picks his nose
Then scratches his ear

Plaintiff’s cross exam
Defense says “I’m not to blame.”
White socks blinding me

It’s twelve thirty five
Great lunchtime entertainment
Except for his tie

“White Socks” rambles on
Many objections sustained
He’s getting nowhere

Getting bored, I note
He looks like Barney Rubble
I try not to laugh

Will this ever end?
Defendant produces field logs
Whatever they are

Plaintiff did bite him
A modern day version of
Arabic justice?

Closing argument
Interpreter is here but
Hasn’t said a thing

Final inquiry:
What about the bitten cheek-
Where’s the counter claim?

This has gone too long
Tossing papers, talking law
As our stomachs growl

Moral of the case
Jersey drivers can get bit
When they hit a man

Broke But Not Broken

Impending broke-ness: Blessing in disguise or karmic retribution? Only G-d knows for sure. I walk by my perpetually noisy fridge. This week, it decided to add an occasional, earsplitting BANG! to the already loud clatter and buzz. It was as if it knew that something had gone terribly wrong. I walked by it and said, “You whine louder and more often than I do. You can make all the noise you want. I’m very sorry, but no food for you!”  I felt like the Soup Nazi in Seinfeld. Cheryl Schwartz, Food Nazi: Not exactly how I want to be remembered.

I started making up words for broke that don’t exist. Broke-osity. Broke-hood. Broke-dom. And of course broke-ness. I don’t know why I started doing it. Maybe it’s a symptom of early onset dementia. Have the adverse effects of Prilosec and sugar started to kick in? Did I not drink enough wine? Am I turning into Woody Allen?

Maybe I should pretend I’m a moth, put mustard on my sweaters, and have them for dinner. The ones from Gap, not the cashmere. If my sweaters were food, I could eat for the rest of my life. Just maybe I’ll be okay if I cut out my unnecessary spending. A budget: who, me? I always thought a budget was a kind of parakeet.  What the hell was I thinking? Talk about uncharted territory; this is going to be my biggest challenge yet. Maybe not the biggest challenge, but it’s certainly high on the list.

Goodbye, Tori Johnson; I’ll miss your Deals and Steals! Farewell, Lululemon! Adios, Victoria’s Secret! Ciao, Godiva! Hello Hershey! No more little splurges. Everything I bought was on sale, but those little splurges added up. No wonder I’m broke. It’s a miracle I wasn’t broke sooner.

What I’m going to miss most are Starbucks aka Starsucks and Dunkin’ Donuts aka Fuckin’ Donuts. I have a love hate relationship with both of these establishments. My sugary drinks are like pizza to me; even when they’re bad, they’re good.  I pit them both against each other to get the most attentive customer service; I threaten to take my business to the other and I get a free drink.

I want to buy Daymond John’s book The Power of Broke but according to my new budget, I’m too broke to afford it!

According to Daymond,

“When your back is up against the wall, your bank account is empty, and creativity and passion are the only resources you can afford, success is your only option.  Here you’ll learn how to tap into that Power of Broke to scrape, hustle, and dream your way to the top.”

My new mantra: I’m broke right now, but my spirit will never be broken. It won’t be forever. I’ve survived much worse. It’s time to put my memoir in order, which will be the ultimate writing sample. I have to follow my dream. If I don’t do it now, I’ll always regret it.

Onward and upward!

"OI!" Vey

It started on Tuesday. Aissata and I were in the kitchen. I was standing next the Keurig, daydreaming and drinking my coffee. Suddenly I heard an earth-shattering BANG! BANG! BANG! at my front door. Aissata was on her feet immediately, ran down the hallway, and shouted, “OI!”, like a lioness protecting her cub.

I was still in the kitchen, and thought I heard Willie, my super, inside my apartment. This was stranger than a unicorn sighting; it was a miracle if Willie showed up when I called him, let alone  when I didn’t. Was I going mad?

The insanely loud banging was Willie violently shaking my front door because he thought we were trapped inside my apartment. (Only in New York can one become trapped in one’s own apartment. It happened to me once before, during the first few minutes of my first day in my first New York apartment on the Upper East Side. I had to call 911 and throw my keys out the window so the police officer could open my door. At this moment I met my super, who wore a dirty “wife-beater” undershirt, stunk to high heaven, and cursed at me in a foreign tongue. He asked, “Why didn’t you call me?” I said, “Call you? I just moved in. I don’t know you. I didn’t know you existed until now!”)

I digress. Back to the story at hand. . .

Willie had let himself in, and asked Aissata if I was okay. I came out of the kitchen, met Willie in the hall, and asked, “What the heck is going on?” Willie explained that he had gotten a call from the JCC, the Jewish Community Center located on the ground floor of my building, saying I was locked in my apartment and couldn’t get out.  This was strange on so many levels, even by New York City standards. First, why would I call the JCC when I had Willie’s phone number? Why would I even think to call the JCC?

We were on the verge of figuring out that maybe someone else in the building was trapped, when we heard pounding coming from inside my next door neighbor’s apartment. She admitted that she had called the JCC, and nothing she said after that made any sense at all. My mom made more sense during her final stages of Alzheimer’s.

Willie effortlessly opened her door from the outside, with his pass key. I heard the conversation, but it might as well have been in Swahili.  My neighbor explained that she’d been in the shower and her front door got stuck. Willie and I looked at each other. There was no explaining this. Her front door is nowhere near her bathroom. Apparently once she had called the JCC, someone from the JCC called Willie and said that my apartment was involved. After hearing my neighbor’s confusing story, I started to wonder how she ever found her way home.  Our apartment numbers aren’t remotely similar. Someone had made an error somehow, and that was the closest we were ever going to get to solving that mystery. Willie apologized for the intrusion and walked away, shaking his head. My head also moved from side to side; Aissata was equally confused. Another “Only In New York” international incident had taken place, with the following cast of characters: my Latino super, my friend from Mali whose primary language is French, my elderly Russian neighbor, and me. If my neighbor had told her story in Russian, it would have made no difference; my lack of understanding would have been the same.

One bright note came out of the experience. The super I used to refer to as “Will.I.Ever see him again,” became “Will.I.Ever stop appreciating him,” and the answer is obvious. I knew now that Will.I.Ever was looking out for me, and if I ever had a problem, I could count on him. This past Christmas season, I was low on funds. I made Will.I.E a card, gave him what I could afford, and told him that next year I hoped it would be more. He could see my modest gift was coming from the heart, and I believe it made all the difference. During the January brown water crisis, which affected all of Washington Heights, Willie offered to bring me bottled water. He said, “Call me anytime.”  I thought he was just saying it to be polite. Maybe he really meant it.

I also learned that the expression “Oi!” exists in West African French. I thought this exclamation was exclusively British, until Aissata, my protector, said it as she charged down the hall. Loosely translated, it seemed to mean, “What the fuck is going on, and why?” I’d always known Aissata had my back. It could have been a real intruder. She was willing to put herself in harm’s way for me; it was yet another thing to add to the ever growing list of reasons why I love her so much.

Just when things were getting back to my version of normal, on Wednesday morning Aissata announced that she’d be taking Friday off.  It would not be a big deal; we would just switch her Friday duties to Thursday. Shortly thereafter, my phone rang. Gertie usually brings me matzah ball soup on Thursday afternoons, but this week she couldn’t make it, and asked if she could bring it over now (Wednesday morning).

By Wednesday afternoon, it felt like Thursday, because Thursday is the only day I have a real meal, thanks to Gertie. By Thursday, it felt like Friday, because Aissata was doing all of her normal Friday tasks. Today is Friday and it feels like Saturday, except I’m sitting on the “weekday chair,” where, for the first time, I’ll be getting up unassisted. I just walked for an hour and thirteen minutes without the cane. I walked for an hour and a half, with the cane, early this morning. I’m doing everything I normally do on Friday, but it still feels like Saturday to me.

This was also the week I discovered that Prilosec, an antacid, could lead to dementia, according to a study in Germany. That the study involved 75 year old Germans was of little consolation. I’ve been on this drug for the past four and a half years. The damage is done. I’m a goner. If my family history of Alzheimer’s doesn’t get me, the Prilosec induced dementia will. I have to finish my memoir this year, while I still know who I am and why I’m writing it! The clock is ticking. I have visions of Marisa Tomei stomping her foot in My Cousin Vinny, saying her biological clock is ticking.

If that wasn’t enough, I learned that all of my favorite drinks from Starbucks are loaded with sugar, and too much sugar can lead to dementia. So now, even if I escape my family history of Alzheimer’s and the Prilosec curse, I can still get dementia from too much sugar at Starbucks. I’ve been drinking these delicious drinks, in the biggest size, for years. I’m doomed!

Bur then I read another study that indicated drinking wine can prevent dementia. So if I keep drinking Starbucks and stay with the Prilosec, if I drink wine, will I be able to avoid dementia? What if I become a raging alcoholic? Then what? Should I have Prilosec and Starbucks with a white wine chaser?

“Oi” Vey! What a week!

The F@&$*! Swear Jar

Some people think I say the F word more than I should. I decided this would be the week to start a swear jar. Every time I cursed, I'd have to put a dollar in the jar. By day two, I needed a bigger jar. 

 

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” ~ George Berkeley

 

Today I asked myself the proverbial question: If I curse and no one is around to hear me, do I make a sound? Do I have to put a dollar in the swear jar?

What if I go into one of my foul mouthed rants? Will I have to pay a dollar for each obscenity I utter? What if I repeat the same word, like "fuckety fuckety fuck"?

Will the swear jar take IOUs or American Express? How long can I keep it going? I really haven't thought this through.  Maybe it will work. I'm already cursing less.

Or am I?

Only In New York

Today was one of those quintessential New York moments. I was riding in the backseat of a car next to my West African friend, who was chatting on her cell phone, in French, to her sister in Mali, West Africa. Then the Dominican driver's phone rang, and he started a conversation in Spanish. To complete the UN trifecta, my phone rang and I answered it in English.  All three of us hung up our phones at the same time, and laughed. Just another reason why I love this city.