Feast or Famine (2003)

I did not write this piece about DC.  However:  1) There used to be a Houston's in this town; 2) Sex and the City was ubiquitous in its day (and--for some of us--will exist forever :-)!; and 3) Doesn't this "turkey" resemble Groucho Marx (or a Washington Post humor writer who shall remain, "Anonymous" ;-)?

Regardless:  Happy Thanksgiving to all of you!

FEAST OR FAMINE

Houston’s on Thanksgiving Eve.  I was sure the place would be empty – but, on the contrary, it appeared as if everyone coming into town had found his or her way to the corner of Miracle Mile and Ponce de Leon.  No ropes and no lines notwithstanding, I had had to wait…  although not for long.  I’m a regular, after all.

Positioning myself at one of the north corners of the bar, I waited for some young women to finish their drinks.  Before too long, one of them kindly offered me her seat.  An equally kindly bartender – who knows me, of course – asked me what I desired to drink.  For some reason, I decided on a Cosmopolitan, instead of my usual champagne or pinot noir.  One sip into it, and I realized I’d lost my touch.  A twelve-dollar blast of rocket fuel.  Several sips later, I began to look around, for there was much to see.

A medium-short, slightly portly fellow in a suit had been standing next to me for a short time.  A slightly taller, portly – and much older – guy on the other side of the bar began to openly leer at two girls sitting in front of him.  Unbeknownst to them, of course.  These two managed to cross each other’s paths at least once, and to exchange words.  Were they commenting on the same ladies?  They appeared to be bobbing up and down…  like Thanksgiving turkeys.  If it was going to be feast or famine this night, these two appeared as if they were going to lose a bit of their plumpness.

Several other likely looking candidates for the holiday table appeared ready and willing to give their all…  to no avail.  Two married types positioned themselves next to the two young women sitting next to me.  Not hiding their status, they nonetheless began to shamelessly flirt with these two girls.  You’re the easy type (or something like that).  You’re a teacher (that one I can’t forget).  On and on went the bird closest to me.  The other one attempted to engage in a tête a tête with the other young lady. 

By then, I had quaffed the Cosmopolitan and decided on the vegetable plate for dinner.  The tomatoes were exceptional:  I devoured them with relish.  Not too many people actually eat a full meal at the bar on Wednesdays.  The staff, however, knows I’m there for a drink and some food.  After all, they know me.

One of the gobblers attempting to feast on the young prey next to me commented on my tomatoes.  I think he really had his mind on getting someone else’s.  Before I had finished my plate, the young ladies had had enough.  One of them – whose black and white sweater I had praised earlier on – very politely said goodbye.  To me.

I wonder if the turkeys finally got their fill today.  All I got was a slightly headachy hangover.  No more Cosmopolitans for me:  I wonder how Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda can do it.  It’s back to seven-dollar champagne.

And no turkey – of any kind – this Thanksgiving.  I’ll survive.

Paris, Five Years Later: 11/21/09 - 12/1/09

Me standing in front of the plaque denoting that Clovis Vincent practiced neurosurgery in this batiment (pavilion) at the (then) Pitie Hospital. 11/27/09

My mother--third row in her white medical gown--standing with this weird guy to her left (who appears to be staring down at her!)--and a "chummy" guy to her right.  Hopital Broca, 1935-36:  her first rotation; in General Surgery.  Count the number of women externs (the French equivalent of our interns):  five!!!  I'm counting the women in dress clothes or hospital garb without a nurse's kerchief.


Borrowed from another piece:

The Air France flight was smooth. I arrived very early, the morning of November 22.
Let it suffice that I became a “subway rat”, running from Metro to Metro, with my self-made map in hand. Jose had guided me around back in 01; I’d muddled my way through in 00; and I did so, again. Food was not essential (with the exception of the celebratory meal at the Closerie des Lilas on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing [which had me running back to the hotel and lying, prone, watching CNN International just as the Tiger Woods story was breaking: a half-bottle of red wine; and steak tartare? A no-no.]) Clothing: well, I did rediscover Le Mouton a Cinq Pattes; found Kookai too expensive; and—yes!—H&M, Trend—which I could no longer get in D.C. I also did a little window shopping at Galeries Lafayette and at Le Printemps. Jewelry: I was able to afford a pair of earrings at The Parthenon (it had been three necklaces for about $150 in 01). Gibert Joseph: a little purchasing.
Most of my time, however, I spent at the Louvre, which I hadn’t seen since I was seventeen (I kept returning to the Carrousel du Louvre on a regular basis; especially after I’d discovered the parfumiers, Fragonard!); the Musee d’Orsay (too much construction); the Musee des Arts Decoratifs (where the Madeleine Vionnet exhibit beckoned, almost as if on cue!); the Jewish Museum (which I found very interesting—I wish it hadn’t been raining so much as I explored the Marais)…and what made the trip for me: the Musee Rodin.
I’d tried getting into the Pompidou Center…twice. On strike: only the French…A brief outing on the Champs Elysees: too cold. No Montmartre: quel dommage! Le Quartier Latin: off and on. Cluny: I’d already done that in 00 and in 01. L’Hotel des Invalides: I’d already done that in 00. No Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame: I’d done those with Jose in 01. No Pantheon (I think I went there in 00.) At least, I’d salivated at the rue du Mouffetard my first groggy day. (And the Closerie constituted Montparnasse.)
However, it was the Musee Rodin—apart from exploring my parents’ hospitals—that made the trip for me. And it was sunny that Thursday: so sunny my digital camera didn’t allow me to snap all the outside pictures! I didn’t wander the gardens beyond Le Penseur and the Burghers of Calais, though: again, too cold.
Inside, however, I discovered a world I did not know existed. I’d seen a version of Camille Claudel’s Le Mur at D’Orsay; and wondered, “Who’s the artist?” Being exposed to her work—in a room to itself—kept me returning, over and over. I couldn’t believe I’d never really been exposed to her (or didn’t think I had)—only to Rodin.
It just so happened that my little hotel with its grandiose name of “Le Grand Hotel des Gobelins” is almost right around the corner (well, a bit of a walk) from the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where one finds the mega-complex that is now known as the Pitie-Salpetriere. It was there that my father learned neurology; neuropathology; and neurosurgery. Jose and I had briefly explored it back in 01; but we were primarily interested with finding the neuropathologist Professeur Hauw so that I could hand over my father’s booklets containing formulae and notes he had learned from his teacher, the renowned neuropathologist, Don Pio del Rio Hortega. It was a comfort to have the Pitie-Salpetriere so close! My mother often spoke about the Gare d’Austerlitz, the train station close by. She never told me about the Pitie-Salpetriere’s chapel, though.
On a very cold Friday—armed with my new H&M coat and a stylish tartan-like beret/cloche hat—I stepped forth to locate, first, L’Hopital Broca, where my mother had served her first rotation in General Surgery. Conveniently enough, it was also situated in the 13th arrondissement (though I had to walk in the opposite direction). I kept looking; and looking; until I found it: a small modern hospital with the shell of a medieval monastery on its side, fronting a garden. As with all the hospitals I encountered, there was obviously an attempt at historical preservation; if not, downright, restoration. I took its picture; and then headed back whence I’d come—past my little hotel—to the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where the Pitie-Salpetriere complex is to be found.
Now this was not quite as neat and tidy as the Broca! For, it is massive; with paved paths; dirt routes; hills; and signs. Signs, everywhere! I decided to veer to the left, first, where I soon encountered—around a rather long curve—the pathway leading to the Salpetriere’s chapel. (It is otherwise known as “L’Hospice de la Salpetriere.”)
Let me backtrack a bit: I’d been fiddling with the camera. For some reason, I could only produce black and white pictures, now! And, actually, I’d begun my explorations down the central path (of what must have originally been the Pitie). And…I’d seen the batiments (pavilions) with plaques on them denoting that Vincent had worked in one; and Babinski, in another. I was so thrilled! And, fortunately, I found a nice man to take my picture in front of the Vincent plaque.
And it was then that I’d decided to round the curb; and had found myself walking down that path toward the chapel. All French hospitals appear to have one: always distinguished by its cross spiraling toward the sky.
I’m not a religious person by nature (though, spiritual); and I felt I was intruding a bit. However, curiosity got the better of me; and I entered what turned out to be a beautiful chapel; with various altars; beautiful murals; and row upon row of votive candles! The place was nearly deserted; so I felt emboldened and took some pictures (still in black and white; which I found gave them a special historical glow). There were a number of flyers scattered about: I collected them all. I finally stumbled into someone praying; and backed away as gracefully as I could.
The image of the chapel stayed with me long after I’d departed. I walked back down that long curve; wandered around here, there (and even went into a building!)—perhaps I was looking for the Bibliothèque
Charcot; where Jose and I had deposited my father’s notes back in 01? After slipping and sliding around a bit—and getting colder by the minute—I decided it was time to leave the Pitie-Salpetriere. It is truly a massive hodge-podge of buildings!
I did manage to take one more look at Vincent’s and Babinski’s batiments, though, before I took the Metro to my standby, the Quartier Latin, where I browsed through the Gibert Josephs and had an Ile Flottante at the Viennese Pastry Shop on the rue de l’Ecole de Medicine, which I had discovered back in December of 00, during my first trip back as an adult. I’d been dreaming about having one of these for years now! However, it didn’t taste as good as I remembered: perhaps I got the last, slightly stale piece of the day?
And, after wandering about a bit more, I ended up at La Creperie de Cluny—which Jose and I had frequented—before I headed back to the Gobelins.
On Saturday—oh, what fickle weather!—I returned to the Broca; for I hadn’t really taken more than one picture the day before. The sun was out enough for me to get some shots of the monastery—still in black and white—before I got on the Metro and headed toward the Laennec and the Necker; both on the rue de Sevres.
This was the special day of the trip—the day why I’d come: November 28, 2009, the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing. No longer with tears; but with joy; I greeted this day. She was happy I was there, in her Paris. So was my father.
The weather, alas, was turning. I was able to take only outside shots of the Laennec, which must be a huge complex inside! This is where I feel my parents met; where they shared a rotation in Chest Diseases under Dr. Rist. Papers were plastered all over this (since 2000) abandoned building. What would the French do with the land, I wondered. Since the trip, a decision has been reached. Condos: no surprise. Prime real estate in the 7th arrondissement.
By the time I reached the Necker/Hopital des Enfants Malades (where my mother had externed in pediatrics), the rain was coming down. And—at some point—I pulled a toggle this way or that on the camera…and the pictures again came out in color! This happened shortly after I reached the Necker: another combination of the old and the new (with the old prominently in front; on the side fronting Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower; in the 15th arrondissement). This part of Paris I’d actually gotten to know—around the Boulevard Pasteur—when I’d visited our great family friend, Ramon Morales, in 00 and 01.
I felt comfortable here, although I was being pelted with rain. I just kept snapping away.
At this point, I wasn’t that far from Montparnasse, where I’d be lunching at the Closerie des Lilas. Some very kind folks directed me toward the correct bus.
I’ve already talked about the lunch. The next day—recuperated, fortunately—I visited my cousin, Jacqueline. She picked me up at the hotel. It was another horribly rainy day; but I was indoors the whole time. I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. Her husband, Michel, directed me and waited with me until the right bus came along to take me back to the Gobelins.
Monday: my last full day in Paris. I’d done the museums as best I could; shopped; perhaps not quite done justice to the sights (but it was so cold; and the weather was so unpredictable!). I had two hospitals left to explore (and this time I really was to find myself in terra incognita: in the 10th arrondissement for L’Hopital Saint-Louis; and in the 12th for the Hopital Saint-Antoine). The weather was not too bad.
I loved the 10th arrondissement! Very eclectic and ethnic; very…real. This was where my father had had his first rotation, at L’Hopital Saint-Louis, in General Surgery. I walked down the street and rounded the bend, following the road until I found the cobblestoned path that led down to the hospital. To the left, I saw old. Finally—on the right—I saw new. A banner strewn across the front of the building proudly proclaimed, “400 Years of French Medicine.”
It was what was on the left that interested me; and which I explored to the fullest. Archway after archway led to courtyard after courtyard; all flanked by the batiments! The Laennec and the Necker must be something like this. Always, the cross spiraling toward the heavens over the chapel; not too far behind the central archway.
I walked around, almost mesmerized. So this is what young Efrain first encountered as an extern; after having finished his competitive examinations! General Surgery would only be the beginning…
The weather was holding up. It was time to go visit my final hospital: L’Hopital Saint-Antoine; in the 12th arrondissement. This is where my mother had externed in Internal Medicine; after having spent two years at the Necker. From all indications, she was getting set to become a pediatrician.
Set back from the street, across from the Metro, this hospital also had its combination of the old and the new. One could notice where old buildings meshed into new ones. At its end, the modern building faced outward. In and out: very busy. A very different feel on the Right Bank than on the Left.
But L’Hopital Saint-Louis had left an indelible impression on me. Truth is, I’d begun the day by leaving a yellow rose in front of the Vincent plaque in front of his batiment at the Pitie-Salpetriere; where French neurosurgery had begun. Where my father had learned his craft.
I had wanted to go to the Musee Guimet; to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery (to pay homage to Oscar Wilde; Edith Piaf; even Jim Morrison!): there was so much I had not gotten around to doing.
By the time nightfall arrived that last evening, the rains had begun again. In earnest. I’d run, bareheaded, from the Metro to the wonderful Pho restaurant I was now experiencing for the second time.
And then I returned to Les Gobelins for—well, not the last time—for the following morning I made a mad dash through the neighborhood. I bought a half-bottle of champagne; and a half-bottle of crème de cassis. What a nice Kir this would make, I thought. Perfect for New Year’s.
And at the airport I bought a bottle of Chanel Number Five for Katharina. I had promised her I’d bring her back one.
The Air France flight back to Washington was, however, not very not eventful: it was downright turbulent! I’d never been on a 777 that, I guess, was encountering such bad winds!

Katharina:  that's a whole other story I have not yet committed to paper...

Three plus weeks later, I cooked a picadillo for her and Tracey Haynes at the Altamont.  It was supposed to be for Nochebuena (Christmas Eve), but we celebrated on Christmas Day:

As I said:  that's another story.

Thank you for reading; on the upcoming fifteenth anniversary of my mother's passing:

Ana Raab Marrero (January 23, 1913 - November 28, 1999)

Ghermaine's Coat

Five years ago, I was fortunate enough to stumble onto an exhibit at the Museum of Decorative Arts in Paris that held great meaning for me--or, rather, for my mother.  The exhibit contained a collection of the greatest haute couture designs by one of Coco Chanel's contemporaries:  a woman named, Madeleine Vionnet.  She might not be a household name in this day and age (but within the fashion world, she is still revered).

She paid great attention to a woman's body in a way that flattered her clients.  Among her many silhouettes, she is known for her classic--almost, Grecian lines.

When I saw the coat pictured (left), I gasped!!  While my mother was finishing medical school, she worked with a Doctor Gelbert.  Gelbert had a wife named, Ghermaine.

Ghermaine was Madeleine Vionnet's goddaughter!

My mother used to tell me about Ghermaine's small--but select--wardrobe.  Beautifully fitted suits and classically elegant dresses...but, also, a wonderful coat trimmed with--or, was it all?--lutre (European otter).  According to my mother, it was a treat when she sat next to Ghermaine (and was able to feel the luxurious warmth of Ghermaine's godmother's luxurious creation)!

I wasn't supposed to take a picture (but how could I not?)!



Fast-forward to yesterday.  Still in search of a "real" wool coat, I tried on every goose-down equivalent at the new Friendship Heights Marshall's.  A very nice selection of Cole Haan--at very respectable prices.  One navy Tommy Hilfiger was promising.  Fussbudget that I am, it boiled down to the headgear:  those attachable hoods look pretty around one's neck (but all but blind you when you lift them :-o!).  I went round and round--passed the brown coat twice.  (Of course I'd already made the connection in my mind :-).  I finally decided, "Why not?"  Three sizes were left:  4; 8; 14.  Would the 8 still fit me?  It was time to find out...

Yes!!!  And, 78% wool, to boot:  about as good as a Cinzia Rocca (but at a fraction of the price)--

So, yes I bought it.  I now have my "serious" wool coat.  Ghermaine's coat.  Georgina's coat.

It's uncanny, don't you think ;-)?

More Bathroom Blah, Blah, Blah...From La-La Land

The following is written a bit in code (but it'll trickle in--be patient ;-):

THE UNBEARABLE SLOPE OF MY TUB

Yikes!  Fifteen and three-quarter inches.  And, no – I’m not referring to some outsized girlish fantasy, here.  On the contrary:  what could possibly be more mundane than the length of tile that separates your long, hot shower from turning into a scalding waterfall?  And yet, measure it I did, recently.  For this is as good as it’s going to get…  given the unbearable slope of my tub. 

Good-looking types always appeal to me.  Boys, and, obviously, bathrooms.  I had fallen in love with my cottage’s splendiferous white-tiled bathroom the moment I lay eyes on it.  The compleat bathroom, complete with a bidet and a Roman tub.  Only an ET could have done this, I delightedly told myself.  As beautiful as the wood floors and the lighting fixtures were, it was this bathroom that sold me on the house.  A gulp and a plop – and a wheeze and a sneeze – later, and this little gem in Mini Urbs was mine.

I could not wait to bask in Cleopatra-style splendor!  Alas – as I have no jug-bearing maidservants – I had to content myself with the rain shower sprinkle of a showerhead with which to douse myself.  How paltry a flow, I thought to myself.  And yet, I emerged – clambered out, rather – from the tub to discover a trickle on the floor.  As the tub is fairly recessed, I had thought it unnecessary to purchase a shower curtain.  OK, so that’s what towels are for.

Ten days or so passed.  In, and out, carefully:  one foot at a time.  A little swipe with an already saturated towel, and I could proceed until my next encounter with my massive white mountain.  It was quickly turning into a white elephant, instead:  the trickle had turned into a puddle.  Ay, ya, yay!  I need a shower curtain, I told myself.

Rushing to the Target, an even larger obstacle loomed on my horizon.  While my tub was in possible danger of overflowing, I was – well, stopped up.  Too much drama does this to me, sometimes.  While carefully poring over the subtle differences among plastic shower curtains, an ET couple and I began to chat.  Oh, those old houses still have galvanized plumbing, they informed me.  In one instance they knew of, the water even began to seep up through the floor (or so they informed me).  Yikes!  Is this what was happening in my bathroom, I began to wonder?

As much as I wanted to rush home, I had my other delicate problem to deal with.  An explosive Thai meal should do the job, I thought.  I stopped at a Thai restaurant on the way home and ordered the HOTTEST entrée I could think of…  heaping all the extra fiery side condiments on for good measure. 

With my shower curtain now firmly in place, I decided to test it.  OK, fine.  So I don’t have galvanized plumbing.  Now I had no choice but to focus on – my own plumbing.  In the morning, I told myself.

No such luck.  In a panic, I resorted to one of my medical specialties:  my unerring ability to find the local Emergency Room.  Messily throwing some clothes on, I uneasily wove my way through early-morning traffic until I came to the turnoff to Doctors Hospital.  Thank heavens I’d been La Doctora Chiringa’s designated driver there on several occasions!

Visibly squirming by this time – and severely discomfited – I found myself in the (extremely) embarrassing position of listing “fecal impaction” as my ailment.  Not too many people – either patients or personnel – around at this time of the day:  good.  I was ushered into a treatment room, asked to disrobe, and instructed to put on one of those flimsy hospital gowns, while awaiting the ministrations of the doctor on call.  Little did I know who – or what – was coming my way.

A thirty-plus-year-old ghost appeared in front of me.  The doctor turned out to be the son of one of my parents’ colleagues in that little ole sleepy town in Georgia, oh so many years ago!  Ready to tell him who I was – and who my parents were – at a moment’s notice, I didn’t have to nudge him too much, which was nice.  What was not so nice, however, was the examination he proceeded to give me.  “If it doesn’t budge, we’ll have to surgically extract it,” he informed me.  Ay, I was embarrassed enough as it was…

And then it happened.  A nurse disdainfully instructed me to follow her to the bathroom, where she proceeded to administer two enemas.  What can I say?  The second one succeeded where Mother Nature had not been able to do the job Herself.  Physically relieved, I was, nonetheless, psychically wounded.  “Warm prune juice,” the nurse sternly warned me on my way out.  At least our old family friend sent me packing with some friendly words and with a hug.

Stopping at the Starbucks on the way home, I felt the irresistible need to share my misadventure with someone.  I called Junior – I knew he’d appreciate it.  Sure enough, he called it as it was:  “Yoyi, you’re full of ----.”  We both howled, for – well – that’s what it had been, right?

            So now my plumbing was fixed…  but not that of my tub.  Several months later – shower curtain or no – the trickle came back.  Soon it became a puddle that accumulated at the bottom of the steps that I had become so adroit at handling.  Positioning the shower curtain this way and that, I finally realized it wasn’t the culprit.  So what was it?

            There’s a drain right next to the wall down through which the water that accumulates from the shower is supposed to drain.  Following the trail of water backwards from the floor, I finally realized this drain was clogged.  A handyman had suggested several other remedies, to no avail.  It was time to call my trusty plumbers, yet again.

            The head plumber came this time.  He knew exactly what to do.  He replaced the old pipe – galvanized, copper, who knows? – with plastic tubing.  It was he who got me to thinking that the tub hadn’t been put in just right.  The ET’s had cared more about form than about function.

            At least the water wasn’t dripping to the floor any more.  It stopped – yes, fifteen and three-quarter inches – from the ledge.  Worst of all, it just sat there, turning the grout an off-black color.  It kept doing so, as I didn’t have a steady cleaning person until Ana La Tirana took up her post.  And then she had to use a lot of bleach.

            Fed up with my tub, I was ready to have it torn down.  Construction?  While I was living in the house?  That’s insanity, I told myself.  And yet…  One day, at a favorite ET haunt, I saw several men sporting T-shirts that advertised glass enclosures for tubs.  I’m saved, I thought.  Breathlessly explaining my predicament to the most approachable (and attractive) one of the lot, I was not prepared for the deconstruction of my tub. 

The man – how can he know what’s going on without even seeing it, I thought – even drew me a diagram, explaining how the slope leading to the drain had been done wrong.  It should have been put in at an angle, rather than straight across.  The people who had designed the tub didn’t know what they were doing…  and they certainly didn’t have a permit from Mini Urbs.  How very ET of them.

Could you design a glass enclosure for my tub, I asked him.  Sure, he said.  On weekends…  and with just him doing the work.  Uh, oh.  That’s even more like an ET than the original work done on the tub.  I think I’ll just live with the unbearable slope (or, rather, lack thereof) of my tub.  The half-minute or so it takes me to slosh that water into the drain after every shower is a smaller price to pay.

The wood floors and lighting fixtures are more worthy of my praise, after all.

And...Dave Barry has his exploding toilets.  I had my Wellworth:

Writhing – oops, I mean, writing – within myself

Righting some wrongs

Introspective

To the max

Energizing my insides

Ranting, railing, roiling within

‘  (A pause)

Such is my life when I am

Blocked. 

Like my Well Worth that morning,

Out.  Out it came.

Curses – it wouldn’t flush.

Kohler, you’re not in my corner, today.

3/28/05

The Five Coats of Me

Posted by a Forever 29-year-old:

From a richly-textured, lightweight coat/jacket; to a black-and-white checked lightweight coat perfect for mid-fall layering; to a chic mohair-rich and zippered--three-quarter sleeved car coat; to a "camelhair" (polyester) wonder lined with warm padding:  classically-styled and of demure length; to the ankle-length wool-blend  boxy black staple that should tide me through the bulk of the winter.

These are the five coats of me.  I purchased all of them at Forever 21.

It depends on what the meaning of "as is," is...

PART ONE (EARLY AUGUST, 2009)

Six weeks ago today, I bought my pre (and during) World War I apartment, "as is." The inspector had informed me of the bathroom sink and tub leaks. It wasn't until I inspected my "merchandise" on my own that I noticed just how bad they were: leaks coming out of and engulfing both sink faucets; the constant drip-drip-drip from the spigot; as well as the steady drip the moment I tried the shower diverter in the tub(let alone, the lack of more than a mere trickle of cold water when the light rain falling on dewdrops shower head spurts on after an icy false start).

(Couldn't resist waxing poetic for a moment, there.)

A management endorsed home improvement team has already installed the second a/c in the bedroom (and boy did I need it today!) They've also cleaned up the doorframe that had been somewhat mangled by the home delivery team of yet another home improvement establishment (and I mean, bad). In a way they couldn't help it, given the narrower than a pinhead (oops, here I go again) aperture to the artistically engaged galley kitchen the previous owner--an architect--had concocted in the mid 1980's.

Keep that in mind: the mid 1980's...

As I've replaced all the kitchen appliances except for the stylistically correct--yet somewhat sluggish (though not on its last legs--at least, not yet; and crossing my fingers, here) built-in microwave, let me, indeed, focus on my beautiful vintage bathroom: with its deep and somewhat pockmarked tub; its gently yellowed floor consisting of black and white squares; its subway tiled walls fringed in black; its "quick acting" Sloan flush toilet that does not fail to delight me...every time (even if it lacks the original wood toilet seat and cover--if anything, the modern equivalent somewhat gingerly perched on top of the porcelain bowl is actually rather charming, in an endearing sort of way); and what probably counts as the bathroom's greatest, un(re)touched glory: its pedestal sink.

By the time my nonagenarian neighbor had recommended the plumbing company whose sons and grandsons she has nurtured as if they were her own, something told me I'd better go with them. Weirdly enough, as I stepped out the door on Friday, there was one of their trucks! I didn't hesitate for a second.

The plumber amiably obliged me and came to take a look. He found the valve that instantly provided me with cold water in the tub. Taking a look at the pedestal sink, though, he felt the water would have to be cut off to my tier in the building in order to change the faucet fixtures (which I had ordered about ten days earlier after a discussion with the in-house home improvement team). I was rarin' and ready in my mind--and after calling the plumbing company to set up an appointment after the courtesy call--I was definitely ready in the flesh. None other than the grandson of my neigbor's original plumber had picked up the phone; listened; asked me where my apartment was situated in the building...and with a near certainty, felt I'd have the valves I needed right inside the apartment. I crossed my fingers; and waited until this morning. (But not before I'd indulged in several "fuller" showers; and once and for all stopped cleaning up after the puddles that relentlessly continued to accumulate around the sink faucets.)

PART TWO -- SORRY I NEVER FINISHED THE TALE--IT GOT FLUSHED DOWN THE PNEUMATIC TOILET :-o!

Murano Mink (2008)/The Postmortem of a Bra/Training Wheels

Aaah!  Plucked from Madeleine Vionnet's closet:  Murano Mink (2008) and The Postmortem of a Bra (2009).  Choice recollections to pave the way for a new era up and down Wisconsin Avenue:

MURANO MINK (2008)

economy or not, I decided I needed fur earmuffs--it was very cold here last week; hats swallow me, especially with my perpetual "pixie cut."  After checking out various websites, I ended up at Saks.  Secure; safe; no surprise.  Several earmuffs sorta-kinda passed muster...but not as well as a mink (!) headband.  I gulped at the price; spoke with the salesperson about the economy.  We ended up discussing Dancing with the Stars--I'd brought up tonight's final.  She brought up Susan Lucci; that got us going on All My Children.  We reminisced about the show in the early 80's.  I told her I should also try Lord & Taylor; she agreed (but I left her wrapping the headband in tissue:  she knew I'd be back).  Sure enough, within forty-five minutes or so, I was back.  This time she had another customer:  an elderly German woman; very sure of herself; in the process of deciding on a beret that she could pre-purchase before tomorrow's sale.  (Alas, I didn't have that luxury.)
As she sorta-kinda had included me in her decision, I decided to show her how the mink headband looked on me.  She concurred with the saleswoman; and then told us about how she'd had a headband made out of an extra piece of her mink coat when she'd had it turned inside out into a raincoat.  "How warm!" the saleswoman and I both commented.  The lady couldn't resist telling us that the trench she had on was a Burberry (including this for good measure).  I quipped I might leave mine somewhere, taking it off and putting it on as I'm sure I'll do on a regular basis; she said she'd left hers on a subway train (and when she'd returned for it, it was missing--duh).  Already sensing she was hoity-toity, I couldn't resist bringing up Dancing with the Stars again to the saleswoman as I was taking my leave.  And, of course, I politely inquired if the lady was aware of the show.  She seemed somewhat taken aback; and then responded something to this effect:  "My husband's an astronomer; I/we (re) always dancing with the stars."

The Postmortem of a Bra (2009)

Somewhere in between the pick-a-size paper towels and the cat food, my Valentino bra died today. I’d stopped wearing it, primarily because it super shapes (if you know what I mean). I’d noticed, however, that the dainty little satin bow that held the cups together was hanging on by an increasingly skimpy thread.

So today, when I stretched in that aisle at the little, shabby (yet genteel) Wisconsin and Newark Giant that is threatening to be replaced by a Mega Giant (and who knows how many more condominiums) within the next couple of years, the thread popped. I immediately thought of Swirl, the bra that had corseted me in “Training Wheels.”

I kept Swirl for several years. I guess I could stitch Valentino up.

It’s much more fun to dissect it…and to write this postmortem, instead.

What's Swirl's story, you may wonder?  It's older (2004); it happened in Miami (but I impishly feel it's the best of the three ;-).  You be the judge:

TRAINING WHEELS (2004)

            Why is it so difficult to be a modern-day woman?  I think it’s because we begin at such a young age to try to become so.  Take our obsession with bras, for example.  Recently I bought a black French number, euphemistically named, Swirl.  Its manufacturer tries even harder:  its name is, Le Mystere. 

            The real mystery was that it had fit me, at least in the store’s dressing room.  After donating several woefully worn out holdouts from who knows when to my local Goodwill, my black bra collection now consisted of Swirl; a fancier French model from the Chantelle line intended for “special” occasions; and a clingy animal print Roberto Cavalli with just enough black in it to “qualify.”

            Planning to wear a mesh weave black top, I pulled Swirl out of the drawer.  A nice fit, a pretty bra:  good.  Soon I found myself at my accustomed Friday afternoon spot:  in front of a movie screen at Sunset Place in South Miami.

            By the middle of the movie, Swirl’s under wire was cutting into me so deeply I could barely breathe.  Pulling at the cups under the blessed cover of darkness, I felt something give.  Some stitches appeared to have come undone, providing me with some relief.

            Not enough.  No sooner was the movie over, than I rushed to the restroom and removed the blasted thing.  Should I, or shouldn’t I?  I asked myself.  Yes.  Stuffing Swirl into my purse, I made a discreet dash to the local Chico’s.  They were bound to have a cover-up of some kind.

            An earth-toned jacket just to my liking awaited me.  I’ll wear it out, I told the saleswomen.  Telling them why, we began to discuss the merits of should we or shouldn’t we.  Wear a bra, that is.  The tall, reed-like saleswoman said she doesn’t wear one if she doesn’t have to.  Her more womanish coworker, pointing down at herself, said she must.  And I responded, well, in my mother’s generation women wore camisoles, and I’m built like my mother.

            We then got on the topic of how much we want to show.  I don’t stick out, said the more fleshed-out of the two.  Oh, you’re like squash blossoms, I ventured.  She demurred.  And I, I contributed, have been compared to pencil erasers.  We both giggled.

            Little nine or ten year olds are already wearing training bras, I plaintively continued – there’s nothing there.  They want to grow up as fast as they can, the well-built saleswoman said.  When they were younger, they got rid of their training wheels as quickly as possible.  And, she continued, they’ve replaced them with their training bras. 

           

With their training bras?  I never made it beyond my training wheels.

            Before I left the mall, I tried Victoria’s Secret.  Alas:  long in the shoulder blades, pencil-pointed, round, neither A nor B, I found nothing.  So what else is new? 

            However, on my way out of the parking lot, while pulling Swirl out of my purse in order to retrieve my wallet, I could not help noticing that the young parking attendant perked up for a second.  Thank you, I said, as he handed me my change.  You’re welcome, he drawled out for a split second longer than necessary.

Not chucking those little wheels didn’t hurt me in the long run, I guess.