Crazed Lady Catchup

If it wasn't for two sets of calendar entries, social media time lines, photos, and receipts, I really wouldn't be able to remember everything that happened this past month. It was a blur, and everything was blown hither, thither, and yon due to the winds of Sandy and change.

It was so lovely to spend some time at the Connecticut house with Dad, even if the trip was curtailed due to the storm. In addition to running to see people, stockpile supplies, and take photos of the house, I did manage to squeeze in a major haircut. This was the first chop since March, thanks to the trusted sheers of Pat, who had been doing my hair since I was about 10. We both agreed it was best not to actually think about how many years that was.

This shot was for Mom. It's already a month old -- and still presenting new and exciting challenges. At 1 cut every 5-6 months, I may be ready for another one by ... spring.

Then there was the hurricane and Halloween.

Since I had so much time at home in the studio, I had time to go through all the accumulated the Auntie Nettie's Attic merchandise to see what could be put together for those who were impacted by the storm. I knew there had to be some cosmic reason why I had been making and stockpiling scarves, hats, and warm blankets for a year or two. On Election Day, when lots of four-letter words were being bandied about, I trekked down from the office to the site of the Lion Brand Studio to make a large drop-off of about 10 scarves and two dozen hats. I like these four-letter words much better.

 

These were just some of the donations already in for Hats for the Homeless, though I believe that some of the contributions were also being earmarked for Sandy Relief.

To make matters even more ridiculous - a day after the Election, when much of New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut were still dealing with no power, other utilities, or roofs over their heads --  there was a freaking nor'easter!










Commuting home the evening of the storm, I got my seasonal re-baptism by Mother Nature's grumpy brother Jack Frost, in the form of a head to toe brown slush wave kicked up by the spinning tires of traffic. Welcome to Winter -- On NOVEMBER 7th. THAT IS TOO EARLY!

Luckily it melted in a day or two - but frankly, I was more concerned about the impending arrival of the Stork out West. I had hoped he hadn't been blown off-course. And he wasn't. YAY!!!! Babies. Cute tiny babies.

One of the other ways that I felt that I could contribute to Sandy Relief was to make sure I donated blood. The blood drive I was originally scheduled to attend in Grand Central got cancelled in the immediate aftermath. Fortunately, some other Lincoln Center constituents made sure that a drive made it to campus. On Tuesday the 13th, I trekked over to the David Rubin Atrium and was first in line.

Even though Caramoor got some of my blood, sweat, and tears, and my proverbial youth, the Big J has been taking bits of my sanity, and commuting costs and arm and a leg, I was pleased to do my part.

I don't know why there were still empty cots. After the donation, I inhaled pop-chips and cranberry juice at the free snack bar, but I'm still craving a rib-eye. I also discovered there is a difference between commuting back to your desk from a blood drive one floor down from your office versus one three New York blocks away. I seriously had to sit down for a while. I sat down for a long time that day. I ended up working super late (past 9 p.m.) because I got a call from a neighbor that the building didn't have water due to a meter replacement. (Utility issue no. 1)

(Now that I'm finally writing this all up, I'm beginning to pinpoint why I spent much of my sick-day extended Thanksgiving break being grateful for days off, DayQuil, the comfort of comforters, and technology that let me change channels and also read my newspapers and keep up with people while snuggling in bed.)

In addition to being a donor of the product of my own hands and um, fluids, I am also a grateful supporter of my local PBS station. As a non-profit professional, I know that getting the swag from those various fund-raising drives costs the non-profit money AND cuts into the tax-deductible portion of my contribution - so I always decline those perks of membership. Sometimes however, free ticket offers come through your e-mail in-box and you have to jump on them.

WNET Channel 13 is celebrating their 50th Anniversary and Great Performances is celebrating its 40th Anniversary this year, and they combined both events with a taping of a Gala performance concert at Lincoln Center for future broadcast on many PBS channels. I joined a list to see if I could get a ticket, and ended up finding a pair in the mail box on the day of the event.

This was a wonderful 90 minutes of flashbacks of 40 years of Great Performances, with songs by PBS favorites, including Itzak Perlman, Audra McDonald, and appearances by Dame Julie Andrews and David Hyde Pierce. The final performer, Michael Buble, pulled an unexpected "stunt" for the final piece which will probably NOT make the final edit as there was NO way that the production team would have been able to track down and get waivers from the 50-75 people that swarmed the stage to participate in the songfest. (See above  - I did NOT swarm the stage.) Only in New York folks. Only in New York. (quote thanks to Cindy Adams)

Now, due to my "connections" (Remember the OMH STING! incident?) I got to go backstage after the performance, where I saw Julie Andrews down the hall, and once again had to dodge Mr. Perlman's scooter aiming for my, and everyone else's, toes. I also got to see the greenroom (r), the production rooms, and some of the warrens under the Lincoln Center complex that some people never get to see.

To completely round out my crazy New Yorker/Lincoln Center week, the very next night I attended a Juilliard Orchestra concert at Alice Tully Hall. The first half was composed of lovely Barber and Britten pieces, but I was really there for the second half, Beethoven's famous Symphony No. 5.

Here's the view at intermission, when this impatient New Yorker was wondering where the heck the musicians were. Come on, come on. Flash the lights. Da da da dum needs to come.

Intermission was kicked off by me eavesdropping on my future self - a cultured Upper West Side woman of a "mature" age very gently, yet firmly putting some of the uncultured 20-somethings in their place by saying: "I found your texting during the concert very distracting." I had to agree, though my seatmates were all perfectly lovely and had proper concert etiquette. Bonus -- no one applauded between movements. SCORE!

The Beethoven? The Beethoven was sublime. There is something about that piece played live, with young, energetic musicians that almost have to be throttled back. There were a few moments in the final movement where I literally was moved to tears. (Pay no attention to the crying woman .. Oh wait, it's New York. No one cares.)

One of the most lovely moments was during one of the many conductor-call-backs at the end of the work. A very young African-American string player and his mother had secured front row seats and he was pretty engaged through most of the concert. During the applause for the Beethoven, he was up there in the front row giving the BIGGEST sitting O that you've ever seen. On one of his exits back to the wings, the Maestro basically gave this kid his own standing O from the stage, which was absolutely magical. What a wonderful way to keep a young underrepresented musician's imagination engaged and provide a link from the past to the future.

Other notes from the month:

Between running around, inclement weather, and blood drives, I had been trying to fight the various bugs going around. However, when my boss came down with something, I knew it was only a matter of time. I can always tell -- when I lose my motivation and concentration and can only manage to do arts and crafts aimlessly in front of the television -- that's usually a clue. On the plus side, my holiday decor is done and snowflakes were sent out to the nephew and missionary living in desert climes. On the negative side, I tried to do a few days of work, but the gritting of the teeth and muscle tension from one particularly painful tutoring session was the tipping point to the holiday cold/flu.

The juggling of job responsibilities is supposedly coming to an end - eventually. I was home in my p.j.s due to Sandy when the e-mail went out announcing my new singular title. My official title and salary went into effect mid-month, but since my replacement hasn't been hired or trained yet, the juggling goes on. I suspect by January at this rate. WHOOO-HOOO?

The Thanksgiving break has been quiet, thankfully, with most of the time spent hunkered in bed, or beginning the Holiday Checklist of projects aka the Holiday cards. I used to mock my mother for the size of her list, but I totally get it now. I have gone through about 3 books of stamps, and I'm afraid I forgot someone.

I say quiet -- but it's been tempered with potential for explosive excitement. (Utility issue no. 2) I had to run out briefly on Black Friday. As I came and went from the lobby I could have sworn I smelled natural gas. I propped open some doors and it seemed to clear out. I also tried to get ahold of the super, but with it being the break people are gone or out shopping and he was MIA. The hours went on and I forgot. Until my neighbors got home and I could hear them talking in the hall. Turns out, that many hours later, they still smelled gas. They also repropped the doors open and still couldn't get ahold of the super.. Other neighbors came and went and said they actually smelled the gas the night before. FINALLY someone called the Fire Department, thus answering the question:

How many hours does it take how many tenants in a 7-story low rise to realize that they're all smelling gas fumes and contact the super or emergency services? TOO MANY!

Two engines pulled up, out came many yummy firemen of all ages and types, with lots of monitoring equipment to assess the situation. Problem was, we had propped open the doors and the fumes dispersed, and since the super didn't show up until an hour after they left, they couldn't get into the empty apartments on the lobby level or the office under renovation where we all though the gas was coming from. They weren't concerned enough to evacuate us and no one has really smelled it since the next morning.

However, I can now say that I've had more men in this apartment than I've ever anticipated. (Yay Me!)

I now know what a hot flash feels like. (Not Fun!)

I realized that all the friends I thought I could call in an emergency were out of town or also sick. (NOT GOOD!)

And BOY am I glad I showered, made up, properly underclothed, and cleaned up the apartment before the men were in here. (Oh boy I am glad !... And that all the 'unmentionables' weren't visible.)

Of course, looking around at the Holiday card workshop, the Toys for Tots bag, the quilt rack full of afghans, the shelves full of yarn/stuffed animals, the dress form, and the foam head, the unfinished/unassembled stuffed birds and blankets, not to mention the care packages for missionaries ... I don't think I need to worry about 'unmentionables' - I have other men-repellent issues.

Hell. I'm Auntie Nettie and I'm a Crazy Crafting Lady.

It's been a month -- and then some!

Home Sweet (Dreams) Home

Tonight I’ll go to sleep in my childhood bedroom, probably for one of the very last times.

I walked in, dropped my many bags and cares down, and just sighed deeply – inhaling the distinctive smell of "home" -- one that has welcomed me in since the summer of 1981. I can almost feel the house sighing with, and embracing, me. 

I’m so comfortable in this oddly shaped room, with its lack of right angles, its slanted creaking wooden floors, and nooks, crannies, dings and dents. There’s the wall where my bed was placed; where my brother and I used to tap out messages to each other in our own code. There are the four large windows where I looked out on my corner of the world, out over the treetops where I imagined I saw mythical creatures. Windows that let in fresh air and so much sun-, street-, and moonlight, so I could read after the official “light’s out.” There is the tiny closet, a vintage, period-appropriate feature of the house, which still managed to house a teenager’s growing wardrobe – 1980’s shoulder-pads and all. Over there is the corner where a bookshelf housed not only my burgeoning library, but where my childhood toys gave way to tokens from friends and high school beaus, and then, in turn, gave way college catalogs that helped shaped my future. 

These memories are overlaid by fading snapshots of other scenes. While my eyes take in the current neutral stripe of the wallpaper, I still can almost feel the roses of the vintage raised velvet pink and white pattern that faded to beige and disintegrated with age while I grew up. Another long blink replaces my remembered view of a utilitarian fold-out table with older memories of the hours spent at my childhood writing desk in one spot in the room, and then just as quickly flickers to other, later memories of my grandfather’s desk tucked behind the door -- my mother’s bill-paying spot. If I turn too fast, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see and hear the ghosts of childhood slumber parties just there, over there -- where now resides the fold-out couch I’m not-quite-looking forward to laying these “mature” bones down upon.

This lovely room, the largest of the bedrooms on the second floor, “straight ahead at the top of the stairs; don’t forget to duck” served so many functions. After my first two years of college, it began to house more of the family. One brother temporarily claimed it as his own, before he too was out of the house and on to new adventures. Then it served as my father’s office, as he needed a private sanctuary to counsel his flock and deal with all of the administrative work inherent in decades of church service. It was the gathering spot, above the football fray, for many a riotous Thanksgiving gathering, where women of many generations sat and gossiped. It became a guest room at holidays and breaks, Dad’s computer and computer-part equipment room, Mom’s storage room, a filing room, and my landing pad – always a safe haven to come home to – for any of its wandering former occupants.

The house is essentially empty now. The furniture that remains does so that the building is not totally vacant. (Or, in the instance of this massive fold-out couch, because it was so difficult to get it in, that it’s someone else’s problem to get out.) But it’s not really empty.

Throughout the house, but most especially in this room where I spent so many formative years, if I close my eyes and listen closely – I can hear the walls, windows, boards, and beams creaking back an echo of all the love and laughter and antics of my family and our friends. This place is a part of us, of who we were, of who we became, of who we are still becoming. We may have left, but in a sense, we will still remain. I know this place will always have a piece of my heart, even though I didn’t live here nearly as long as my parents. Despite that, our time here left an imprint – on us, and on the soul of the building. 

Although I've other trips back here since my parents moved away and we've waited for the next chapter to begin for this heritage house, this weekend is probably the last time I’ll sleep under its roof– and sleep in “my” bedroom. Despite the bittersweet poignancy of this realization, I know I’ll sleep safe and sound, and have sweet dreams, because …

Here?

This place?

There’s just no place like home.

Introducing G-Dawg!

As previously discussed in the FAQs, Auntie Nettie has a long standing policy of not posting pictures of herself, hubbie G-Dawg, or our off-spring on this blog. However, I decided to make an exception today.

Today, I'm proud to release a photo of the G-Dawg himself. Or actually, a partial picture of G-Dawg. He would like to remain anonymous, invisible you might say. I, on the other hand, would like to sing his praises! (Click on the links for more information about our wedding and offspring.)

G-Dawg may look like a stuffed shirt, but he's really ever so cuddly. He provides a warm and safe embrace, and a shoulder to lean on. He stays close by when we sleep, but doesn't get his feelings hurt when I push him away in the middle of the night when I need space. He's not a cover hog. When he gets "funky," he doesn't get a 'tude when I tell him he needs a wash. He's the perfect man for me. This is a picture of his better half.

Even though I consider my G-Dawg one-of-a-kind, I understand if you'd like a paragon like this of your very own. If so, you can go here and get one.

And now G-Dawg would like to resume being known as the Invisible Man in Auntie Nettie's Attic!*

*yes, Jane Eyre is my favorite book. How did you know?! He's nothing like Bertha. NOTHING!

The Amazing Adventures of ... the Shushing Librarian

We apologize for the interruptions in this blog. Auntie Nettie and the Shushing Librarian were both struck down with the flu-like symptoms that have been circulating. Unfortunately, they have been abed and away from the Internet.

More to come ... as the work desk is undug, energy is revitalized, and I have more time to waste.