Ode to the MTA

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Subway TokenI’d be in big trouble if it weren’t for the NYC Mass Transit Authority. And while it’s not always perfect, it gets the job done.  Most of my commuting over several decades has been within Manhattan and Queens with less frequent trips to the Bronx and Brooklyn, but after taking thousands of subway rides I feel the subway system is due some love from me so here goes.

 

Hail the MTA

For their trains with power and grace

Transporting millions of commuters

From place to place

 

Love the E train’s speed

Except on weekends

When it grinds to a halt

And often offends

 

With constant track work

And regular delays

Taunting strap hangers

Until the end of Sunday

 

Remember the 9?

It lasted just a few years

Then vaporized into the ether

And never again did appear

 

Spent years on the Shuttle

Waiting forever near the track

For a train that simply

Goes east to west and back

 

Took many rides on the A train

With one open eye

Often missing my stop

And ending up at street 125

 

Years later came the V then the M

To ease F train congestion

Whether it helped or not

Is still a big question

 

The 1, 2 and 3

The 6, 5 and 4

Narrower than the other trains

Struggling to get in the door

 

And once I squeeze in

I wish I had not

Because I’m standing next to a man

Using 5 seats as a cot

 

Back in the 80’s

The 1 train was so seedy

Every foot covered

With so much graffiti

 

For a change of pace

I ride the 7

Above ground with phone reception

It’s like a small slice of heaven

 

For my work commute

I prefer the B

But usually draw the short straw

And end up on the C

 

Take a ride on the N train

If you want  food that is Greek

Often served with strong Ouzo

That is not for the meek

 

If I can’t get an E train

I favor the F

With its loud screeching wheels

That will make you go deaf

 

Taking the D train

I’m never satisfied

Muttering under my breath

It’s not the train I wish to ride

 

The J/Z and  L lines

I must confide

I only rode once

And as for the Q, I was never inside

 

I remember the G train

My childhood ride

With seats of sharp wicker

Piercing my side

 

Ugly and green

It looked like a tank

Had no air conditioning

Man, that ride stank

 

Now I hop on the R train

To visit my childhood stop

Back then the fare was 20 cents

Compared to the $2.50 I now drop

 

But I’m not complaining

The subway’s still got appeal

With transportation to four boroughs

It’s still a great deal

 

 

What’s in a Name?

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nameMy mother had my name picked out before she had a husband picked out. She had three friends named Barbara and wanted a daughter with the same name. At first glance, this sounds like a heartwarming story about why I like my name, until one realizes that most women with the name Barbara are usually pushing 80. Barbara was the third most popular  name in the US for girls born in the 1930’s. By the 1960’s the name was losing popularity and today the name isn’t even on the list. I’m the youngest Barbara I know and many of the others I know with the same name are at least ten years my senior. Unlike boy’s names, many of which seem timeless, the popularity of girl’s names seems to change like the wind. The popular names of my generation such as Lisa, Susan, Karen, Debra, and Donna are rarely given to kids today and we’ve all been replaced by girls with names like Madison, Destiny, Sydney, and Brianna. Brooklyn and even Bronx have become popular names; I’m hoping some kid is named Queens soon. At least it’s more likely than being named Staten Island. ( I think).

My mother used to like to tell me about the origins of my name and how it  meant “little stranger.” But once I started doing my own research, I noticed that many simply translated it as “strange,” which while possibly a more accurate way of describing me, doesn’t have the sweetness and innocence of “little stranger.”

The funny thing about my name is that few people actually refer to me by it. It’s as if it’s too much of a mouthful for anyone with all those redundant syllables and repeating letters. People call me different names depending on what period in my life they met me. Friends from high school often call me Barbie, some call me Bobbie, others call me Babs and everyone I have ever met from outside of the five boroughs calls  me Barb. My own father hardly called me by my name, favoring his limitless nicknames including Barbie doll, sweetie-petitee, and the questionable Boober.

At this point I think there are only two people on the planet who call me Barbara; my mother, who has been so attached to the name for close to 80 years that she would never think of shortening or otherwise butchering it, and the Goy/Mench who always called me Barbara in his perfectly pitched Queens accent.

Don’t get me wrong; I like my name and it certainly has its upsides. I saved a lot of time when taking the SATs because when I filled in the bubbles on the answer sheet to write my name, I  only had to find three letters and then repeat them two or even three times. I didn’t usually have to repeat my name to strangers or spell it out (well, until Barbra Streisand came along, confused everyone, and screwed things up for the Barbaras who had been following the rules and spelling the name correctly all along).

But these days it’s getting harder to carry this name. I’m sure if I had to apply for a job, a hiring manager would take one look at my name on my resume and assume I was hiding 30 years of work experience. When I am in situations now where I need to say my name, it takes longer for it to register with people. Case in point, I went into a coffee shop the other day where they ask your name and write it on the cup.  I ended up with a skinny mocha latte marked Aruba.

Preparation H Always Gives Me Goosebumps..A Love Story

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prep HThe first job I ever had that wasn’t babysitting or dog walking was at a drug store on Queens Boulevard where I was a cashier. My friend Liora  got me the job  when we were seniors in high school. She was already working there and she got the job through a guy in her homeroom class that worked there. This was the first of several crappy cashier jobs, but this one holds a special place in my heart. Here’s why.

 

In  1980

I was  coming of age

When Sasoons, perms, and Candies

Were all the rage

 

A friend got me a job

At a local drugstore

Heck; my allowance was a dollar

And I was tired of being poor

 

Incredibly awkward

Small and shy

I played by the boss’ rules

To ensure I got by

 

Early on in the job

I met a pharmacy pro

He was 18 years old

And seemed to be in the know

 

He filled in the gaps

Of my experience void

While we priced boxes of ointments

To treat hemmoroids

 

He was confident and smart

And had such a quick wit

I fell head over heels

And thought, “Yep, this is it!”

 

I chatted and flirted

For how long I can’t count

But all of my efforts

To not much did amount

 

I consulted my brother

My best friend at the time

Who helped  devise a plan

To give him a sign

 

“The next time you see him

Skip the peck on the cheek

Kiss him four times on the lips

He won’t be able to speak”

 

He got the message

Lickity-split

But there were others

Who pitched a small fit

 

Mom cried, “What is his name?

Who is this boy?

He’s not a Jew!

You’ve hooked up with a Goy?”

 

One fun-filled summer

Hanging out at parks and the beach

Ending with me miles away

At a school out of reach

 

Colleges were attended

Responsibilities mounted

Years marched on

Too many to be counted

 

And then at the beginning

Of 2008

I had an idea

That I thought would be great

 

I reconnected to people

Thanks to Facebook

And found my true friend

And got my second look

 

After hundreds of emails

And a few false starts

I have  him again

Close to my heart

 

And as for my mother

After his 30 years on the bench

Now she adores him

And calls him a mench

Third Grade Exposed

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tights.3[10]In the third grade, I had a female teacher whose voice was so deep she could have very easily been the offspring of Golden Girl’s  Bea Arthur and R&B singer  Barry White. When she got angry, which seemed to be always, her voice got deeper and louder making the flimsy school chairs rattle  as our little  bottoms quaked in our seats. What upset our teacher most was when a student had a messy desk. Students had an opening under their desk to store things like their notebooks, pencil case, textbooks, and glue. The expectation was that we keep this area fairly orderly. But this is a tall order for a nine year old and some of us struggled with the concept of storage space and opened up our interpretation of what was  suitable to house there to include such items as crumpled papers, broken crayons, the test we failed last Tuesday and were supposed to have our parents sign, chewed gum, used tissues, and half a tuna sandwich. When the teacher spotted such a disaster, she would take the contents out of the desk, throw them on the floor, and berate the child publicly. As bad as we felt for the kids subjected to her wrath, we all enjoyed the break from our regularly scheduled program of math, science or whatever while the teacher lost her shit in front of the class. Perhaps this is why I now have a bizarre fascination with the show Hoarders. Sure, the therapists try to speak rationally to the hoarders when they uncover moldy food in the cupboards or a dead cat in the fridge, but you know deep down they just want to scream at these people, just like my third grade teacher.

Of course it wasn’t all bad and there were some great moments of learning during the year. One topic in particular stands out in my mind. In third grade we learned all about caterpillars and their subsequent transformation into butterflies. We were encouraged to go out into the wilds of central Queens (whatever shrubbery we could find) and hunt for caterpillars. We found, caught, studied,  and unfortunately unintentionally ended up killing many; green ones, black ones, furry ones, slimey ones. We caught so many of them that I believe the third grade class at P.S. 206 was directly responsible for their untimely demise. I have not seen a caterpillar in Queens since 1974.

Third grade was the first year that I ate lunch in  the cafeteria. My mother rotated between three artisan style sandwiches: tuna fish, egg salad, and a single slice of bologna smothered in mayonnaise on two pieces of Wonder Bread. Cha-Cha’s mother was always trying to fatten her up and she would send her to school with a sandwich stuffed with every type of luncheon meat imaginable…salami, ham, bologna…the only thing missing from that sandwich was a side of bacon. After three bites she was done and we turned our attention to more important tasks like searching my lunchbox to see if my mother had once again lost her mind and packed me  three ring dings.

After lunch, the kids would head out into the yard for recess. Cha-Cha and I participated in some of the activities, but we created games of our own as well. The kids were instructed to place their lunchboxes around the perimeter of the schoolyard before they started playing. We would survey the entire yard and find two lunchboxes with the same theme (this was easy, since half the student body had a Partridge Family or Brady Bunch lunchbox; except my brothers who were stuck with those stinking plaid lunchboxes that Santa brought them years before). Once we found two of the same lunchboxes, we would switch them so the kid with the thermos originally filled with Hawaiian Punch went home with a thermos with leftover Spagettiios.

When students weren’t at lunch or recess and needed another diversion from the daily drudgery of  school, we would head to the bathroom. After we had done our business, we would marvel at the collection of spitballs that hung from the ceiling as if we were looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. When the alternative was returning to class for history or “language arts” (the 1970’s euphemism for grammar), the spitball ceiling was indeed beautiful.

Another important reason to head to the bathroom (besides the obvious) was to fix our tights. No, I don’t mean readjusting them, although that was sometimes necessary as well when the elastic started giving out. In third grade, all the girls were still wearing dresses and skirts  which meant wearing tights that would often rip by 1o am. Rather than face the embarrassment and humiliation of an exposed kneecap, we chose to take matters into our own hands. Armed with our Elmer’s Glue, taken from our (hopefully  tidy) desks, we would escape to the bathroom to slather glue on the damaged area in an attempt to put the tights back together. We generally ended up with a big mess and at the end of the day, taking off the tights was like ripping a bandage off of a wound, but hey, at least our kneecaps weren’t out there for the whole world to see. As you can imagine, this recurring situation fueled my aversion to dresses and my rationale for switching over to the equivalent of men’s polyester leisure suits in forth grade.

Perhaps the most memorable moment of third grade was the third grade play. It was the first time we got to do a play and the first (and pretty much only) time I was cast as a lead. The play was called The Court of King Arithmetic and it was about a boy who has to go in front of the King (Arithmetic) because he doesn’t believe in math. King Arithmetic has four princess daughters: Princess Addition, Princess Subtraction, Princess Multiplication, and Princess Division. I was cast as Princess Multiplication which is so fitting since multiplication is the only math skill I ever mastered. My friends Amy, Gaby, and Jackie played the other princesses. In addition to being my only lead role, it was probably the only time anyone ever referred to me as princess (unless you count those few times in high school when someone might have called me a Jewish American Princess behind my back). In addition to the princesses, the king had a court of numbers zero through nine. When the boy who hates math tells zero (played  by Cha-Cha) she is nothing, zero retorts, “I may be nothing, but when I’m with him (cue to put arm around number nine played by a boy named Stephen), I’m 90”. After former New York State Governor Elliot Spitzer got his  new name, “Client #9, I was brought back to The Court of King Arithmetic and I started thinking how sometimes a #9 is better off not hooking up with anyone.

*photo courtesy of Choose to Thrive

 

Let’s Get Physical (or Not?): Exercise in the 70’s

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In the 70’s, exercise didn’t seem to play nearly as important a part in people’s lives as it does today. As kids, we were generally naturally active, because we only had seven television channels that showed nothing but snow for at least 30 hours per week, and moms had no problem kicking us out of the house on a weekend morning, telling us to go out and play, and reminding us not to show up again until dinner time. Exercise and sports were not heavily emphasized in my house growing up and my brothers used to say that they exercised their brains, therefore they did not need to exercise their bodies (insert eye roll here).  But I do remember a few fleeting moments of fitness over the years that influenced my future perspective on exercise and left the door wide open for Richard Simmons and Jane Fonda in the 80’s.

Jack LaLanne. When Jack LaLanne wasn’t pulling boats and tractor trailers with his teeth to demonstrate his strength, stamina, and incredibly durable dentures, he was wearing a jumpsuit and hosting an exercise show on TV geared towards stay-at-home moms. I remember mom doing a few standing leg lifts while Jack counted, but when he got to the jumping jacks, I think she went and lit a cigarette.

Jogging. When dad felt he needed to lose a few pounds (during the 4 & 20 Pies days), he would jog in a circular path around our connected living room, dining room, and kitchen wearing his crappy Converse sneakers. After his 40 laps he had probably traveled the equivalent of one city block at the speed of a Pong ball, but at least it was something. Once he completed his run, I’m sure he went and lit a cigarette. Actually, I would bet my life on it.

Metal Exercise Bands. Dad had the forerunner of today’s rubber exercise resistance bands which were heavy metal coils attached by two metal handles. The handles were pulled to stretch the coils and work your upper body . A great strengthening exercise without the fuss and muss of free weights or a barbell, until your sweaty palms forced you to lose your grip and  the metal handle wacked you in the eye. After receiving quite the shiner, dad retired the exercise bands and that’s when he started jogging in the house.

Grip Strengtheners. While most exercise routines with dad were short lived, he owned a gizmo that looked like an oversized nut cracker that he would squeeze to strengthen his grip. I never understood this one. He wasn’t too concerned if he was carrying around an extra 20 pounds and his heart wasn’t pumping blood around his body efficiently, but he always wanted to be sure that his grip was strong enough to open a jar of mixed nuts.

Gym Class. In the early years, gym class was more fun that exercise. One of the best games in gym class was dodge ball, because it was the only time of the day you were allowed to throw something at the other kids. But as we got older, gym class shifted from team games to activities that required some actual stamina. To make matters worse, in the older grades we were required to wear a gym uniform which for girls was a cross between a beach cover up and an adult diaper. When the weather got warm we would actually have to wear these outfits outside where the boys were also having gym period. Why the boys got to wear simple gym shorts and a tee shirt while the girls were subjected to blue and white striped polyester beach wear is beyond my comprehension and beyond the scope of this post, but suffice it to say that high school gym uniforms were the bane of every high school girl’s existence. The absolute worst unit in gym class was jogging. There was no real strategy for building up stamina and cardiovascular strength and on the days when the weather wouldn’t cooperate, we had to run around the school cafeteria as an alternative to the track which produced the same cardiovascular results as running laps around the family living room. To make matters worse, our track was not regulation size due to lack of space. We had to run five laps to complete a mile rather than the standard four. So when you were done with your forth lap and headed for the bleachers, the gym teacher would tap you on the back and remind you that you had one more lap to go. But perhaps the most awful thing about jogging was that in 1979 there was no such thing as a jog bra. Girls with more than a C cup risked knocking out an eye each week when they attended gym class. After several near misses, I swore I would never run again and I refused to run the popular three mile jogging loop at my college called Perimeter Road during any of my four years there just on principle. I never ran another step until 1991, and even then I wore two jog bras layered on top of one another, just to be safe.

Running Across Queens Boulevard. This was by far the best exercise program available growing up in Queens. It required strength, stamina, commitment, practice, mental toughness, Olympic-level precision, and a very strong desire to get to the other side in one piece. Luging and the skeleton pale in comparison.

In the 1980’s, more gyms started popping up and regular exercise became more commonplace. Perhaps this was because people began to see the health benefits of exercise, but more likely it was because people needed a legitimate reason to wear leg warmers, headbands, and gym shorts with white piping on the side.

Toys That Entertained, Intrigued, and Nearly Killed Us

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cap gunBefore there was 24/7 television programming and portable gaming devices, kids had to find other ways to pass the time when they got bored with annoying their siblings or parents. Some of the toys we had were timeless classics, still enjoyed by children today, some were idiotic fads, and others were downright dangerous. Here are a few of my favorites.

Lite Brite. My mother was game for letting us do art in the house as long as none of the materials had the potential for mess-making. This is why I got a cheap paint set for Christmas and only had an eight-pack of crayons. She found the perfect solution to fueling our creative juices when she purchased Lite Brite, a light box with small colored plastic pegs that fit into holes to create a lit picture. All you had to do was put your peg in the spot designated, making sure you used the right color. Otherwise you would end up with a picture that was different, displayed some degree of originality, and didn’t match the picture on the box, meaning you were a rule breaker and not a follower and you might be a big problem for society later on. I bet Jackson Pollack never had a Lite Brite set.

Monopoly. I played so much Monopoly as a kid, that requests from my kids to play it now are usually met with a response such as “Are you sure you want to make that big a commitment?” and “On a school night?” During summer vacations, after spending a full morning at the pool club, Cha-Cha and I would go to her house for a 2 to 3 hour game of monopoly before returning to the pool. She always won and one day in a fit of rage, I threw Boardwalk out the window. This is when i reached my saturation point and the game has never had the same appeal to me since.

Clackers. Clackers were two heavy plastic balls suspended by string which were swung up and down so when they banged each other they made a clacking noise. Clackers banged into more than each other. They sometimes smacked kids in the face, teeth, noses, and cheek bones. Sometimes the string would break and the Clacker would go flying and shatter. I’m sure at least one or two boys took a Clacker to the balls as well, although I haven’t heard of any incidents being officially reported (like, who would want to admit that!)

Don’t Spill the Beans. In this game, players took turns tossing plastic beans into a tipping pot. The object was to get all your beans into the pot without tipping them over. The game was about as interesting as watching paint dry until the pot was very full and you secretly hoped that your competitor would just throw in the damn bean that would bring that pot to its knees. With this game, came the beginnings of my understanding of the concept of schadenfreude, deriving pleasure from the misfortune of others.

Twister. Twister was a game with a large plastic mat with colored circles. You would spin a dial that would tell you what colored spot to place your hand or foot on and no two people could place a hand or foot on the same circle. This caused players to end up in some twisted contorted positions. The goal of the game was to be able to stay in these positions without falling. At least that’s what the rules said. I think the goal of the game was to end up in a position that was the closest thing to foreplay you would know for a good six years.

Gilbert Chemistry Set. When my brother Jeffrey was about eight years old he got a chemistry set. Mom always seemed a bit uneasy with this, but I think she saw it as some sort of rite of passage. When the dining room table was covered with newspaper, we knew the mad scientist was at work.Watching my mother oversee his experiments was a painful as watching her oversee our menorah during Hanukkah, and with good reason. Apparently, the kit included potassium permanganate, which besides being poisonous has been known to make things catch fire. Oh, and the kit contained ammonium nitrate, a chemical that is used to make homemade bombs.

Easy Bake Oven. For the girls of my generation, this was the quintessential toy of the 70’s, on par with the Cabbage Patch dolls of the 80’s and Tickle Me Elmo in the 90’s. I never had an easy bake oven because my mom thought they were dangerous. My brother was given cart blanche on making a bomb, but I wasn’t allowed to make a brownie using a light bulb.

Mystery Date. This was a wonderful board game for young girls, that helped erase all that Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem had achieved for women’s lib. In this game, players try to select cards to create a matching outfit which must then match the outfit of the date behind the mystery door. Possible dates included the formal dance date, the bowling date, the beach date, and the skiing date. The date to be avoided was the dud, a guy with a disheveled appearance and a five-o-clock shadow. In my opinion, the dud was the hottest of the bunch and bowling guy was the real loser, which is why I got bored with this game after about a year and later went on to find my own dud. Note to any former duds (I mean boyfriends) who may be reading this: this is not about you, ok?

Snow Cone Machine. Throw in some ice, crank the handle, and pour a syrup over the top that tastes like melted Luden’s cough drops (for about two slurps when it then tastes like ice that was melted and refrozen multiple times). Hell, yeah; Mmmm; I’m in.

Super Elastic Bubble Plastic. The set came with a tube of some sort of super smelly plastic goo and a thin straw. The goo was placed on the end of the straw and you could create a ball with psychedelic colors by blowing into the straw. The fumes from this stuff were also psychedelic in another sort of way and you could get buzzed off of them. Users were warned to never inhale through the straw, but we all know what happens when kids are told what NOT to do. And besides, by the time super elastic bubble plastic was in, mimeograph ink was out…you can see where I’m going with this.

Tea Set. I had a Raggedy Ann and Andy tea set and was given strict orders from mom that it was just pretend and real liquid or food should never touch these precious plastic plates. She tried to draw me into her world of dysfunctional household items, but I rebelled and when she went out shopping, I convinced my father to have tea parties with me with my tea set, peanut butter and jelly on crackers, and grape juice. My mother still doesn’t know about this, so please, let’s keep it between you and me.

Cap Guns and BB Guns. Cap guns created a loud sound and a puff of smoke simulating a gunshot when the trigger was pulled. Small disks of explosive compounds provided the noise and smoke. (oh, what a relief; I thought maybe they contained something dangerous). BB Guns actually shot pellets that stung like hell when they hit you. Mom didn’t allow us to have these. Instead, she preferred that we go unarmed through the mean city streets of Queens while the resident bad boys of Saxon Hall shot at us…usually while smoking candy cigarettes.

Pong. Pong was the very first video game that was made available for home use. I was already a teenager by the time I first played this. My friend Susan was the first kid I knew to have Pong and I quickly became addicted to it. The game was an electronic version of table tennis. In retrospect, it required about as much hand-eye coordination as hitting a beach ball traveling at one mile per hour with an oversized tennis racket, but at the time, it seemed really challenging.

Cardboard Boxes. We had some great toys, but sometimes the best toy in the house was the cardboard box lying around after a delivery of groceries or some new bedding. We spent endless hours making forts, using the box as a vehicle without wheels, and climbing in and out of it. Boxes allowed us to be imaginative (unlike Lite Brite) and just enjoy something simple. I once got a huge cut on my elbow from playing in a cardboard box. It never healed properly and I have a scar from it to this day.It’s a great reminder of a fun- filled era of games and toys and lasting memories with friends and family.

Ten Questions I’ve Always Wanted to Ask the Brady Bunch

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In the early to mid-seventies, one of the most talked about television shows among kids was The Brady Bunch. In many children’s eyes, this family was perfect and was the yardstick we used to judge our own families. Unfortunately, our own families never measured up to this one, and we had to face the cold, harsh reality that our families sucked and we would never get to live in a house with a cool staircase, a big yard, and live-in help. Yet despite the huge abyss that we believed separated our modest lives in Queens from anything Brady-like, I had my questions about that bunch. Here are just a few.

  1. If Mike Brady was such a great architect, why did they live in a house where six kids where holed up in two rooms? Couldn’t he get creative? Put up a wall or build an addition the the house or something? Didn’t he watch HGTV and know how to make this space work? Did Alice really need to live in or should that room have gone to another kid?
  2. Did Mr. and Mrs. Brady read any studies published about the issues of being a middle child? If they had, is it possible that Peter Brady would not have acted out, seeking attention by signing a contract to appear on VH1’s Surreal World?
  3. What was up with Carol Brady’s hair. Wasn’t there a better way to grow out your hair after a pixie cut? Wasn’t Vidal Sassoon on the set?
  4. What kind of health insurance did the Bradys’ have? Neither of the parents complained about the doctors’ bills when Peter (middle child!) accidentally hit Marcia in the nose with that football. They must have had a damn good plan.
  5. Why was it that the Bradys’ didn’t have any diverse friends that were say, African American, Asian, Muslim, or Jewish, but they were paling around with a midget? (Cousin Oliver, final season)
  6. Why didn’t anyone suggest speech therapy for Cindy’s lisp?
  7. Did Sam the butcher sometimes stay over in Alice’s room?
  8. How did a family of eight survive with just one TV? (I only remember seeing one in the den).
  9. What happened to Carol Brady’s first husband? Was he dead? Were they divorced? Did he have life insurance? Pay alimony? Didn’t the girls ever think about him? Couldn’t they have included a flashback episode?
  10. Did Jan really need all that hair? Hasn’t she ever heard of Locks of Love?

These questions usually played over and over in my head during the show’s Friday night 8 pm time slot, but by 8:30, it was time for The Partridge Family, which brought up a whole host of new questions including, where was their dad, was Tracy so musically inept that all she could play was the tambourine, and why the hell didn’t they fire that stylist who dressed them all in pre-Seinfeld puffy shirts? 

 

Everybody Loves Jeffrey

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Jeffrey and BarbieHaving an older brother has its pluses and minuses and for the most part I adored my brother Jeffrey. When we were young, I mimicked everything he did and when we were teenagers, I sought his advice on everything from academics to music to boys. 

But into many people’s lives, a bit of sibling rivalry must fall, and I was no exception. Things always came easy for my brother. He was a straight-A student and all the teachers loved him, particularly the ones who couldn’t stand me.

He always seemed to be getting some award at school named after some dead teacher. He received so many of these I started wondering if someone was “offing” teachers just to have another reason to give my brother another recognition for his talents.

In the sixth grade, he was awarded a dictionary with his name engraved on it for being the best all-around student. For years, that dictionary sat like a tschoke in the living room and if anyone ever had to look up a word, that dictionary was the only available resource to do so.  My mom still uses it, even though I keep reminding her that Wikipedia and Google are fine substitutes and much more reputable than a dictionary published in the 70’s, because as you all know, everything published on the Internet is true.  It’s no use though, because if she needs to know how to spell a word like esquamulose or learn the meaning of  smaragdine, she is headed to that dictionary.

In addition to constantly being showered with some award, Jeffrey was always selected to attend a special something or other. He was picked to attend a special experimental school for two years and spend a summer at some special international camp. This was years before Saturday Night Live’s Dana Carvey created the Church Lady character and coined the phrase, “well isn’t that spe-cial” but I was probably secretly mouthing something similar while Jeffrey got all this “spe-cial” attention.

His academic wins continued throughout high school, when he was “crowned” Boy Arista Leader and given some sort of power trip role among the other school brainiacs. My mother bought him a special suit for the induction ceremony that looked a lot like a Catholic school uniform, an odd choice for a proud Jewish mother.

In addition to being really smart, Jeffrey was really lucky. This became evident every year at the annual Purim Carnival hosted by Temple Isaiah in Queens. At the event, kids got to participate in carnival-like games such as throwing darts at balloons and playing ring toss. They won cheap prizes, mainly the type of stuff that breaks before you get home or is broken on purpose by your mother because it makes an annoying sound. But every year, there was a contest where kids tried to guess how many forks or M&M’s or jelly beans were in a huge jar. The kid who came closest to the correct amount won a decent prize like a big box of lollipops. My brother seemed to win this contest every year we attended the Purim Carnival. I wonder if he can count cards too.

Even the way Jeffrey dressed made him stand out as special. When he wasn’t wearing his Arista boy leader suit, he selected a style of dress that was quite different than his peers. Most guys were wearing jeans and concert tee shirts, but Jeffrey went for a different look that was a cross between Alex Keaton in Family Ties and Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever. He happened upon a men’s clothing store in the Queens Center Mall that sold these silk/polyester blend shirts and he would pair these with polyester dress pants. He kept a few of the top buttons of the shirt open despite his lack of chest hair and he even donned a gold chain. He always wore shoes, never sneakers or even boots. When the shirts got wrinkled (wait, I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen with polyester?) he would iron the cuffs and collar and put a sweater over it to hide any imperfections with the rest of the shirt.

As jealous as I could sometimes get over the things that came my brother’s way, I don’t think I ever got mad at him. Maybe that’s because he always shared his Purim booty, but probably because deep down I was really proud to have him as my brother.


Fourth Grade and the Beginnings of My Checkered Past

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MomNERDFourth grade was a year of change and an end of innocence. Watergate was in full swing, the US was in a recession, and Cher was appearing regularly on television half naked. I began my own experimentation and rebellion or sorts during this time period as well.

In fourth grade we had a spelling and math test every week on Friday. I breezed through math in third grade because the main thing we learned that year was multiplication which is all memorization…something I can actually do (well, until cell phones with auto dial were invented and my ability to memorize anything went out the window). But fourth grade math was division, which requires some degree of logical thinking, something I have none of.

Each week we were handed a piece of pale yellow paper and the teacher dictated the math questions we were to answer. She didn’t use mimeograph paper for math tests and while most kids continued to sniff the pale yellow paper hoping for a quick buzz, all we ever got was the faint smell of the storage closet where the paper was kept.

Since we were required to answer several math problems, the teacher instructed us on how to fold the paper to achieve the correct number of boxes to serve as a work space for each problem. If there were eight math problems I could handle the folding ritual, but on the weeks when there were 16 problems to solve, my paper often looked like a failed attempt at origami or a handmade accordion fan.

Once the paper was folded and the problems were dictated, I employed a new skill I had learned that year…cheating. My friend Gaby was always up for a dare, plus she was a much better math student than me, so who was I to argue? We blatantly surveyed each other’s papers, yet we were never caught. It seemed like an ingenious plan at the time, however, I left fourth grade lacking some basic math skills that were later uncovered by my sixth grade teacher who couldn’t stand to look at me. Note to friends: This is why you should never ask me to divide the check after a gathering with multiple people. Some people will end up kicking in $2 while you will be asked to pay $50.

Fourth grade was without a doubt the year I made the biggest fashion statement of my life. In fourth grade, I stopped wearing dresses to school and started wearing pants. In 1973, school-appropriate pants for girls were Danskins. The tween Danskin ensembles of the day were the equivalent of men’s polyester leisure suits for ten-year-old girls. My favorite outfit was a pair of green Danskin pants with an orange Danskin turtleneck. I wore a multi-colored, multi-patterned knit vest over this and put the finishing touches on the look by wearing two big ponytails tied together with orange yarn (mom’s idea). One week I wore this get-up on a Friday when we had our math and spelling test and I earned grades of 100 percent on both. I became convinced that the outfit had something to do with this and secretly planned to wear this each week on Friday in hopes of repeating the 100 percent test scores. It must have been pretty obvious, because the teacher actually sent a note home to my mother asking why I wore the same thing every Friday. I’m not sure if the teacher had picked up on my leanings towards obsessive compulsive disorder or she was just trying to throw a hint mom’s way that she should buy me some more clothes, but all I know is that since I outgrew that outfit in the fourth grade, the 100’s on my math tests have been few and far between.

In fourth grade we finally got to stop making the obligatory Mother’s Day gifts of the 70’s such as a pencil holder made out of an old soup can, glue, and dried macaroni and a jewelry case made out of an empty cigar box that no matter how much cologne you sprayed in it still smelled like a cigar box (sometimes a cigar is just a cigar). Our fourth grade teacher came up with the idea to create a cookbook for the moms for Mother’s Day. Each kid had to request a favorite recipe from their mom, but keep the project a secret.  The teacher copied all the recipes (wait a minute; no…she mimeographed them!) and each kid created a special cover for the book out of of some strange, exceptionally durable material that felt like wallpaper, (perhaps left over from the teacher’s home renovation project).

One of my favorite recipes from that book was from Harlan’s mom. The recipe was for orange Jello. “This is a recipe?” you might ask. But wait; in his mother’s recipe you add orange juice instead of water! Fancy, huh? I still remember the instructions: Empty box of jello into a bowl, add one cup orange juice, stir, refrigerate, serve. So simple and yet so 70’s. My mom contributed a recipe called Chicken Tarragon Champignons. I have no idea how to pronounce this, but I do remember the recipe called for so much butter it should have been served with a side of Lipitor. My mother still has this cookbook and it is not unusual for her to call me and tell me things like, “I made Patti’s mother’s ham steak with pineapple recipe yesterday for dinner.” Unfortunately, I think she has yet to try the orange Jello recipe.

After the cookbooks were delivered, the teacher arranged a day where each mom could cook the dish supplied in the cookbook and we could have a feast in the school cafeteria. It was a festive occasion, until a boy named Roger realized that the five bowls he had consumed of what he thought was chicken soup was actually an Asian-inspired dish made with whale meat. The event ended with the janitor mopping up the three or four bowls of soup that Roger puked back up.

When Roger wasn’t eating whale soup, he was often getting into fist fights with another boy in the class. This was one of the most exciting points of the day because Roger was the heart throb of many of the girls and we would all jump up and down on the desks screaming, “Go Roger, Go!” and watching a fellow classmate get pummeled until the teacher was able to peel the two apart. These fights left such an impression on me that each night after my father came home from work, I would reenact that day’s fight and insert a bleep sound for each time one boy had cursed at the other.

Many of my other memories of fourth grade have faded, but sometimes when I go to visit my mom, I take out that cookbook and if I breath into it really deeply, the memories come back along with the faint smell of mimeograph ink.

 

Got GPS? Don’t Bother Using it in Queens

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When I was in the second grade, we had a homework assignment to study a map of our neighborhood, memorize the names of the streets, and learn their order. This sounds like a reasonable homework assignment, until one realizes that even a rocket scientist with a map, a compass, a weather vane, and GPS would have a hard time figuring out where the hell he was going in Queens.

Originally, what is now the borough of Queens was 60 separate villages. These villages became Queens which was incorporated into New York City in 1898. In an effort to unify the streets across all these villages, someone came up with what many consider to be the most convoluted grid system in the universe.

In Queens, avenues run east and west and streets run north and south. Avenues have consecutive numbers, but often there are additional parallel streets in between the avenues that need to be called something, so they have been assigned the same numbers and called roads or drives, in that order.

So if there was a street between 65th and 66th Avenues, it would be called 65th Road. If there was another one, it would be called 65th Drive. Sometimes there are roads and drives between the avenues, sometimes there is only a road. Sometimes the avenues run consecutively with nothing in between. A destination that you originally thought was ten blocks away might be more like 30.

The same concept is applied to streets. If there is an additional street that needs naming between the consecutively numbered streets, they are called places and lanes. In some cases, streets aren’t even in numerical order. For example, if I walk from 99th Street where I grew up over to the next street, I hit 102nd Street. What happened to 100th and 101st Street? It’s across an expressway, several zip codes away. Easy Peasey.

Curved roads that are not parallel with either the avenues or the streets have numbers and are called crescents, courts or terraces. Addresses are hyphenated. The number before the hyphen is the cross street, and the number after the hyphen is the position on the block. For example, 62-38 99th Street  is in the 38th position on 99th Street and has 62nd Avenue as the cross street. Note to native Queens residents. Don’t be impressed; I only recently learned all this from Wikipedia.

In some parts of the borough, there are stretches of named streets in between numbered ones, making this grid system pretty useless. These named streets were left over from the pre-grid days and retained by members of the community who thought the grid system was pretty lame. Several subway stations in the western part of Queens have retained the original street names, yet the corresponding street signs are numbers. Leave it to the MTA to mess with our heads by calling 46th Street Bliss Street Station and naming the stop at 33rd Street Rawson Street. The fancy schmancy section of Queens, Forest Hills Gardens, gave the finger to the grid system as well and retained their original names rather than numbers. Streets have names that follow the letters of the alphabet, something I can generally handle.

Below is a comparison of a map of a neighborhood in Queens versus one in Manhattan. Note the differences. For the Queens map, you can figure out where you are going by multiplying the distance by the square root of pi divided by 15, subtracting 2,982, and then adding 6.; this will get you to within 5 miles of your desired destination. To achieve the same task in Manhattan, all you have to be able to do is count.

regopark2006-555x380

 

Manhattan

 The system is so convoluted that I can ask my mother, a resident of Queens for close to 50 years, to name the street or avenue two blocks over from her apartment and she cannot answer with 100% confidence. 

As kids, we never said things like “meet me on the corner of 98th Street and 62nd Drive,” because no one knew where that was, even if it was just a block or two away. Instead we relied on landmarks as our meeting place and would say things like, “meet me in front of the drugstore; the one with the cashier with the 10 inch fingernails,” or “meet me under the Long Island Expressway at the place where my brother got mugged last week,” or  meet me in front of that store that sells all the smelly cheese.” The only two streets that were ever referenced were Queens Boulevard (because the Boulevard of Death deserves that respect) and Austin Street because that was the high school equivalent of 5th Avenue in Manhattan.

When I moved to Manhattan, decades ago, being able to find my way around was like a breath of fresh air. I still marvel at the fact that 85th Street comes after 84th Street and Second Avenue is east of Third Avenue. When I return to Queens I will need to surround myself with the few geographically clairvoyant people I know from the borough who seem to have tackled this grid thing and can safely get me from point A to point B.