Apt. #9G

So, I started this post a few months ago - when the weather was warm and air conditioning (or lack thereof) was first and foremost on my mind. And, here it is Fall. Oh well - better late than never....


A few weeks ago, the unimaginable happened: our central air conditioning died. We're scheduled to be get a new unit on Thursday, but since our condenser went to Air Conditioning heaven, we've thrown open the windows and turned on our ceiling fans in an attempt to circulate the humid, lifeless air. While I like to pretend that the Crawfords have gone "green", in reality, I am counting down the days until we restore our central air, close our windows and wait in our air-tight sealed house for the next disaster to strike.

The past few weeks without central air have been traumatic, but, in some ways, it has also been a re-awakening of memories from my childhood. A step back in time to 2811 Exterior Street and our brutally hot summers in Apt. #9G.

Growing up in Marble Hill (a city housing project in the Bronx) was fairly uneventful - at least until the summer arrived. And then, our apt. turned into a stifling inferno. In an attempt to stay cool, the Marble Hill kids fled. Like an annual mass migration, we fled our apartments and spent as much time as possible outside during the summer days. And, it was during my summer months in outside exile that I witnessed a phenomena unique to city kids: The Yell, Toss or Hurl syndrome.

What sounds like a variation of Tourettes Syndrome was actually a practice employed by both city kids and parents alike. My own experience with this syndrome went something like this:

I would stand outside my building, look up at our living room window and with a high, piercing yell of "MOM", I would continue to shriek until she came to the window. When her head finally appeared at the window, she'd usually respond in her semi-annoyed tone "Whatta want?"

"Can you throw me down my ball?"

After a brief disappearance, my mother's face would then reappear in the living room window. And, with a windup and toss to rival any great Bronx Bomber, my mother would hurl my Spalding ball out the living room window. If I were lucky and my mother was on her game that day, the ball would sail flawlessly through the air, 9 stories down and land near where I was waiting below. But, if I caught her on one of her off-days, I'd end up chasing the ball, bounce after bounce, until it finally came to rest. And, if I caught her on one of her really off-days, I would retrieve the ball when my eyes had re-adjusted, I was no longer seeing stars and my head had stopped throbbing.

On any given day, the above scenario could be repeated several times as I usually requested many items: jump rope, ice cream money or a sweater.

As a child afflicted with the Yell, Toss or Hurl syndrome, I came to realize that most parents had a unique style of dealing with their kids' pleas. And, most parents' throwing style fit into a general category. My mother was a classic Hurler.

As a general rule, Hurlers were quick to retrieve their kids' requested item and promptly send it on its way out the window. Hurlers wasted no time or energy wrapping or securing the item. In one sense, it was a relief to see my mother, the Hurler, come to the window because I knew that my requested item would be airborne within a matter of seconds.

But, as a street-smart Marble Hill kid, I also came to realize that because they were impulsive, Hurlers were also unpredictable. I never knew if my mother's trajectory would be on target and if my item would make it into my waiting hands. Often, ice cream money scattered randomly throughout the air and jump ropes ended up a tangled mess in the bushes. And sometimes, as was the case with my favorite blue sweater, the item seemingly disappeared into thin air. I can only imagine the surprised look on Mary's face in Apt #5G, when my mother, the Hurler, appeared at her apt. door to re-claim my AWOL sweater and express remorse about Mary's open window and the sweater's ill-fated flight.

Unlike my mother who was a Hurler and whose items often went MIA, my father was a classic Tosser. On the occasions when my mother was either not home or engrossed in "As the World Turns", my father would appear at the living room window upon hearing my shriek of "MOM". And then, time stood still. Because, my father, the Tosser, did not set an item in motion unless it was securely wrapped, properly packaged to withstand the elements and accompanied with a flight plan.

And this all took time. A lot of time.

Despite my reoccurring, desperate pleas for him to just throw down the item, my father, the Tosser, only reappeared at the living room window after he had meticulously wrapped the item in newspaper and secured the wrapping with scotch tape. Once that was done, he would then placed the item in a larger, cushioned, air-tight sealed bag. To prevent any mid-air catastrophes, the bag was then secured with additional all-weather tape. And sometimes, if he was feeling overly ambitious, my father would print my name on the bag with a permanent, black marker to ensure that it could not be mistakenly claimed during its flight. Then - and only then - the item was ready to launch out of our living room window.

My father's throwing technique, which was a gentle toss, was deliberate and strategically planned. Depending on wind and weather conditions, my father would motion me to "move forward, a little to the left, one step back and two to the right". When he was satisfied that my position was dead-center like the bulls-eye on a target, he would cradle the air-tight bag in his hand and gently move his arm back and forth. And, while I waited anxiously for him to release his hold on the bag, he would often abort the launch unexpectedly.

Yet, when my father finally released the bag from his grip, it glided effortlessly through the air, 9 stories down and gently landed within inches of my feet. Even NASA could not have orchestrated a more impressive touchdown. And, because of his impeccable launch/landing record, my father, the Tosser, always managed to remain anonymous to Mary in Apt. #5G!

When I was around 11 years old, Marble Hill began to "change" and most of the families we were friendly with began moving to other places. Although it has been over 40 years since I lived in Apt. #9G, we occasionally pass "the projects" on our way to NYC. Whenever we do drive by, I pride myself on the fact that I can immediately spot my living room window. I don't even have to count up 9 windows or count down 5 windows from the top floor. The living room window is immortalized in my memory.

And while I haven't seen any items flying from the window as we pass by on the Major Deegan, I do wonder when that window was last used as a launch pad. And, I also wonder how many other MIA objects Mary found when she packed up and moved from Apt. #5G! LOL



Photo of Marble Hill

Penguins, Track and Running 101

Ten years ago, I became a penguin. I didn't really intend to become a penguin - it just kinda happened.

I had been going to Ed's races for several years and while it was impressive to watch the "good" runners sprint across the finish line, I always seemed to marvel at the not-so-good runners...the runners who straggled along at the rear of the pack, gasping for air and being closely followed by the police escort. To me, they were the runners who deserved all the adoration and attention. I mean, everyone knew that Mike Slinskey or Marissa Hanson were going to come across the finish line in close-to-first place...it was just a matter of how many seconds they were going to cut off their time. But, the real suspense was if the penguins could muster up enough energy, motivation, and/or divine intervention and cross the finish line.

So, when I turned 40, I decided to run my first 5k. It was then that I officially became a penguin. And, ten years later, I am still officially a penguin. Ten years after the fact,I would prefer not to be a penguin. But, so be it. Some things may not be meant to change.

Nevertheless, when my neighbor Laura (a fellow penguin) asked if I wanted to start going to a Track "training session" every Tuesday, I decided that maybe with a little coaching, I could graduate from the Penguin division to "Beginning Runner". What the heck - it was worth a shot.

At the first training session, a woman came up to me and introduced herself. It quickly became clear to me that she was the self-appointed "Track Mother" (thanks to Ed for the appropriate name). Besides sending out emails with the Muscle of the Day (who even knew I had these muscles?), it seemed that the Track Mother's responsibilities included greeting new Penguins, yelling at new runners when they were in the outside track lane, yelling at new runners when they were in the inside track lane, and apparently, she is also the "Keeper of the Porta-Potty".

But, more than anything, the Track Mother is intent on playing Matchmaker. She is determined to match runners of similar speeds so they can run together. Because, according to the Track Mother, nobody likes to run alone. Based on our VDOTS (and I still have no idea what VDOT stands for), we should be able to find another runner at the training session and socialize as we run. When asked what my VDOT was, The Track Mother replied "No one has a VDOT that low... it can't be". Yes Track Mom... it can be.

While The Track Mother seems to have good intentions, what she doesn't "get" is that some penguins (myself included) do actually want to run alone. I joined this track training session because I wanted to try to increase my running endurance, lower my 5k time and possibly pick up some tips from the coaches. I am perfectly content running solo and saving every molecule of oxygen that I have for running.

However, two weeks ago, after the training session, the Track Mother approached me yet again and bestowed upon me the merits of having a running partner - or a running "pack". Trying to keep an open mind, I listened to her theories and thought maybe she was on to something. Maybe if I were chatting with another runner, it would make the time go faster or make the agony of running seem somehow less horrendous. And, when I reminded the Track Mother that my VDOT was "oh-so-low" and that finding another partner within this group of experienced runners would be difficult, she contemplated for a moment and then declared that she had a solution. I, the penguin with the low VDOT, would get a "head-start" and then the pack of runners, with not-so-low VDOTS, would start to run. And, at some very quick point, they would catch up to me, our VDOTS would somehow blend and we would all run together in harmony.

I politely declined this offer.

So, for now, I am continuing to run solo as a penguin. And, most people who know me well, know that I have one real long-term goal for running: to compete in a 5k when I am 70 years old. It quickly became evident to me that there are few-to-none 70+ year old women 5k runners. Finally, I'd be a shoe-in for that long awaited trophy! And, who knows, maybe at that point, I'd feel the need to be a more "social" runner. Or a Track Mother. But one thing's for sure, I'll never be the "Keeper of the Porta- Potty" LOL.

My First Real Blog

While talking to a co-worker today, I recalled an incident last week that I had wanted to blog about. Actually, it was Ed who first suggested that I blog about it but that was probably so I would stop ranting and raving to him. Hence, my first true blog and it probably ranks at #1 on my list of Things that Irritate Me: Rude People.

Lately, it seems that they are all over. While sitting at Lauren's National Honor Society ceremony last week, I was astounded at the number of people, sitting in the audience, who were oblivious to the fact that someone on stage was speaking. Were these people suffering from a profound hearing loss and that is why they continued to carry on their own private conversations? No, I don't think so. I think they were just rude. Or clueless. Or both.

If it hadn't been for the fact that I had already changed my seat one time previously -to avoid another rude person - I would have gotten up in the middle of the ceremony and changed my seat again so I could avoid the man sitting behind me, who spoke to his wife non-stop during the ceremony. I don't think she was even interested in what he was talking about, but maybe she wasn't rude enough to tell him to shut up. I wanted to find a new seat, but that would have been .... rude.

A month ago, when I went to see John Jay's musical, I was astounded at how well-behaved the audience around me seemed to me. No gum-chewing, no talking, no singing-along and not even any snoring. At intermission, I noted to Laura how I lucked out with my seat. Little did I know that I had spoken too soon. Ten minutes into the second act, I heard the first crinkle. It sounded way too loud to be a candy wrapper. And then, another crinkle. My crinkle radar was now on high alert. For the next 10 minutes, there was a constant, loud crinkling noise behind me. Sometimes it was a solo crinkle, other times, it was a symphony of crinkles. My friend Vicky looked at me and asked "What is that?"

When I turned around to investigate, I saw the woman behind me to my left scorning at the teenager next to her. The teenager, who was craddling a plastic bottle of water, was mesmerized by the show and apparently, unaware that each time she flexed her hand, the bottle crinkled. Loudly. And with each flex of the hand, the bottle crinkled more loudly until finally, the words blurted from my mouth "Excuse me - would you please stop with the water bottle?" She responded with a nod of the head and the crinkling mostly ceased. In this instance, I think it was more a case of the teenager being clueless. Or hearing-impaired. Or somehow, mesmerized by the lackluster songs and lyrics of Titanic (but that's another blog).

So, why is it that people nowadays in public places are so rude and/or clueless? Why do they think it is ok to talk when someone else is talking, pop and smack gum during movies, unwrap candy at Broadway shows and butt into other people's private conversations?

Like the woman at Chicago a few months ago, who upon hearing me say to Lisa that Ashley Simpson needed to learn how to act, launched into a dissertation about people like myself, who had no idea how difficult it was to act and how easy I thought it was to perform on stage. So, to you Rude Broadway Lady, I say "who invited you into my conversation?" Who asked for your unsolicited comments and what made you think it was OK to launch into a sermon and tell me I didn't know what I was talking about?

Nevertheless, kudos to Rude Broadway Lady's daughter, who tried to stifle her mother. Maybe the daughter was embarrassed or maybe she realized just how rude her mother was acting. Or maybe she just agreed with me that Ashley Simpson really can't act. LOL

I Did It

There. I did it -- I created a blog. That's the first step. Now, I need to actually write something. That's the scary part. I'll save the scary part for tomorow - or the next day.

Quick -sign up fast. Who wants to be my first follower????