My daughter, the New Yorker

On June 15th I arrived in New York's Laguardia Airport
(named after Fiorello Laguardia. Mayor of NYC from 1934 to 1945. A fiery and devoted reformer. Son of a Jewish mother and a lapsed-Catholic-turned athiest-Italian father.) for a 4-day visit with Ms. Nora.
I was under STRICT ORDERS to not set foot in a cab until 5:30 to ensure that Nora would be at her apartment to greet me.
According to Nora, her apartment is a $10 cab ride and just minutes away from Astoria. (an early village of Queens named after fur tycoon John Astor.)

Cell Phone conversation:
Nora: Where are you?
Me: Getting my baggage.
Nora: I'm leaving work. Don't leave there until 5:30. I mean DON'T even get in line for the cab until 5:30.

Dutiful mother that I am, I sat around, then que-ed up for my cab. Told the "GrandMaster Cabbie" my destination and off I went with my elderly Sikh cabbie. Like many drivers in many cities, he had a limited command of the English language. I was unsure if he knew where 30th Avenue and 43rd Street was.


Seconds later:
Nora: Where are you?
Me: In the cab.
Nora: No. What street are you on?
Me: ummm. Somewhere on a ramp exit. I'll call you when I get closer.

7 minutes later:
Me: Hello.
Nora: Where are you?
Me: Hmmm. Let me see. Wait. OK. Street Sign. 83rd and Astoria Blvd.
Nora: WHAT! Why is your driver taking the longest way from the airport. He's just pissed that he didn't get a Manhattan fare.
Me: Shhhh. It's ok. I'm on the way.
Nora: What does the meter say.
Me: $7.40
Nora: YOU"RE KIDDING! Ask him. NOW. Why is he taking the long way. TELL HIM that you're not paying more than $10 bucks.
Get his license number.
Me: *in a hushed tone* Nora, he is simply trying to make a living. I'll be there shortly. Just wait somewhere so I can see you.
Nora: TELL HIM HE"S GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME when he gets here! What's the meter NOW!

Luckily at that moment the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I'm certain that Nora took shelter somewhere.

We pulled up in front of St. Joseph Catholic Church (nor sure if Fiorello attended or not) on the corner of 30th Avenue and 43rd Street.

I paid my turban-wearing driver. Gave him a $2 tip in spite of Nora. Wished him a lovely day. And waved at my lovely daughter who was just crossing the street.

Listening to: New York State of Mind, Billy Joel
Enjoying: Sicilian Olives

Things we never knew.

You never know when you'll get an insight into your spouse.
Take Sunday evening, for example.

--The Husband was watching a program on Public TV. I only caught the brief segment about drug use during the 60s. You know--dirty, pot smoking hippies, free love and all that. How drug use started out as an innocent, have a good time sort of thing. Then turned dark and dangerous. From free-wheeling, mud puddles of Woodstock to the insidious Stones concert at Altamont when Hell's Angels "security" stabbed some poor altered-consciousness slob who was just trying to get on the stage.

--Segue from a peace and love San Francisco demonstration to clips of servicemen in Viet Nam smoking pot -- actually using a rifle as a bong. (Yes, kids, I know and can identify a bong.) Then, footage of the requisite grim and depressing battlefield shots. Lots of casualties. And lots and lots of drugs.
Me: "I can't believe this. This is so sad--most of those guys are probably dead!"
The Husband: "We didn't do THAT many drugs. At least not in the field. (He was in the infantry.) We drank a lot, though."
I have a difficult time watching anything related to war, battlefield casualties. Evening listening to the radio and hearing about more dead servicemen makes me emotional. Especially, with Paddy off in the Navy. That picture is The Husband at age 19.

Dinner table conversation later:
Me: So, that show was disturbing. You're really lucky to be alive.
The Husband: Oh, really!? (irony dripping)
Long pause
The Husband: Yeah, probably lucky at least 4 times.
Me: I mean, being in the field and all. . .
The Husband: Did I ever tell you about the time I was trying to get a dead guy into a helicopter? I just couldn't get a hold of him. This other guy pushed me out of the way and grabbed the guy. 5 seconds later he took a bullet to the head.
Me: silent
The Husband: Yeah, I must have gone into shock or something. I can't remember the guy. I can just remember seeing his brains in the grooves on the floor."

Why, no dear, you never did tell me that story. And now, here we are 37 years later eating dinner at our kitchen table. Lucky him. Lucky that the universe conspired to bring us where we are. That The Husband survived his teens, 18 months in the Marine Corps and our marriage, in spite of himself. That we conspired, against all odds, to stay together. With our 32nd Wedding Anniversary fast approaching, it's a fine time to reflect on how we got here.

Listening to: Walk on the Wild Side, Lou Reed
Eating: Sesame Thins and a late dinner

The tables are turned.

Who: Madge
What: Heads off into the wild blue yonder.
When: Around 1:10 pm depending on Northwest Airlines' flight schedule.
Where: New York City
Why: visiting Nora.

I was agitating about packing: Do I have enough clothes? Do I have the right clothes for the hip-capital-of-the-world? What about shoes? Workout togs? Toothbrush? Shampoo?

Aw, quit it now. I realized that for once I can mooch off my child for a change. Shampoo? Who needs it, I'm sure she is completly stocked with health and beauty aids. Emphasis on the beauty. Oh, I look forward to being entertained in the streets of Astoria.

I intend to completely document the lifestyles of the poor and unknown including her shoebox-sized apartment. So, check back next week for a photo essay on Queens. MadgeWorld meets Astoria. Stay tuned.

Listening to: Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell
Waiting: for my cab.

Summer's temporary pleasures.

Just because you need a little poetry in your life once in awhile, and to acknowledge the short-lived beauty of the early summer garden, MadgeWorld presents a poem by John Ciardi.

If you've never read any of his poems, we strongly suggest that you do so. If you're in an intellectually expansive mood, you might even entertain reading his children's poetry or his translation of Dante's Inferno -- we're told that it is the finest translation on the planet. But, we haven't read it -- you'll have to read it for yourself.

The Day of the Peonies
This is the day of the peonies. My daughter
in the spell of an abundance that can't last
filled every bowl and vase in the house with water
and mounded the day pink. When I came to breakfast
my transformed toast and coffee were body and blood
of the flowering alter. "The Times shall not intrude

on what this is," I read from the introit
and threw it to yesterday. One petal shed
into my cup. "I have my good and know it,"
I acknowledged, a service for the dead;
spooned out the pink omen and drank the waft
of feasted day, half holy and half daft.

"introit" from the Latin meaning "entrance". Also the beginning part of the Mass. We leave the interpretation and enjoyment to you, dear reader.

My Sister brought this lovely bouquet over on Sunday morning. We had the pleasure of Stinky and Lorelei's company for a short visit. In fact, today is his birthday, but that is a subject for aother day. Besides, when one's Offspring start turning 30, it makes one feel, well, old.

Listening to: Going, Going, Gone, Bob Dylan

Buon Compleano mia sorella!

It's hard to be friends with your little sister when she's 4 and you're 9. Five years is a world of difference in those early years. Ditto when she's an awkward 13 and you're 18. You're both angst-ridden and surley in your own special ways. I'm not quite sure when My Sister and I became real friends. But I'm glad we did. Here's just a few of the reasons why:

- Two words: ROAD TRIP! We once drove from Memphis, then down through the entire state of Mississippi and didn't get arrested or beat up.

- She'll say anything to anybody. Example: We're standing in a service station in Po-Dunk, Minnesota watching a kid change our flat tire. His right hand is missing all 4 fingers.
My Sister, "So, what happened to the hand?"
Me: inwardly cringing.
My Sister to one of the Nephews: "So, what's with the nose ring?"
To some random, ill-behaved, noisy child, "Stop that!"

- She likes cemeterys as much as I do.

- She gives the best presents: one year it was rubber stamps -- "Do I look like I give a rat's ass?" and "I don't give a shit." The best Christmas. Ever!
This year, it was small buttons with a tastefully designed "shitballs." (my current favorite curse word.) Way to spread the holiday spirit.

- She swears like a longshoreman. You know that bad guy on Deadwood? Well, I think My Sister taught him a few choice words. Words that once got Lenny Bruce arrested.
- The general public annoys her.

- She knows how to get shit done. Seriously. If Eisenhower hadn't been available to manage the D-Day invasion, My Sister could have handled it. In her sleep.

- She understands my verbal shorthand.
- She's always on time. And I'm usually late. Take this birthday greeting, for example. One day late.

- Such a joker! She once presented me with a little Tiffany box. You know, the famous Tiffany Blue Box. Inside, there was a pair of JCPenney size XXXXL underware. In a lovely shade of blue. Ha. Ha. Very funny. Especially when I wore them over my clothes and there was still room for another person.

- She knows her limitations. When the gals get together for Stitch 'n Bitch she skips the stitching and sticks to the bitching.

- She knows what's important. Work is just work. It's all the other stuff that matters.

Happy Birthday! Who gives a shit if you're over 50?
Lots of love Sister as we head into the second half of our lives.

Currently listening to: "Sisters are Doing it for Themselves" Aretha and "Yesterday" the Beatles
Enjoying: sicilian olives

Random acts of activity. . .

. . . Memorial Day-Style.

Or How to spend a Memorial Day weekend when you have absolutely nothing planned. For many it is The Official Start of Summer. Pack the car, drive Up North with a zillion other people. I love road trips but not when everyone else is on the highway, too.

The city, and MadgeWorld, was actually pleasantly abandoned this holiday weekend. With The Husband getting his money’s worth out of his annual City Golf Course pass, I had all the time in the world to do something. Or nothing.

Highlights.
- So, I tried: 8 am yoga class on Saturday. I dragged my out-of-shape-arse out of bed only to have a pregnant teacher kick my ass. I thought yoga was gentle. New Age. Complete with annoying flute music. No way. This place plays Marvin Gaye and Jack Johnson. Sweat? I was wringing wet after 20 minutes. I thought she had mistakenly turned on the heat. I almost had to call a cab to get home.

- Bra shopping. One of every woman’s most dreaded shopping excursions. Possibly the worst dressing room experience one can have. Too many choices: under wire, soft-cup, demi-cup, enhancers, minimizers, convertible straps (FIVE DIFFERENT CONFIGURATIONS!) front close, strapless, sport-style, barely there, cross-your-heart, full-coverage, extra support. I was looking for extra support. You know, the flying buttress of the bra world. Let’s just say I did purchase two items and spent less than $100.

- Home Depot for new bathroom light fixtures. Tip-of-the-day: DO NOT GO TO HOME DEPOT ON A HOLIDAY WEEKEND. Everyone who didn’t go Up North goes to Home Depot. With the entire family.
- Gardening. For all the time I spend working on the yard you would think that it would look better. With the temperature in the 90s and the humidity level of the tropics, I gave up and went to the cool climate of the basement. A dehumidifier (from Home Depot) works wonders.




- Rummaging in MadgeWorld archives. Looking through the storeroom. Again. I’m always seeking to lighten the load before we unload the house (timing TBD, kids, so don’t panic and be putting your guilt trips on me). I discovered a box of old clothing. Including a short-sleeved sweatshirt that belonged to Steve when he was in the Marine Corps (1968-69). It’s really small. But then I remembered he weighed 145 pounds when he came home.









- A trip to the cemetery. On a road trip or vacation if I am given a choice between the mall or a cemetery I’ll give up the mall anytime. We took our Mother to visit Calvary Cemetery early Monday morning. Our dad and brother are buried there.



As is my dad’s brother, Richard, who was killed in WWII. It was a lovely, breezy morning before the heat took over. Peaceful, even. Did a little clean-up around the graves. Left flowers and some rosemary for remembrance. We get an extra day off to remember the dead, so visiting the cemetery seemed the least we can do. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.

Listening to: God Put a Rainbow in the Sky, Mahalia Jackson