February Is the Cruelest Month

February 2014.   

            A nor’easter is churning the back bays and thrashing through the tree branches.  A robust 35-mph wind is singing in the electrical wires outside my bedroom window.  Migo, my dog, is buried beneath the covers.  Friends in PA, MD and NH are buried beneath snow and ice.

            But I guess I should be grateful that I woke up today.  I still have all my underwear.  I still have a roof over my head.  There are no parakeets in my oven.  My house has not been burgled. My car has not been stolen.

            Of course, the month isn’t over.  I still have a healthy respect for Murphy’s Law:

           

            Nothing is as easy as it looks.

            Everything takes longer than you think.

            Whatever can go wrong, will.

            All of the above happens to me in February.

            Actually, like its weather, February for me is really a month of extremes.  I met one of the loves of my life in February, at Cardinal Dougherty High School’s Valentine Dance.  Although we eventually went our separate ways, he probably saved my life that night:  the very next day I had the courage to break up with a very abusive young man.

            But February is also the month when my sisters and I awoke to discover we had no underwear.  I can still remember all of the Fox girls popping out of our bedrooms simultaneously and shrieking, “ Mo-om, I don’t have any underwear!”  My mother’s skepticism sent my sister Diane and I to check the laundry in the basement, where we discovered to our horror that the basement window had been broken and the door left ajar.  We learned later that a disturbed adolescent boy in the neighborhood had perpetrated his personal panty raid on all of the families with teenage girls.  But that was a small matter:  on that same day the following February, I didn’t even have a home!

            February brings nasty weather, blizzards, and other natural disasters.  I was 22 when my roommate (for whom I had innocently advertised in the Philadelphia Inquirer) decided to stop taking her medication and had a bipolar manifestation, which included her attempt to put my parakeet in the oven. While that incident eventually engendered my compassion for such illnesses, at the time I was only scared to death.  Yet, that same week, the CYO play I directed came in First Runner Up at the diocesan competition.  See what I mean about extremes?

            Because February – Valentine’s Day to be exact – is also when I was matched with my Little Sister, Rosie, through Big Sisters of Philadelphia.  Over 30 years later, we are still sisters (Happy Anniversary, Rosie!).

            Of course, February was the month when my house was burgled.  Lucky for me, Walnut, my German shepherd mix,  met the burglar at the top of the stairs and sent him out the back door.  With nothing to show for his effort but an obsolete pocket calculator.

            In an attempt to avoid the month’s cosmic mood swings, I have often vacationed in February.  Or tried to. I returned home one year to find my car had been stolen from the airport parking lot.  Then there was the year I decided to spend the entire month of February in Hawaii under the naïve assumption that the Furies wouldn’t find me there.  However, that January  I broke up with the man with whom I had made the plans.  Because both of us were too stubborn to forego the trip,  we spent a month in Hawaii barely speaking to each other.  Does that trump the February vacations I spent traveling with another boyfriend…and his mother?

            So, as I watch the trees throw fits outside my window, I accept the fact that, in February, nothing that happens will surprise me.

            Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will join Migo under the covers.  I am just grateful it's not a Leap Year!

(Top photo courtesy of Getty Images:  "Car-maggedon"  coined by KYW newsradio broadcaster for 100-car pile-up on PA Turnpike 2/14/14)

There's Always a Full Moon at Midtown

During my recent job search, I found myself on the midnight shift again, after a 30-year hiatus.  While the recent position was located in a bucolic country setting, my first graveyard shift had me smack in the center of Center City.  Now, as my job search comes to a close (I hope) with a new career in Center City, I can’t help recalling how different that first one job was.

As the start of my senior year at La Salle College approached, I thought it made sense to work two nights a week.  I'd have five nights a week to study (ha!) so I could finish my college career with commendable grades.  I could make all of my money on the weekends (ha! ha!).  When Pete Hionas, my boss at Midtown I Restaurant, suggested I work winter weekends at Midtown III, 18th and Ranstead Streets,  I was somewhat open to the opportunity . The hours:  9PM to 7AM, Friday and Saturday nights.

A visit to the websites for the two remaining Midtowns - II at 12th and Walnut and III as previously mentioned - confirmed that the restaurants both are still with us, both are still open 24 hours, and both still attract much of the fringe element in Center City.  While the daylight crowd sports business suits or the casual clothes of the occasional tourist, the after-midnight set ranges from dapper dudes in evening attire to transvestites in gay garb.  And it was ever thus.  Or, as we used to say:

"There is always a full moon at Midtown."

What always fascinated me was the ecumenism of the wee small hours.  At 3AM, the seats at the Midtown counter alternated cop, cop, hooker, cop, hooker, hooker, cop.  The atmosphere was always convivial, as everyone seemed to be on a first-name basis.  Other weekend patrons included dank and musty street people with just enough scrounged change for a cup of coffee (lots of sugar); skinny, jittery junkies chowing down on cheap eats, looking like they'd skip on the check (they rarely did); and well-dressed, well-versed ladies in after a night on the town.  At that hour, everybody tipped, as if they knew we were all in this together.

The reviews on the restaurant websites rip into miserable, disgruntled waitresses who want to be anywhere else but Midtown.  I haven't been to either Midtown at 3AM lately, so I can't speak for today.  But my recollection is, the waitresses with whom I worked were cheerfully resigned to their lot in life.  There was Judy, the veteran, who could smack a cockroach in a split second without skipping a beat in her banter with customers.  Mary Lou, a pretty mom, was Judy's more delicate sidekick.  Me, I was the mousy college kid chalking up the late nights to my equivalent of Jack Kerouac's On the Road.  At Midtown, the road came to me.

And the characters were legion.  But two stories highlight the serendipity of the venue and the hour.

The first story has to do with "To Go To Go."  I can still see this street person's gray wool coat over layers of sweatshirts and sweaters, his baggy trousers, and his dirty fingers through cut-off gloves.  He invariably arrived just about sunrise, stood at the register and announced:  "To go. To go."  Which was the cue for the waitress closest to the coffee urn to get him a cup of coffee.  Sometimes he paid, sometimes he didn't.  Many times, he also left with a paper bag full of day-old doughnuts we were going to throw out, anyway.  But all he ever said was:  "To go.  To go."

All that changed one cold, sunny morning.  On this particular day, Judy had already bagged the doughnuts in anticipation of his arrival and was busy stacking cinnamon buns in a sticky pyramid on a tray.  Our regular announced "To go.  To go." in his usual style.  As Judy offhandedly proffered his coffee and the usual brown bag, our customer's gaze fell on her newest pastry creation.  As if by some miracle, he found a new vocabulary and blurted:  "How about a cinnamon bun?"  Judy's eyes flared like fireworks, then she burst out laughing and acquiesced.  I often wonder what happened to "To Go To Go."

The second story concerns tables turning.  See, I forgot to mention that during my senior year at La Salle, I was totally on my own and pretty destitute.  My Midtown money was barely enough to make ends meet, but they just had to meet until graduation.

One of my personal regulars was a handsome, soft-spoken young black man who arrived just after the surrounding clubs had closed.  He always sat in my station, usually at the same table, and always ordered the same thing.  Our routine was such that he needed only to walk in the front door and nod, and I would put in his order.  And he always left a generous tip.

Years after I had "graduated" from Midtown, as well as La Salle, I volunteered for a church serving Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless.  At my table was a man with impeccable manners and quiet demeanor.  He was a little thinner and a little dirtier but he looked awfully familiar. By the time I placed his turkey dinner in front of him, I recognized him as my quiet, big-tipping regular.

His story was a sad one.  Drug addiction and bad choices had led him to a homeless shelter and now this Thanksgiving dinner.  He was hoping to sober up and straighten out his life.  He admitted being embarrassed for me to see him in that state.  So I told him how down and out I had been and how important his tips had been to me.  It was my honor to serve him again and to thank him for his contribution to my life.  His fate remains a mystery to me, but I hope he found a safe landing.

I could go on and on.  Midtown III was one of my stops on graduation day:  me, resplendent in cap and gown instead of waitress garb.  Every once in awhile - usually Christmas Eve after Midnight Mass - I stop by for a cup of coffee and to remember my roots.  Pete is now deceased, but the last time I was there, Manoli his brother was sitting by the register, reading the paper.  He recognized me immediately and brightened.  The first words out of his mouth:

"Are you looking for a job?"

No, Thanks - I'll Pass

Some goods and services probably should not be advertised. At the very least, certain goods and services don't translate very well with traditional advertising gimmicks. Since I am a captive audience for radio advertising during my long commutes, I am bombarded with all sorts of promises and enticements. There are some ads, however, that give me pause.

The first service (or maybe it's a product) is a fertility clinic, which has taken to advertising its "donor egg program" on the air. While the spokeswoman's testimonial seems heartfelt enough, I squirm a little each time I hear it. Is this something I need to know between the weather and the traffic report? But the real hook comes at the end of the ad. If interested parties attend a free seminar (I'll spare you the biology lesson), they are automatically entered into a drawing to win a free egg. Yes...that kind of egg. I guess, when Mummy and Daddy refer to the resultant Junior as their "little prize," they won't be exaggerating.

The second product (or maybe it's a service) is a men's clinic. The first startling thing about this ad is the doctor's name. I'd tell you his name, but I don't want to be sued. Anyway, his product is for men with erectile dysfunction who "want to last 90 minutes or longer." I don't know about you, but what immediately comes to my mind when I hear that is: "Not tonight, dear, I have a headache." However, the piece d' resistance of the piece is the doctor's final offer. He will gladly give his patient his money back "if you don't have a positive experience the very first time, right here in my office." How, pray tell, is that "positive experience" accomplished?

Finally, the last bit of advertising wasn't actually on the air but in the air. Sort of. One sunny spring afternoon, I was driving past a cemetery. Over its wrought iron gates was a big, bright banner:

"Plots Still Available. Buy One, Get One Free."

Uh...no, thanks. I'll pass.

You Are What You Order

Amazon has the goods on me.

I find it eerie that Amazon knows me (Hello, Mary!) before I even log on to the website. And uncanny that it knows which credit card I prefer to use before I use it. I might even be comforted knowing that Amazon won't let me ship to my new address (my credit card bill goes to a different address) except for all the hurdles it makes me clear to change all that. Who is in charge here? I am not sure I want technology looking out for me so fastidiously.

Well, maybe "looking out for me" is too tame a term. Maybe I mean "snooping through my inbox” or “reading my mind.” I am beginning to think Amazon may know more about me than J. Edgar Hoover knew about John F. Kennedy. What clued me in was the solicitous phrase that pops up as soon as I log in:

"Recommended for you..."

Now, for a long time I have considered myself a fairly savvy business woman. I have hired and (almost) fired. I've traveled to 27 states in the US of A and have been to six foreign countries. I have dressed for success. My resume, if I do say so myself, impresses even me.

Amazon, however, thinks otherwise.

Which I discovered during a recent online excursion to purchase a book, when I decided to peruse the recommendations the wonderful wizard of Amazon had for me.

No "Swim with the Sharks." No "What Color is Your Parachute?" No "Art of the Deal." No Rich Dad seminars. No Suze Orman. None of the hippest music. None of the edgiest movies.

Noooooooo....

A brief sampling of the movies Amazon thinks I will enjoy:

"Please Don't Eat the Daisies"
"Gidget"
"Footloose" (both versions)
"Yours, Mine and Ours" (the original, with Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda)
"Murphy's Romance"
"The Love Bug"
And every Elvis movie ever made.

The merchandise Amazon proffered actually had me laughing: snowflake headband, Rudolph Holiday Reindeer Antlers, flashing reindeer nose, an elf costume for me and a Santa holiday costume for my car.

The book I eventually ordered, by the way, was a book on writing - and there were a few other apropos selections in that vein amid Amazon's recommendations for me. But as I skimmed through 35 products all specially selected for me, I realized, again, why I have finally changed my course in life.

Why did I think I would ever be happy swimming with the sharks? Heck, if Amazon is reading me right, I have the heart of Flipper!