In the early hours of Wednesday morning, I was stricken by a ghastly stomach bug. By 7am, I was preparing to die quietly, curled around a bottle of Pedialyte, when Mr. Berman burst into the room.
"It's your Green Card appointment! At 8am! Come on, I'll drive you!"
I scowled in his general direction, somewhat petulantly, I have to confess.
"Just can't. Sod off."
"You can -- you have to. Or you won't be able to travel next month."
I remembered that I have a business trip in April, by which time I need to have renewed my Green Card. It takes months to get an appointment. I struggled to find a suitable expletive, but ran out of energy and reverted to my father's family-friendly favorite in times of stress.
"GOD give me strength." (It's really quite effective when pronounced with venom, a perfectly acceptable substitute when a meatier alternative is not readily available or appropriate. I consider it the tofu of the swearing world.)
"It'll only take you 15 minutes. My appointment was really fast. Come on."
With this, Mr. Berman hauled me to a sitting position. I pointed out that he evidently hated me and wanted me to die. He ignored me, wisely, and proceeded to assess my clothing. Having vomited all over myself a number of times in the night, I was wearing an odd assortment of garments. He pronounced the yoga pants Green Card-worthy, wrestled my feet into flip flops, and dragged a sweater over the most offensive article, a Marks & Spencer flannel pyjama top in pink plaid, circa 1985, now encrusted with traces of vomit. Since I was gnashing my teeth in a threatening manner throughout this process, he decided against enforced tooth brushing, and dragged me out to the car.
"What about Ted?" I whimpered.
The same stomach bug had also hit my youngest son 24 hours before, and he was off school, lying prone with his head positioned over a bowl in precautionary fashion. He is not a morning person under the best of circumstances, which these decidedly were not. My husband ran back to fetch him, and emerged from the house five minutes later, bearing a limp and pasty-faced Ted, who was also wearing mismatched pyjamas, with snowboots.
"Come on," Mr. Berman said encouragingly. "Let's get it over with -- we'll have you home and back in bed soon."
I lay in the reclined passenger seat with a plastic bag hooked over my ears as we hurtled through rush-hour streets. (During this time, I reconsidered my hardcore eco stance. Plastic may be the devil's substance, but it does have its uses. You couldn't rely on a reusable hessian bag for this task.) Upon arrival at the Citizenship and Immigration Office, I lurched out of the car, and staggered towards the door.
"Why does mummy look like an old lady?" I heard my son ask, as I disappeared into the bowels of the government. It struck me that I did not look like the kind of person you'd want to be granting permanent resident status to. In panic, I wondered if those were the last words I would hear him say. What if they determined I looked infectious (which I most certainly was), or crazy (which I most certainly looked, with my pink plaid flannel, vomit-encrusted pyjama shirt dangling below my sweater) and put me back on the boat? Do they still have boats, for people like me?
Good god -- was I in danger of deportation?
Deported I was not, but the interminable line was almost the end of me. I silently cursed Mr. Berman and his 15-minute promise, and consigned all 23 people on line in front of me to burn in hell, as I stood feverishly, on trembling legs, for almost an hour, with frequent dashes to the restroom. Eventually, an official fingerprinted me (which took a while, on account of my dripping palms), photographed me (which also took a while, on account of the fact that I looked dead on every try), and approved me (and we wonder why the country is in the state it's in).
As I was leaving, I was asked to fill in a customer satisfaction survey. I refrained from complaint, given that I had just infected everyone within a 5-mile radius with what I was beginning to think must be Ebola.
My conscience is somewhat alleviated when I remember that they'll all have the last laugh.
We will live, and our stomachs will recover. But only I will have to live with an official ID for the next 10 years that is a Feverish-Looking, Dear-God-Why-Didn't-I-At-Least Apply-Blush, Exceedingly-Green Card.
Showing posts with label clothes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label clothes. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2012
Monday, August 1, 2011
Toiletries
I am in Boston for a pitch. Once again, my powers of packing appropriately for the task at hand have failed me.
I cannot claim exhaustion, having packed this morning at a leisurely pace. So how exactly I find myself standing here in my hotel room at midnight with no toothbrush, toothpaste, eye make up remover, or clean undergarments is entirely beyond me.
I called the concierge, who assured me in a smiley voice that the hotel can furnish me with complimentary oral hygiene products; fifty-seven minutes later, hope is fading fast that these will in fact materialize.
Decide to take eye make up removal into my own hands using hotel shower gel, with disastrous results. My eyes, surrounded by indelible black smudges, appear to be bleeding.
Wipe my teeth clean on a towel and get into bed.
Lie awake, concerned.
Quite how I will deal with the undergarment situation tomorrow morning remains to be seen. Maybe I can do something creative with the disposable shower cap.
Transparent plastic knickers.
I shudder myself to sleep.
I cannot claim exhaustion, having packed this morning at a leisurely pace. So how exactly I find myself standing here in my hotel room at midnight with no toothbrush, toothpaste, eye make up remover, or clean undergarments is entirely beyond me.
I called the concierge, who assured me in a smiley voice that the hotel can furnish me with complimentary oral hygiene products; fifty-seven minutes later, hope is fading fast that these will in fact materialize.
Decide to take eye make up removal into my own hands using hotel shower gel, with disastrous results. My eyes, surrounded by indelible black smudges, appear to be bleeding.
Wipe my teeth clean on a towel and get into bed.
Lie awake, concerned.
Quite how I will deal with the undergarment situation tomorrow morning remains to be seen. Maybe I can do something creative with the disposable shower cap.
Transparent plastic knickers.
I shudder myself to sleep.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Frostbite
I think I'm going to lose 3 toes.
It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.
I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.
The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.
We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.
Flip flops.
Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.
As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.
"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."
The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.
Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.
"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."
Amen.
It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.
I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.
The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.
We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.
Flip flops.
Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.
As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.
"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."
The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.
Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.
"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."
Amen.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Military precision
I am facing a weekend that quite frankly, terrifies me.
On Saturday, I have about half-a-day's work to catch up on. At 8:00 am, I am running a 4-mile race with Will and a group of colleagues (in a tornado, the weather advisory tells me). At 11:00 am, Ted has karate. At 3:15 pm, both boys have swimming. At 7:00 pm, I will be in bed.
On Sunday, Mr. Berman has to go to work. At 7:30 am, I am racing up 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center with a group of colleagues to raise money for MS. At 12:00 pm, both boys have to complete PhD-level science projects that are complex and draining (at least for me). At 7:00 pm, we are meeting out-of-town friends for dinner.
Somewhere along the way, I have to fit in groceries and laundry. God forbid I find time to breathe.
To get through it, I need to pause, and rewind 8 years.
To a time when I had a 6-month old. A 2-year old starting preschool. A new job. And serious sleep-deprivation.
Of course, the preschool was not in our neighborhood. That would have been too easy. It was a subway ride and a half-mile walk away. I had also sworn off strollers. (Hate them, particularly double ones, they make kids lazy, no kid should be in them once they turn 2.)
So the walk took a while. Then back to the subway, and onto work.
This is when we developed military precision as a family. We had to. I taped a list of tasks to the refrigerator, which had to be accomplished before we left the house in the morning. It ran to about 30 lines. Here is a sampling:
5:32 Feed baby
5:58 Find somewhat clean clothes in bottom of laundry hamper
6:07 Shower
6:21 Get dressed
6:32 Get kids dressed
6:43 Make sure husband is dressed
6:52 Brush teeth (all)
7:01 Make beds
7:15 Feed baby again
7:29 Change diaper
7:34 Feed toddler
7:39 Feed cat
7:40 Feed self
7:40:30 Clear table
7:43 Brush hair (all)
7:47 Argue toddler into coat
7:51 Get toddler out of coat for potty
8:03 Argue toddler back into coat
8:11 Pack cheerios for preschool voyage...
The list went on.
But it saved my life. Without it, there was a real danger I would turn up at work wearing nothing but my knickers on my head.
So now, I fast-forward back to the present. And I realize I've come a long way.
I do not need a list on the refrigerator. I am no longer sleep-deprived. I am not in danger of wearing my knickers as headgear.
So this weekend starts to look manageable. As long as I break it down into minute-by-minute parcels of time, we'll be OK.
On Saturday, I have about half-a-day's work to catch up on. At 8:00 am, I am running a 4-mile race with Will and a group of colleagues (in a tornado, the weather advisory tells me). At 11:00 am, Ted has karate. At 3:15 pm, both boys have swimming. At 7:00 pm, I will be in bed.
On Sunday, Mr. Berman has to go to work. At 7:30 am, I am racing up 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center with a group of colleagues to raise money for MS. At 12:00 pm, both boys have to complete PhD-level science projects that are complex and draining (at least for me). At 7:00 pm, we are meeting out-of-town friends for dinner.
Somewhere along the way, I have to fit in groceries and laundry. God forbid I find time to breathe.
To get through it, I need to pause, and rewind 8 years.
To a time when I had a 6-month old. A 2-year old starting preschool. A new job. And serious sleep-deprivation.
Of course, the preschool was not in our neighborhood. That would have been too easy. It was a subway ride and a half-mile walk away. I had also sworn off strollers. (Hate them, particularly double ones, they make kids lazy, no kid should be in them once they turn 2.)
So the walk took a while. Then back to the subway, and onto work.
This is when we developed military precision as a family. We had to. I taped a list of tasks to the refrigerator, which had to be accomplished before we left the house in the morning. It ran to about 30 lines. Here is a sampling:
5:32 Feed baby
5:58 Find somewhat clean clothes in bottom of laundry hamper
6:07 Shower
6:21 Get dressed
6:32 Get kids dressed
6:43 Make sure husband is dressed
6:52 Brush teeth (all)
7:01 Make beds
7:15 Feed baby again
7:29 Change diaper
7:34 Feed toddler
7:39 Feed cat
7:40 Feed self
7:40:30 Clear table
7:43 Brush hair (all)
7:47 Argue toddler into coat
7:51 Get toddler out of coat for potty
8:03 Argue toddler back into coat
8:11 Pack cheerios for preschool voyage...
The list went on.
But it saved my life. Without it, there was a real danger I would turn up at work wearing nothing but my knickers on my head.
So now, I fast-forward back to the present. And I realize I've come a long way.
I do not need a list on the refrigerator. I am no longer sleep-deprived. I am not in danger of wearing my knickers as headgear.
So this weekend starts to look manageable. As long as I break it down into minute-by-minute parcels of time, we'll be OK.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Suitcase
I am normally an adept packer. I plan each outfit, decant toiletries into travel-size pots, and always, always travel light.
But this is ridiculous.
I opened my suitcase this morning in LA. This is what I found:
4 sweaters
1 silver skirt
1 navy blue velvet skirt
1 Diane Von Furstenberg dress
1 thermal rollneck
1 pair of goggles
This is what happens when you pack late at night when you are grumpy and tired. A thermal rollneck? For southern California? What was I thinking?
Attempted to fashion the goggles into a bra, with little success.
Wondering if the clients would think me strange if I wore a Four Seasons bathrobe to the meeting.
But this is ridiculous.
I opened my suitcase this morning in LA. This is what I found:
4 sweaters
1 silver skirt
1 navy blue velvet skirt
1 Diane Von Furstenberg dress
1 thermal rollneck
1 pair of goggles
This is what happens when you pack late at night when you are grumpy and tired. A thermal rollneck? For southern California? What was I thinking?
Attempted to fashion the goggles into a bra, with little success.
Wondering if the clients would think me strange if I wore a Four Seasons bathrobe to the meeting.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Early flight
Any day that starts at 4:30 am is sure to be a bad one.
I am now at the airport, busy delaying my 6:30 am flight to LA. After standing on line for 30 minutes, I am told I have missed baggage check by 5.
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
This exchange continues for some time, until the check-in agent breaks the impasse by disappearing through a door into the bowels of the airport for 10 minutes. Upon her return, she announces that she will check my bag, but can't guarantee anything. If this is intended to be reassuring, it doesn't work. My bag is on its way to Los Cabos, and I am facing the prospect of 4 days in LA with the clothes I am wearing and a floor-length padded down coat. I look like a walking comforter. This is a common sight on the streets of NY in February; in LA, not so much.
Decide that breakfast may improve my outlook, but my options are limited. Fried offal masquerading as a breakfast patty, or a donut sweet enough to trigger instant-onset diabetes. This is not the breakfast of champions. No wonder the nation's a mess. Eventually locate a yogurt, also over-sugared. My teeth melt. Mentally compose furious letter of complaint to Danon ("Dear Sirs, Yogurt is supposed to be sour. Health haters. I look forward to your timely reply...") but know I won't have time to send it until I retire.
Cannot find anything that deserves to be called tea. Settle for Liptons. I discover the lid is leaking when it pours scalding liquid down the sleeve of my coat. Hurl it into the nearest waste bin in a fit of temper.
But thank god -- thank god -- duty free is open. I may not be able to find healthful sustenance, but I can buy as much liquor and tobacco as I can carry. Shelve my sarcasm when I realize that a liter of brandy would come in pretty bloody handy right now. Decide instead to buy face cream (mine is, as I mentioned, on its way to Los Cabos). Pick up my usual over-priced brand, and read the box in horror: Multi-Activ Night Creme counteracts early signs of aging in one's thirties. I didn't know it, but my skin is now beyond redemption. Ladies of my advanced years, it turns out, are better served by the Extra-Firming Night Creme. Crushed, but buy it anyway. Lard would likely be just as much use at this point, but not ready to go there yet.
So now, I am loitering behind a magazine stand near Gate 2, waiting until they call my name over the loudspeaker. I am gaming the system -- on account of my checking a bag, they cannot leave without me, or without opening the baggage hold and unloading my property. I calculate that this delay will give my bag just enough time to make the flight. When they call my name a third time, I will sprint to the gate, whip out my accent, and look apologetic.
Getting chest pains. I'm not cut out for subterfuge. Face cream no help in this situation. Wish I'd bought the brandy. I just want the world to sod off.
I am now at the airport, busy delaying my 6:30 am flight to LA. After standing on line for 30 minutes, I am told I have missed baggage check by 5.
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
This exchange continues for some time, until the check-in agent breaks the impasse by disappearing through a door into the bowels of the airport for 10 minutes. Upon her return, she announces that she will check my bag, but can't guarantee anything. If this is intended to be reassuring, it doesn't work. My bag is on its way to Los Cabos, and I am facing the prospect of 4 days in LA with the clothes I am wearing and a floor-length padded down coat. I look like a walking comforter. This is a common sight on the streets of NY in February; in LA, not so much.
Decide that breakfast may improve my outlook, but my options are limited. Fried offal masquerading as a breakfast patty, or a donut sweet enough to trigger instant-onset diabetes. This is not the breakfast of champions. No wonder the nation's a mess. Eventually locate a yogurt, also over-sugared. My teeth melt. Mentally compose furious letter of complaint to Danon ("Dear Sirs, Yogurt is supposed to be sour. Health haters. I look forward to your timely reply...") but know I won't have time to send it until I retire.
Cannot find anything that deserves to be called tea. Settle for Liptons. I discover the lid is leaking when it pours scalding liquid down the sleeve of my coat. Hurl it into the nearest waste bin in a fit of temper.
But thank god -- thank god -- duty free is open. I may not be able to find healthful sustenance, but I can buy as much liquor and tobacco as I can carry. Shelve my sarcasm when I realize that a liter of brandy would come in pretty bloody handy right now. Decide instead to buy face cream (mine is, as I mentioned, on its way to Los Cabos). Pick up my usual over-priced brand, and read the box in horror: Multi-Activ Night Creme counteracts early signs of aging in one's thirties. I didn't know it, but my skin is now beyond redemption. Ladies of my advanced years, it turns out, are better served by the Extra-Firming Night Creme. Crushed, but buy it anyway. Lard would likely be just as much use at this point, but not ready to go there yet.
So now, I am loitering behind a magazine stand near Gate 2, waiting until they call my name over the loudspeaker. I am gaming the system -- on account of my checking a bag, they cannot leave without me, or without opening the baggage hold and unloading my property. I calculate that this delay will give my bag just enough time to make the flight. When they call my name a third time, I will sprint to the gate, whip out my accent, and look apologetic.
Getting chest pains. I'm not cut out for subterfuge. Face cream no help in this situation. Wish I'd bought the brandy. I just want the world to sod off.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The new walk of shame
We were late for school this morning.
It's Ted's birthday. There were gifts to be opened, games to be played, plans to be made. Which left me 7 minutes to get them dressed, fed, and driven to school.
As I pulled up to the entrance, Will announced that I would need to sign them in, as they were more than 10 minutes late.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm wearing pyjamas."
Silence.
Then, "What do you have on your feet?"
"Boots."
"That's OK then. You can sign us in. As long as you're not wearing slippers."
Which explains why, at 8:15 am, I was wandering the halls of PS 193 in pyjamas, a ski jacket, gardening gloves, and snow boots. You'll notice that my kids were not alarmed by this -- this is what they expect from me. As long as the slippers stay home. Slippers cross the line.
I still haven't brushed my teeth.
It's Ted's birthday. There were gifts to be opened, games to be played, plans to be made. Which left me 7 minutes to get them dressed, fed, and driven to school.
As I pulled up to the entrance, Will announced that I would need to sign them in, as they were more than 10 minutes late.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm wearing pyjamas."
Silence.
Then, "What do you have on your feet?"
"Boots."
"That's OK then. You can sign us in. As long as you're not wearing slippers."
Which explains why, at 8:15 am, I was wandering the halls of PS 193 in pyjamas, a ski jacket, gardening gloves, and snow boots. You'll notice that my kids were not alarmed by this -- this is what they expect from me. As long as the slippers stay home. Slippers cross the line.
I still haven't brushed my teeth.
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