Green Card

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.

Car sick

We took a family vacation in Mexico last week. As part of the trip, we were planning to drive around to various points of interest in the Yucatan. The last time we attempted this kind of excursion in Costa Rica, there was -- naturally -- a considerable amount of drama.

We were starting to make our way back to the airport, which involved a long and winding road downhill from the Arenal volcano area. The kids were playing DS in the back seat, looking up at the scenery and grunting appreciatively whenever I pointed something out.

“Look guys! Coati mundis!”

“Hrmp.”

“Wow! The volcano is smoking!”

“Hrmp.”

“Up there! Quick! A toucan!”

“Hrmp.”

This went on for some time, until suddenly, there was an extra loud “Hrmp” from the back seat.

“Is everything OK?”

“Mummy, my tummy hurts…”

Mr Berman and I looked at each other in panic. For my youngest son Ted, this is code for “I am going to vomit, just about now…”

There was no time to react. There never is. A hose of spew came roaring from the back seat. The jaws of satan couldn’t have done a better job. We were covered.

I turned around in horror. Ted was ashen, swaying, and sobbing. “I’m going to be sick agai….nrpaaarrrrrgghhhh.”

I blinked away the carrots.

“Pull over! Pull over!”

“I can’t pull over!”

“What?”

“There is no ‘over’! It’s a (insert expletive) precipice!”

We careened around the corner, and spotted a little town in the distance. When we reached its lone store, we screeched to a halt. Mr Berman tore inside.

“Agua por favor – mucho agua!”

So far, so good. But his Spanglish was about to be put to the test.

“Kitchen rollio?”

Blank stares from the locals.

“Papier de cucina? Por vomitio?”

After much miming, Mr Berman stomped back to the car and we commenced clean up operations.

“The car still stinks. Can you go see if they have any Pine Sol?”

Cursing heartily, Mr Berman braced himself and headed back into the store. Several minutes later he emerged, sweating profusely, clutching a bottle of el bleachio. Apparently, his Spanglish had failed him, so he had been forced to mime out the scene to the entire town, who were gathering in the store to see what the commotion was about.

Of course, by this point, we were late, so late, for our flight. We drove like bats out of hellio, retching all the way from the smell. When we eventually got to the airport, we discovered that Ted’s passport had expired, so we would be unable to re-enter the US. But that’s another story.

I have learned that "relaxing" and "family vacation" just don't belong in the same sentence. You work your ass off all year to pay for adventure, and you get it, in bloody spades.

So I steeled myself for Mexico. This time, I packed my own kitchen rollio.

Karate smackdown

Last Sunday, I got up at 6am and drove my son 30 miles to watch him fight another child in front of approximately 400 people.

It was his first karate tournament.

And mine.

We were, of course, late, my GPS losing its mind somewhere in the middle of Long Island. We arrived at a gallop, sweating and swearing as usual, and found ourselves in a scene straight from Dante. There were 8 combat rings. Masses of competitors. And hundreds of parents lining the hall, seated on bleachers, hollering up a storm.

I pointed my tiny little baby (OK, OK, quite tough 8-year old) in the direction of his ring, and climbed on shaky legs to the top of the bleachers.

I managed to remain tolerably calm, until the first punch was thrown.

It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to throw myself into the ring, grab the other kid by the pants and hurl him to the mat in an unexpected Mama B Smackdown.

Instead I took a breath.

My son goes to a great karate school, run by wonderful people, who place a real emphasis on encouraging positive character development. He has to complete homework assignments about confidence, perseverence, self-control. He is fit and strong. He is not afraid. And, best of all, he gets to do really cool-looking karate moves that he practices day after day.

So I sat on my hands. Shut my mouth. And tried really, really hard not to pee my pants.

He did rather well. As he proudly clutched his trophy, he explained his strategy for success. He noticed that the other kid didn't have on a face guard, just a head guard, so he aimed straight for the nose.

"Marvellous!" I heard myself saying. "Smart move! Next time, make sure you follow through with an axe kick to the chest."

This is his sport, and he loves it. 

And while I haven't quite got the hollering bit down yet, I will be there on the bleachers, cheering him on.

P.S. For karate classes in Brooklyn, check out urbandojo.com

The comeback

It's been a rough month.

Two rounds of antibiotics, Mr B in San Francisco, early meetings, Mr B in England, long workdays, Mr B working weekends, cold weather...all fine excuses for not getting my ass out of the house for any form of exercise whatsoever.

I was inspired back into action by an impossibly kind and wildly optimistic doctor. As she checked me over, she smiled. "You have a great heart rate. Nice and slow. Are you an athlete?"

I almost kissed her.

There is no way I can pass as an athlete. I am a tired and harried 40-something who runs when she can. But if my heart has dreams of athletic glory, I'm not going to let it down.

So I gave myself a pep talk. Do you want to be someone who does things, or someone who talks about doing things? What kind of 50 do you want to be? And my balls-to-the-wall favorite, Just Do It.

Then I dug out my running tights and laid out my sneakers, so that I could spring straight into them Monday morning.

While I didn't exactly spring, I did manage to crawl in the general direction of my gear. It took me five minutes to get my running tights on -- I was literally rolling around on the floor. Good god, I've only had a month off. Loser tights just can't handle it.

Eventually I staggered to my feet, sweating and swearing, encased in lycra like an overstuffed bratwurst.

And I went out the door.

That's all you have to do. Get out the door.

Because once you're out, you're glad you run. Even when it's freezing. Even when you cut it short. Even when you suck.

Sure enough, yesterday was freezing. I cut it short. And I most certainly sucked. But 2 miles is better than no miles, for a wannabee athletic heart.

Black rat

A black rat crossed my path on the subway stairs yesterday.

It was of substantial size and menacing demeanor, but what freaked me out the most, apart from the fact that I nearly trod on it, was the fact that it reminded me of a mouse.

Strange thing to say I suppose -- of course rats resemble mice. But rats I can deal with. Naturally, I would experience fear and alarm if I found one in my kitchen. But I would be able to think clearly and form a plan. Mice, on the other hand, drive dark and clammy fear into the depths of my soul. I cannot think, I cannot function, I cannot breathe.

After my close encounter with the rat, all I have been able to think about is the mouse we had in the bedroom a few years back.

It made its first appearance in the dead of night. I was awoken by Mr Berman, stumbling around with the light on.

"What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing. It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
"It's not nothing. What is it?"
"It's a... cockroach-type thing."
"What kind of cockroach-type thing."
"Erm...one with a tail."
"It's a MOUSE?"

For the next 5 minutes, I stood on the bed screaming until Mr Berman manhandled me into the guest room and told me in no uncertain terms to keep the hysterics to a minimum while he dealt with it.

I did not sleep a wink.

The next morning, I was forced to ask our babysitter to help me retrieve clean knickers from the bedroom. Just as I was reaching into the drawer, I saw a dark shape run behind the dresser. I literally leapt onto the light fixture. When our babysitter eventually managed to get me down, my hair was standing on end, I had goosebumps on every inch of my body, and was sweating like a woman possessed.

I didn't sleep a wink that night either. Nor the next. Nor the one after that.

Because we could not find the mouse. Until I could discover evidence of its demise, or its continued existence, I was a tormented soul. I spent all day at work researching humane traps, peanut butter bait, and peppermint oil deterrents. When I arrived home, I would feverishly search for droppings, then throw the boys in the car and drive around the block until Mr Berman got home from work.

Eventually we found it, by smell. It had crawled into Mr Berman's gym bag, and expired in his sneaker.

We were recently recounting this episode when Mr Berman surprised me -- nay, horrified me -- with a confession. He had hidden the full story, knowing it would send me straight into an asylum.

He had been half-woken up by the cat jumping on the bed, and something crawling into the palm of his hand. He squeezed his hand together, and realized the "something" felt unpleasantly greasy. At this point, he sat bolt upright, flicked on the light, and saw a mouse, in his palm, apparently squeezed to death.

At this point, Mr Berman panicked. In his defense, he is not at his best when roused from a deep slumber. And he was more than a little unnerved by his greasy palm and the contents therein.

So while he considered what to do about the situation, he put the mouse down -- ON THE BED -- and went to wash his hands. When he returned, the mouse had come to its senses and was staggering across the bed in my direction. It was mere inches from my face, but it saw Mr Berman and fortuitously performed an unexpectedly athletic leap onto the floor.

This is the point at which I woke up.

What if I had woken 5 seconds earlier? What if the mouse had chosen my hand to crawl into? Or my nostril, god forbid. I swear the shock would have killed me.
So you can see why I was distressed by the rat.

I have started to obsess again over its smaller cousin. Am I going to lose all ability to function until every rodent is expunged from New York City? This could mean a long stay in Bellevue.