The Great Shopping Cart Massacre

I used to spend a fair amount of my time stalking shopping carts and photographing them. (I intended to say 100 percent of my time, but that sounded weird so I edited it.)

Winner of "Best in Show" at the International Shopping Cart Exposition, 2011. (Domesticated.)

Why did the carts fascinate me? For one, they are sly. They are quick. They can be quite savage, and can attack without warning. Yet they are also lovely, wild creatures, often filled with candy wrappers and empty bottles of Night Train Express.

The afterlife for me looks like...a shopping cart?

And they migrate! Once a single shopping cart infiltrates a neighborhood, you can be sure that more will follow, as if drawn by the scent of their kind. And as for their reproductive capacity—well, shopping carts will try to mate with almost anything, such as the door of your brand-new car. Basically, they are used to snuggling together in close proximity and, like a sausage and a bagel, fit together like magic. Traditional shopping carts are the randiest of the food and goods transportation mechanisms, unlike the "Four Wheel Deluxe Rolling Thingy," below, which hasn't even bumped wheels with another cart-like entity for at least a year. Sad.

But my scientific interests took a turn a while back, and I took a break to pursue some other topics. My recent scholarly publications include:

Chlorinated Pools: How Come There Is No Plant Life? (The Journal of Well-Funded Yet Incredibly Pointless Studies, 2013)

Wallpaper Moves So Slowly Because It Doesn't Want to be Caught So it Can Kill You in Your Sleep (Reader's Digest Large-Print Editions, 2014)

Goodbye, Doo Doo. Where You Goin' Now? Can I Come, Too? (To be published by The Golden Box for Young Readers, 2016) *Reviewers may request ARCs by writing to me in the comments section of this blog.

Anyway! All of these ventures were deeply boring for one reason or another. Except for the children's book, which was not boring at all but still gives me the shakes and the willies. Have you ever been inside a sewer? All in the name of authentic research, but it's not very nice.

And then today I came across this horror—a multitude of shopping carts, dead in a ditch! Had they flung themselves to their doom because people had been buying too many heavy objects, like pumpkins (out of season) and Big Fat Loaves of Bread and Bacon Bricks? (Note: I purchased a Bacon Brick at De Ciccos on Halstead Avenue last week but no carts were harmed during the event. Bacon Bricks should be the subject of another post. What, you've never bought a bacon brick?!)

The humanity!

What led to this massacre? Please, shield your children's eyes, because these photos are disturbing.

Gravely injured; no hope for recovery. 

I can't even bear to look. Heartbreaking.

Going to kill self now.

Ahhh...glglggjjfjfjjk. Choking on tears.

What led to this horrible event? Was it because I ABANDONED the shopping carts for "more interesting" pursuits?

But no, we must not blame ourselves. In fact, I think this is clearly the work of the notorious Pimples Tuscadero, disgruntled "Stop 'n' Shop" bagger, age 22. Vengeance shall be mine. Oh yes, it shall.

You have not died in vain, my beauties. I will chronicle your majesty once again. Just as soon as I finish my work on Basement Crickets of the 21st Century.

You might also like:

http://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2008/08/nature-red-in-tooth-and-handlebar.html

And a whole lotta my older posts, too. Get to it. Life is short, and awfully sweet.

Query: MY HOUSE

Binxie Durbin

Weichert, Realtors

Larchmont, NY

 

Dear Ms. Durbin,

 

"They haven't done a thing to keep it up."

 

"What a disgrace! No curb appeal."

"That old dump should have been razed back in the 1890s."

 

That's what the neighbors mutter about 42 Terrace Lane. But what they don't know is that the house hides a secret. Behind the crumbling plaster, musty shag carpets, and hideous 1970s wood paneling, 42 Terrace Lane is bursting with potential. Yes, she has crickets in the basement and a poltergeist in the wainscoting, but when a new owner sinks approximately half a million dollars into her, she's going to be gorgeous.

 

A little down on her luck, 42 Terrace Lane is determined to make something of herself. They won't dare call her a "filthy eyesore" anymore. This time, she's going to have shiny granite countertops, not Nu-Econo-Brik. This time, she's going to have a porch that doesn't sag, and a back deck with a brand-new Weber gas grill, and there are going to be really good dinner parties with fine china in her dining room, damn it. If she can just get there before a potential owner's spike heel punches through the rotting wood on the stairs, she's golden.

My Victorian dystopian for adults and several children, MY HOUSE, is complete at 2,467 square feet. It’s like a cross between THE JONES’S HOUSE, MO 'N' JACK'S SPORTS BAR, and FOLSOM PRISON. Please let me know if you care to see any portion of it; I'd be happy to provide access to the front porch or foyer. I am open to suggestions for revision, including tearing off the back half of the house so that a little sunlight might get into the damp corners of the living room.

MY HOUSE is my second dwelling; MY FIRST HOUSE was sold to a nice couple from New Rochelle in 2008. I have other works on the property, including MY GARAGE and MY ROTTING STORAGE SHED WHICH PROBABLY CONTAINS SOME ANIMAL FAECES, which may also interest you.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Your Property Is Needed in a Movie

So says the subject line of a recent email I received. According to this email, I can get up to $10,000 per day! Boy, what I could do with $10K per day, so I wrote to them immediately. They came and checked the joint out, and shared with us the screenplays to the following films that would be suitable for filming on our property. Here, a brief synopsis of the offerings:

Lil' Appalachia
A down and out couple find themselves the bane of the neighborhood when their children turn feral and begin living in the woodshed. Special Guest Appearance by Macaulay Culkin as Ju-Ju the Dog-Faced Boy.

The Chamber Pot
Ten years ago, a destitute old Granny took up residence in the attic, and has not been seen since except to exchange the daily chamber pot for a platter of gruel. But when the house is sold and a happy young family moves in, Granny is accidentally left behind...and she is very, very angry. Cameo appearance by the ghost of Shelley Winters.

Worms
There's something brewing in the compost heap, and it hasn't got any legs! Terror ensues when the creatures commandeer some moldering Jack O'Lanterns and bring down an ass-kicking post-Halloween Apocalypse. Starring Sandra Bullock as Juicy Goodheap, the village constable's wife.

Ninja Assassin Back to the Future to Get You, Suckah!
A couple who move into a charming, 1890s Victorian home invent a time-travel machine so they can go back and beat the tar out of the former owners, who tore all the crown moldings out and installed acoustic tile ceilings. Currently attached to project: Jackie Chan as "the husband."

Shag
It seemed like a good idea to rip out the old 1970s shag carpeting from the new house. But the seemingly innocent action releases the spirit of Shag, a beast with a musty, teal-green pelt, piggy red eyes, and the funk of 40,000 drunken swingers' parties and dropped glasses of red wine about him. His bumbling attempts to find love in 2010 will have audiences giggling at this heartwarming, romantic comedy.

Schtinky Teddy: The Vengeance
A sweet but fragrant teddy bear comes to life and engulfs a lot of innocent folk with his stink. Music and lyrics by R. Kelly.

Dude, Where's My Stash?
A perennially drunk, suburban couple become obsessed with the notion that gold, jewels, cash, or drugs is hidden somewhere in their home. As they wantonly tear their house down to the foundations with axes and hammers, they discover that the only true source of wealth lies in organic veggies, and start a beet farm atop the ruins. Unfortunately, the immense quantities of lead paint, acoustic tile, and shag carpet remnants in the soil sicken an entire generation of beet-eating children, and lead to a lawsuit and a furious court battle. Based on a novel by John Grisham.

The Faux Wood-Themed Wallpaper
A mentally ill woman comes to the country to recuperate, but she starts to see bulbous eyes and creepy aliens in the disgusting wood paneling of her bedroom. In despair, she does a lot of laundry in the dank and dripping basement, where she is maimed by large crickets. Starring Angelina Jolie-Pitt as The Woman.

New Moons
Vampire heartthrob Edward Cullen comes creeping around the perimeter of the property, but happens upon an ill-timed gathering of three be-wigged ladies and a skunk. Lots of pre-prandial cocktails ensue, which are quickly interrupted by small children who have to go piddle.

Rumbling Toward Gomorrah
Michael Moore heads to Mamaroneck to investigate why the neighbors are so durned suspiciously friendly and why they keep coming by with fruitcakes and pies. When he makes a wrong turn off I-95 and winds up in New Rochelle by accident, he is swept away in the yearly Great Mating Ritual of the abandoned shopping carts and decides to make a nature documentary instead. Cameo appearance by Our House in an overhead aerial shot of the Great Trek of the Carts.

RRRR.I.P.!

This just in. Reason Number 346 that we are relieved to have left New Rochelle.

Perhaps another tartly-worded letter to New Ro Superintendent "Dick" Organisick (sic) is in order from yours truly?

The Terrible Bird Incident, and other tales of wildlife

After abandoning the New Ro shopping cart herd to their relentless mating and dominance behavior, I feared that I would be bereft of wildlife in my new environs. Not so! Here in Mamaroneck, the wildlife is out, and it is about. There are herds of bad-ass squirrels, and the other night we spotted a skunk drunkenly sauntering across the front lawn and through the neighbor's hedge (Run! Be free!) The last time I saw a live skunk it was in New Ro and it had a Carvel ice cream cup stuck on its head. It had poked its snout right through the big plastic straw hole and was weaving about on Jackson Street, shaking its head madly. I was about to go and rescue the animal but my husband gently reminded me that it was, after all, a skunk.

Right now, as I sit on the porch, I can hear a Screech Owl hooting gently every few seconds. After each hooting call, something answers with a small clucking hiccup. What that something is is unknown, but it sounds an awful lot like a duck. Yes, a duck. Now admittedly, there is a "duck theme" on our street as the owner of Mamaroneck's Duck Inn lives down the way, with a profusion of ducklike and swanlike objet d'art in the front yard. There may be a mating quality to the back-and-forth interchange, or maybe the baby duck is gonna get et. The hooting and the clucking have now set the neighborhood dogs to barking, so the place is alive with noise! People are drifting out of houses in their nightgowns to see what's amiss.

On our first night here, there was The Terrible Bird Incident. In the middle of the night, we heard shrieks and horrible caterwauling. It went on for a while, and made sleep difficult. During the fight, we heard a loud and tinny "bang! bang! bang!" noise which added to the creepy mystery. The next morning, we discovered that the backyard was peppered with feathers. Some creature had come a-cropper, and had been pecked clean of its plumage. Several days later, we discovered the tail of a fish lying in the grass. No doubt the winged beasts had clashed over the prize, and only one lived to tell the tale (although we never found a beak or other evidence of truly foul play).

The squirrels are another matter. They are a lively and wily bunch of scalawags, and can be heard outside the windows as they gnaw incessantly on Black Walnuts. Sometimes they chase one another over the lawn, cackling madly, and hide up in the treetops to survey the property. They are feisty, sharp-toothed, and rather plump. I fear their numbers are growing. They like to hurl the Black Walnuts against the tin roof of neighbor's shed, which sounds like a shotgun going off. (Hence the "bang! bang!" sounds during the bird fight, which the squirrels must have observed with infinite pleasure, enjoying their walnuts like popcorn.)

If the birds and the squirrels decide to get together, we are all doomed.

Sals versus Fratellis: Pizza Cage Match

In our new locale of Mamaroneck, Sal's is reputed to be 'the bomb.' But we have to say that in our former New Ro locale, a little joint called Fratellis was actually superior. It's right there on Huguenot as one approaches the New Ro cityscape from the Northeast. Here are some essential differences:
1. Fratellis delivers to your door. Sals does not.
2. Fratellis features fresh shrooms. Sals are canned.
3. Fratellis: Less greasy. Sals: Leaves a greasy patina on the hands from the undercarriage of the pizza.
4. Pepperoni: In this regard, Sal's may triumph. Their pig circles may be crisper. But Fratelli's pig circles are undeniably tasty.
5. Overall flavor: Sals seems doughier and less spicy. Fratellis had that "I must eat it all NOW TONIGHT" flavor.
Overall, Sals is a very solid pizza worth some acclaim. But Fratellis deserves some props for its superior quality and taste-a-riffic-ness.

Nature Red in Tooth and Handlebar

Today was an exceptional day for observing the local shopping carts in their native habitat of My Neighborhood. I followed the herd throughout the afternoon and was able to capture these photographs at extremely close range. When I say that my scientific interest was aroused, it's a vast understatement! It was such a pleasure to wander the streets and see the carts over hill and dale, foraging for refuse and left relatively undisturbed despite our proximity to an urban center.

This is the stallion I call Dreamcloud. His pride is evident in his bearing as the Alpha male of the herd. His pelt is extremely glossy due to an abundance of Colt 45 in the area. I was able to creep quite close before he startled and galloped away, rattling down Rhodes Street.


I also observed this young male lurking at the edge of the herd. Clearly an outcast with lower status than the rest, he sought to challenge Dreamcloud's authority but sullenly shied away, the bottles he carried (among them Miller Lite, Snapple, and the ubiquitous Colt 45) clinking ominously. I shall call him Black Sheep.


Finally, I captured this mating couple with a telephoto lens as I lurked behind a tree. The female, on the left, is skittishly backing away, while the male attempts to woo her by spinning its wheels and using other tricks in its sexual arsenal. (Note how it is rearing up on its right flank in a display of power and aggression.) If we are lucky, these two will come to an agreement and we will see a new brood of tiny shopping carts come next spring!

Brenda the Stubby-Legged Bride

So a while back on The Loop, I got a lot of flak for dissing New Ro shopping with cruel barbs and rude photographs. Just to show that I'm an equal opportunity kind of girl, I hereby present Brenda the Stubby-Legged Bride, discovered just this morning in the window of Larchmont Floral Designs on Chatsworth Avenue.

Her icy stare belies her quaking—and very stubby—legs beneath that flowing white skirt. Actually, maybe she has no legs whatsoever and is planning to trundle herself up the aisle on a rolling cart! What lies beneath the skirt? 'Tis a mystery that only her beloved husband will discover as he lifts the skirt ever so gently skyward...and Brenda giggles shyly.

Her left hip appears to be dislocated, but because this is Larchmont and not New Ro it most certainly is the result of a fall rather than an abusive incident at the hands of her fiancé.

[Disclaimer: I bear no ill-will toward stubby-legged, legless, leg-impaired, leg-challenged, and multi-legged peoples of any race or nationality.]



Right next door at K-9, the groomsmen are leashed and ready to attack anyone who dares to interrupt the ceremony. The guy on the right wears dark glasses because the bachelor party went really, really late. His hangover is so fierce that he's a-gonna bite cha!



Also sighted in the window of the Citibank on Palmer Avenue: This misplaced pink lovey, desperately beating itself against the glass in an effort to return to its small and grieving owner. Note the panic in its eyes! Trapped like a rat, it can only hope that someone will release it to run wild and free yet again. Many patrons of the bank turned aside for fear of getting mauled by the creature, and rushed to deposit their money elsewhere.

More to come, oh brave citizens of Larchmont.

I Know You Are Out There

Maybe I'm new to this old blogging thang. Well, it's been more than a year and I just kicked in the Google analytics tool three days ago. In those three days I have tracked 35 whopping Absolute Unique Visitors! I think I can identify about 34 of you, but who is the mysterious 35th visitor? Come on, out with it.

I know it is you, Shuffles. I can just see you hunched over a dusty laptop with stained keyboard, sipping a cup of Chamomile tea purchased in the Stop 'n' Shop bargains aisle. A withered cat is twining around your unshaved ankles, and the smell of burnt broccoli is in the air. The bills are piling up in the broken-down oven, and I believe those are old love letters crowding the dishrack. You might want to check your porch, too. There's a package there containing a creepy owl-eyed doll that you got for a steal on eBay. (I would recommend returning said doll, because there is a curse attached. Don't say I didn't warn you, Shuffles.)

Also housed on your laptop is the unfinished novel, all 46 pages of it, about love, love, love. Love that you made. Love that you spurned. About your love of an old collie dog named Shep, who died peacefully one night by the fire in your childhood home. And your rather unconventional love of socks, and your never-ending quest to find the perfect sock that doesn't sag and bunch around your unshaved ankles. I think you have ankles that are quite fine, Shuffles, and they should never be encased in socks. Never! Some women have frightful ankles, but yours are nothing of which to be ashamed. I too have decent ankles, even during pregnancy. In that we are kin.

Shuffles, come clean. I know that you are reading my blog. You are Unique Visitor # 35. Please give me some comment love, Shuffles. I won't turn it aside, like that poltroon Tommy McBiggers did back in high school. I won't toss the processed tater tots at you like the rotten Heathers did in the lunchroom on that long-ago day when you were a mere Freshman with pie-crust teeth just begging for braces to tame them. Nolan Krinick, the evil dentist, fixed all that, didn't he? And then you entered your "roller coaster of slutdom" phase. Oh, but we won't discuss that further. Unless the comments are not forthcoming. Yes, I can be cruel.

When I drag my garbage to the street tonight, I will think of you. Maybe you will be watching from your porch, wondering if I ever used all of the Saffron. I did not. I have extra. I have enough for the whole durned block! Watch me make a cous-cous that will knock your socks off, revealing your unshaved (but well-defined) ankles.

Oh Shuffles, when the snow falls, will you still be there watching, even though we have departed? Just one comment and I will know that Unique Visitor # 35 is not but a hiccup in the Google Analytics architecture.

Habitat for All Things Creepy

After writing my earlier post on the New Rochelle armory, I decided to go on a reconnaissance mission and check out the rear end of the place. Rear end, indeed. There we witnessed this rather scary Habitat for Humanity Warehouse Sale, in a newer building not part of the original armory. My husband entered with much trepidation and found a few pieces of crappy pasteboard furniture in an abandoned hallway, as well as weird junk lying around on the floor. There were holes punched along the wall at various intervals. And not a soul to be seen. He backed out quickly. I thought about locking the car door while we waited.

As we drove away, feeling decidedly creeped-out, a strange man lurched out and stared at us with beady-eyed suspicion and malevolence. Another guy was picking through refuse in an alleyway next to the building. Is this really a Habitat for Humanity outfit or a front for--as my kids would say--a Ghosts and Monsters gathering?

We did note one key thing. The weed-infested property behind the armory will be grand indeed one day, when the brush is cleared and the view of the water is complete. Hopefully the armory will still be there to witness it.

To Arms for the Armory

A mere stone's throw from my home sits the old New Rochelle armory, its grand old brick facade facing the Post Road, with two anchors flanking its entryway. Opened in 1933, the armory was a base and training facility for naval recruits. Now, of course, someone wants to tear it down. Developer Forest City Residential's plan to revitalize 26 acres of Echo Bay waterfront has the armory slated for the wrecking ball—-to be replaced by a 20,000-square-foot community center. Perhaps it will have a vaguely nautical theme, in order to preserve a bit o' history and honor the naval veterans who served there?

The armory hasn't seen a lot of action in the last several years, serving only as the home for New Rochelle's famous Haunted House each fall. Last year, a local politician stopped by our door with his hopeful plan for turning it into a museum, an ice-skating rink, or--just think!--a community center.

While there is no doubt that the Echo Bay waterfront deserves to be a place of real beauty rather than a sludgedump, why not incorporate the armory into the plans rather than tear it down? It seems that Forest City may have spiritual kin in the braintrust who razed New York's grandest train station in order to build Madison Square Garden, leaving us with the execrable fluorescent wasteland that is today's Penn Station.

Nonetheless, earlier this year, the City of New Rochelle accepted Forest City Residential's proposal, which includes the construction of hundreds of condos and townhouses along the waterfront, as well as restaurants and shops. “We will be long-term partners," said David Levey, executive vice president with Forest City Residential Group. "We will become part of the fabric of this community. We’re going to do a bang-up job. . .it’s going to be something that’s pleasing to the city and pleasing to the developers.” When it comes to the old armory, however, a group of local citizens are not pleased, and they are not going to let the building go down without a fight.

The armory has its biggest hero in Larchmont resident Alex Litzky, age 21, who is hiking the Appalachian Trail from New York to Maine in order to raise awareness and funds to save the armory. Many local merchants are standing behind Litzky's trek (which he began on Sunday, August 3), with several offering to donate percentages of sales to the cause. Walk down Palmer Avenue and it's encouraging to see how many Larchmont stores are advocating to preserve this element of New Ro history.

Litzky's hike was inspired by his father David, a member of the Save the Armory Committee. The group has spoken out in defense of the armory at public meetings on the Echo Bay plan. "Developments have brought a lot of congestion to downtown New Rochelle," the younger Litzky said, "and I don't think it's for the better."

Pledges for Litzky's hike can be made by calling 914-500-3165 or e-mailing djrl56@aol.com.

Good-Bye to All That

The rumors are true. We are leaving New Ro and setting sail for the northern reaches of Mamaroneck, a town I once mispronounced as "Mama-ro-neck" after getting desperately lost there on the way home from Newport about, say, twelve years ago. (As a side note, I would like to apologize to all and sundry for hooking a piece of the Newport house's porch with the tail end of my 1984 Volvo and dragging it clean away as I left. I still can't imagine how it happened! I hope the check I wrote sufficed.)

I have held a certain sense of pride as New Ro's wee little voice of vitriol-sometimes-love from the trenches, but I'm sure I'll always have a bit of the New Rochellian in me. "Rochelle! Rochelle!" I'll sing idly while doing the dishes, a la Seinfeld. I'll come down and wander the aisles of the Stop 'n' Shop on Palmer Avenue, forlornly seeking Shuffles in the bagging area. Maybe I'll even come back to my street and toss an egg at a speeding car.

As if in farewell, a woman just slowed in front of our driveway, opened her maw, and expelled a great cloud of smoke. She then flung her cigarette onto our lawn and roared off to her own driveway down the street. "Goodbye, neighbor," I wept.

So what awaits us in Yo' Mama-Roneck? I sure do like the fact that it's diverse and kind of quirky, just like our humble hometown of New Ro. And friendly! We already have one neighbor who graciously offered us the use of his house whenever the mood strikes us. "Come on in and get yourself a cup of sugar, a drink, whatever!" he shouted, when we met. He stuffed all sorts of things into my hands, including icy-cold bottled water (it was a hot day) and hot coffee (I had an infant and he knew I needed it). "Just walk in the back door," he added. "No need to call." Another neighbor heard we signed on the house and dropped off a gift-wrapped banana bread, even though we don't move for about three weeks. Now that's unparalleled niceness. (Supernanny made a stealth mission and claimed the bread.)

I was also delighted to see that Mamaroneck has its own rather shopworn mannequin in the window of a store offering specialized bra fittings, although she hasn't fallen quite as low as the Craftform broad. Give her a few years and a couple of abusive boyfriends. She will be duly photographed. Hi Ho the Derry Oh, I'm off to enrage another entire township of citizens! (By the way, when was the last time you had your bra fitted? I did this as a teenager. An older, pinched-faced woman dragged a measuring tape around my bust in a most humiliating manner. I have been far too scared to repeat the experience and therefore I am sure I am wearing the wrong bra size. But I digress.)

There are just so many things I'll miss about our neighborhood. For example, a posse of boys on bikes rode through some time back, and the conversation as they passed was without price. It went something like this:

Boy One: My ball got squished! I got one ball left!
Boy Two: Screw yer ball!
Boy One: I went over a bump and my ball flew off.
Boy Three: Titties and ass! Titties and ass! I'm a-gonna get me some titties and ass!
Boy One: My baaaaaallll.... [Fading into distance. Exit stage left.]

Boys of Mamaroneck, can you do better? I challenge thee!

Independence Day

In years past we have always watched the 4th of July fireworks from our very own front porch. And every year, just like this year, I raise the spectre of having our boys stay up way too late and watch the show. Occasionally, I even suggest that we stroller it down to Five Islands to get a better view. And every year, my darling husband says this is a Very Bad Idea.

Our nanny, who happens to be a British Supernanny, says she sides with him in this matter. Fortunately, cooler heads have prevailed and we are out in the rain (live blogging from the scene!) while we hear a few distant booms. The boys are safe in their beds. We are not actually sitting in the rain, for that would be foolish: We are on the porch. Ah, soon to be no longer our porch, and we'll miss it sorely! And this is a true thing.

According to a few soreheads who read the Loop, where our favorite Editrix has posted a fair number of my rantings and ravings, I am a racist, elitist, mannequin-mocker who also happens to hate women with breast cancer. See this link for the firestorm rivaling any Independence Day spectacle New Ro can put on! (Fire fed by myself and my husband, of course, as nasty naughties who call me bad names cannot escape unscathed and must be driven weeping into the ocean.) When I first read the post of the anonymous troll known as "Another Reader" (I suspect a woman's touch, but maybe that labels me as a "sexist," too!) I was in the park with my seven-week-old infant and older son and felt keenly wounded. Ouch. Was I to be run out of town on a rail, bullied back to the borough of Brooklyn for the crime of having a sense of humor? Gosh, peeps, I was just having a bit of fun and happened to have a camera in my beaten-up old-lady non-elitist purse.

Me, a racist? I remember most vividly our very first Fourth of July in this house, when we had three couples over for a barbeque. Two of the couples happened to be black. Our neighbors' four fat sisters, floating like offal in their above-ground pool, glared at us over the fence with pointed rancor. We later planted four fat trees in that spot.

Lest another reader tracks me down here and says the "Gee, I have black friends, too!" defense won't wash, I'll mention that one of my dear pals from New Rochelle (black) was the very one who suggested I stay the hell outta this neighborhood because the school system wasn't so good. Horrid elitist that she is! We didn't listen, because I tend to think standardized test scores are a crock, especially when the majority of the school population is ESL. And I do think the school is a very decent school, with very good people working there. I'm not a fan of the garbage in the playground, but hey, there's garbage in Turtle Park, too.

When I started this blog I think approximately three people read it. I like them and they like me, and what they thought wasn't going to stop my opinionated, snarky, and occasionally heartfelt and even sad musings. Nothing has changed. Long live the free journalistic spirit, and kick-ass free spirits like the Loop's Polly!

Where are my fireworks? What are my very, very low taxes paying for, anyway?

Wait. Oh yes, indeed. They have begun. And they are quite fine!

The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, Part the Fifth

1. What are you wearing?
Shorts in a size I don't wanna be. And a shirt that narrowly escaped the latest Reflux Rage of the Incredible Spittling Infant.

2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
Sleep deprivation will lead to foolish errors in judgement which will imperil my life.

3. What was today's workout?
At least 7,000 paces through the Bronx Zoo.

4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
You, dear reader, are all that stands between me and a bout of the nasties.

5. What's that burning smell?
The neighbors who never invite us over not for any reason not that we want to consort with them anyway are grilling something tasty again. Grrr.

6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
A maniacal kookaburra with a squirrel monkey for a pet.

7. What are you drinking, and why?
Shiraz from Australia. I tried Maker's Mark but it offended.

8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I dissed my home city of New Ro and for that I am sorely repentant. I started a big tire fire of controversy filled with slutty accessories and dollar store items!

9. What's the next big thing?
That's "things" plural, and the answer is my big boobies. They are bigger than you!

10. Music selection?
The Fix is in. Great soundtrack to a movie that doesn't exist yet!

I Hear My Neighborhood Singing

Lo, the shopping cart gleams on the uncut grass, ferocious in its splendor. The tin of discarded ketchup: a psalm to the morn, like the throaty red of the songbird.

What three stood here, talking of the depth of being, of life, of mortality, of the arduous journeys of the souls of men? And then, with casual jollity, tossed their butts to the earth, where they lie quiescent and blameless?




The rusted fence, so artfully askew, is corroded as much as is my property value, which decays amid the entropy of all things.











A front porch no place for a treadmill? Nay, nay! Strike such outdated assumptions from your credo, for treading manfully on a porch brings the freshening air and the songs of vehicular traffic. O, joy! O, brisk winds off Route 95!

Stop! I say, stop! Stop your petty judgments, for this is Art, and not to be trod upon by any narrow-minded philistine.

My husband conjured up a rainbow, and it delivers fresh hope to the north. We shall follow.

I Found a Bargain in SoNo New Ro!

Shopping is booming in downtown New Ro. Merchants and environmentally-minded citizens are now calling the trendy area South of North Avenue "SoNo New Ro," and the hip and fab offerings are plentiful. (What does this make the area North of North Avenue--NoNo New Ro...??) On a recent excursion to the area, I discovered just what a few bucks will buy in the SoNo stores. Get there now before the prices skyrocket!

On Main Street's New Elegant Beauty Supply, you can get a hair product made with collagen and placenta. Yes, that's right, placenta! And for a few dollars more, some fresh baby to go with that—works fabulous on brittle split ends.

At the same store, we found Doo Gro. I don't know about you, but I don't know if I want my "doo" to grow. This product made me nervous, but what could go wrong? Doo Grow BIG! Plumber!

Just down the street at Craftform Intimate Apparel/Anatomical Supports (all under one awning!) this lovely lounge outfit was featured. This lady is coming off a seven-day crack bender complete with gang-bang, and she still looks fresh and ready for her first morning shot of gin. Her wrist is broken because she walked into a door, and it's really none of your business, sister.

And across the street at Smart Dollar, bargains abound. I found this great Medical Kit for the kiddies. It includes two weird egg-shaped bedpans, some cutting tools, a tiny scale for weighing organs, and crazy-eyes Yuyitsu, the maniacal doctor. She's so sad about it, but she need to sedate you with tiny green pill bottles.

Also at Smart Dollar: a fetching latex swim cap, the label on which reminds me of a film noir promo. "As Chubby Thighs Magee drowns in Black Lake, her twin sister looks on in horror." Also protects against STDs.

For those inclined to fashion, try Madrag, also on Main Street. There you can find this eye-popping, fruit-flavored outfit. And tons more slutty choices inside. Just like the silver mannequin's stance, it shouts "You wanna piece of this?"

At Alicia's Bakery, also on Main Street, you can get a yummy-looking cake with your child's photo embedded in it. Except that it somehow looks like the child got baked into the cake. And isn't happy about it. And the cake is for a funeral party, not a birthday. Oh, well!

And what of poor NoNo New Ro? What do they have to offer? Well, for one, this creepy discarded item, lying in the shrubbery. It consisted of a pair of undies duct-taped to a pair of socks duct-taped to a plastic bag duct-taped to...who knows. Basically, it looked like something someone had doused in oil and used as a flaming brand. That's HOT! Love the neighborhood!

Silkie's Saloon: An Intimate Nesting Place

Question of the Week.
What goes on beyond the doors of the mysterious New Rochelle venue on Main Street: Silkie's Saloon, an Intimate Nesting Place? Please deliver any eyewitness information to the management of this blog for further investigation.

Shuffles, We Hardly Knew Ye

OK, I lied, I have another blog post in me. Barely.

It looks like we have a buyer for our home, although contracts are not yet signed. And of course I have mixed feelings about the whole prospect of moving an entire family of five and all their accoutrement, especially since I don't know where we're moving. We do have three cars, so we figure that's three separate rooms for each of us. The boys can share the Jetta and thoroughly trash it with their crumbs and detritus, and the baby gets the Passat. We'll bunk down in the SUV.

The truth is, saying goodbye to Shuffles and her ilk will be sweet sorrow. The house is a good, solid place, and we're leaving it better than we found it. Good karma in that, right? There's a fine fat blueberry bush in the backyard about to bear fruit, and our wild raspberry patch has just delivered its first crop (the second arrives in late summer, too late for us to enjoy it). We'll also miss the harvest of the cherry tomatoes, peppers, and cukes—someone else will be feasting on those. And lo, the great chestnut tree. That tree is a beauty. I think I'll miss the rampant plonking of chestnuts atop car roofs this fall most of all; my boys collect them like treasure and line them up along the front yard. Pockets turned out at end of day, in autumn, always reveal a hoarded chestnut or two.

Even the insistent thrum of the trucks beyond the fence has become familiar. Three hoochies stuffed into tube tops just strolled down our street, enjoying the night air, and a bonehead driving too fast the wrong way up our one-way street can always be anticipated. (As my # 1 son says, "You always have to look both ways when crossing a street because there might be an idiot going the wrong way.")

Today on my walk with the infant, I spotted a shopping cart leaning up against a rusty fence. Right down the block, I saw where the city has torn up lovely old bluestone sidewalk slates and replaced them with concrete. The slates are lying there abandoned. Some thuggish types were tossing a ball in the street. It may well be that this neighborhood will "turn around" in a few years and the houses will shoot up in value, but some of the people who live here probably don't care for those pioneering Brooklynites who thought they would forge a path into the wilderness. They don't care about "turn arounds." That's just for snobs like us. They just want a place to live.

Then, of course, you get the opinion of the outsider. My good pal just arrived from Billyburg on Friday and sat on our porch. "This is delightful," she pronounced. "What a great place. What a great house!" And indeed, it is. We'll miss it (provided that the contract gets signed.) I'll miss my boys running around the house in sweeping circles, through kitchen, music room, living room. "Say boo when I run past!" they command. And we do, hiding in the few corners and snatching at their unwary legs as they shriek. Not too long ago, the elder boy dragged the younger--just learning to run--each clasping one end of an uncoiled Slinky. The younger would get left behind and then--sproing!!--would stagger to catch up as the Slinky hauled him forward. They run, their legs get longer, and they are lean and strong.

When they see our older neighbor, they scream a welcome like he's their very own granddad. And run to him, asking to help carry trowels or swab down his truck. They have a "rock garden" behind the garage with trucks and buckets filled with supplies, including leaves and dirt and clippings from the hedge. Wearing their little French Foreign Legion style sunhats, they work back their with the assiduous nature of those who expect to earn a large paycheck for their labors. Sometimes they pinch a half-ripe raspberry or dig too close to the pansies.

It's their world, and it's a fine one. They'll remember nothing but good of this place.

The Evil Dentist

This is a cautionary tale for those of you who are looking for a good dentist in the New Rochelle area.

When my little boys needed their first dental visit, I got a few names from Met Life and scheduled an appointment for both of them with Dr. Nolan Krinick of New Rochelle. He was close and convenient, and claimed to be a pediatric dentist.

We arrived and noticed that the office stank of cigar smoke. This was a bad sign, but maybe Dr. Krinick's fellow tenant in the building was responsible? There were also no child-friendly items in the waiting room, but maybe Dr. Krinick was just all about teeth and no frills. The place was kind of dingy, too, and the receptionist was a crummy-looking old bird.

The boys were clearly terrified but we told them it was OK, the dentist was just going to look at their teeth. Dentists are nice guys! When he came in, he looked annoyed to see children in his office. In fact, hatred and disdain for children dripped from the man's countenance. If he had snarled and a a bead of saliva had dripped from one unnaturally-sharpened fang, I would not have been surprised.

He glared at them impatiently and barked out: "Who's first?" We tried the older boy in the chair first, but he was so struck with terror that we decided to put the little one in the chair instead. The dentist tried without avail to open the boy's mouth, and then turned to us with a gesture of complete impatience. "I can't conduct the exam if he won't cooperate!" he muttered. "Open the kid's mouth!"

How? "Hang him upside down," said Doctor Krinick. "That gets them to open their mouths."

Invoking a spirit of fun sort of thing, we actually tried--for about two seconds. (How horrid to admit.) Our little boy screamed, his mouth opened, and the dentist peeked inside. He muttered that the frenum--a little flap of skin/muscle--between our boy's upper gum and upper lip needed to be clipped or he'd have hideous dental problems later. "I'll do it right now, if you want," he said. He practically chortled.

No, thanks. We fled his horrible office, reciting things to the boys such as "Not all people are bad." We later found a nice dentist, Doctor Allen Greenberg, who remarked that the "clipping of the frenum" comment was a load of horseshit. "Whoever said that is an idiot," he added.

Now, whenever we drive past Krinick's office, the boys make evil noises. "Not all dentists are bad!" my boys chirp from the back. "But some dentists are very bad!"

Postscript 1: A while back, we decided to go and view a house in New Rochelle. We arrived and noticed that the house stank of cigar smoke. While touring the place (which was dreadful), my husband rounded a corner and came upon the owner...who else but...Doctor Nolan Krinick!

Postscript 2: A while back my boys were playing doctor, which always involves making calls on a telephone.

Younger: Who is this?
Elder: The doctor!
Younger: Can you fix my tummy pain?
Elder: Oh no, I can't do that.
Mommy: I thought you were a doctor.
Elder: Actually, I am an evil dentist. I am Doctor Krinick!

Realist Hate Obsession

Time for a confession: The real reason this blog has been so sporadic lately is not due to the Incorrigible Suckling Infant alone. It is due to my fervent obsession with real estate. Yes, as soon as the Infant is attached, I begin scanning the listings. Just suppose a beautiful 1895 Victorian charmer has popped up in the last 22 minutes, since his last feeding! Just suppose I missed it and someone else snapped it up!

Unfortunately, most of what I find are squat, dismal 1968 ranches. Although 1968 was a good year for spawning Party Ponies, it was a bad year for architecture. Such dwellings routinely tout the virtues of the neighborhood and the Corian countertops, but coming home to your shitbox every night is not assuaged by the wet bar in the basement. Honestly, when did architects look with pride upon a design that looks like a cheap shoebox with windows cut out of it? If I wanted to live in a child's diorama version of a house I'd drop some acid and start fashioning clothespin dolls and thread-bobbin furniture for company.

What's even scarier is the Incredibly Bad Taste of so many people who put their homes on the market. A giant, leering portrait of the family children, hovering above a glass-topped dining room table in a mirrored dining room, should be hidden in the attic, or burnt. One particular house that we are mighty fond of, despite some of the most godawful carpets made by disgruntled machines, is absolutely riddled from top to bottom with Easter Bunny paraphernalia. Eggs, stuffed rabbits, the lot. Why, of all things, would one choose the Easter Bunny as a design theme? The one consolation is that the Bunny + carpets + acoustic ceiling tile may have scared off any competitive buyers.

When we bought our own home, it had stucco ceilings. We paid someone to hoist himself up there on a ladder and scrape off all that miserable stucco. And every night when we lie in bed, we praise Jesus that we are not staring up at stalactites that were someone's good idea of a design theme in the 70s. "Who likes stucco ceilings?" I sneered, as the fellow was scraping away. "I like stucco," he said, rather sadly. Good god!

We like our own house an awful lot. At least the prior owners had the decency to leave the crown moldings intact. (Who decides to remove crown moldings? "Yeah, just tear that useless stuff off--we'll pay for the disposal fees.") So what if our location includes a certain individual named Shuffles? So what if people leave hanks of hair and pantyhose on the street? It's all good. But we're selling it anyway.