Things I like

So I have this new laptop that is really nice, very hi-tech. I’m trying to get with the modern world, after years of resisting it. No, it’s not a Mac. I won’t bite that, those babies are too expensive for me, especially on the verge of unemployment – and I’d have to learn a whole new user system, right? No thanks. I did fall a bit into the rabbit hole and bought an iPhone. It took me a decade or so to catch up but I took the plunge. Mixing metaphors…and I couldn’t even turn the damnable thing on. It just kept saying hello to me. Yes, hello.

ANYWAY. I got someone to explain the “home” button and now I know how to use mostly everything. So I have this new Yoga thing and it also uses a lot of the same technology. Fingerprint reader to open etc. Except that it doesn’t always work. And then what?

Like, say you’ve got really dry hands, since this winter has been cold and dry and awful. So you put some hand cream on, and go to the laptop but it says, “Who the hell are you, with your greasy finger on my pristine surface?” Nope, you’re not getting in. No matter how much wiping and washing you do, you’re out. You can try again another day, sister, but unless you remember your passcode, you are not getting into this secure machine.

Passcode? I had a passcode? I have no recollection of that. Sure, the friendly Yoga says. We gave you many options. We’re not the bad guys. You must be a bad guy if you have the wrong fingerprint AND you don’t know the passcode. Try one more time, and we’ll electrocute you.

This never happened with my iPhone. So far.

I hope their anti-virus protection is this good, although there’s really nothing to steal, since I can’t get in to do anything on it yet. Maybe full-facial recognition would be better. But then again, I’ve seen my face in the morning.

It’s really ironic that my fingerprint won’t be read by the new laptop, because I tried to pull a fast one when I was questioned about a murder once and my prints were fuzzy. I told the cops that when I was training as a gymnast, we sandpapered our hands and that’s why my prints didn’t come out clearly. It wasn’t true. The Gypsy boys in Greenwich Village taught me to use it when I was learning how to pick pockets on the subways. No gymnastics there, just pure sleight of hand.

I’m going back to my 15-pound Toshiba. It’s always happy to see me, and carrying it around is good for my biceps. The Yoga looks classier, though, so I’ll keep trying it until my fingerprints reappear or I get electrocuted, whichever comes first.

It was National Margarita Day on Friday. Similar to Cinco de Mayo, most of the bars that have even a passing relationship to anything south of the border were filled with “lovers of the worm.” Ironic, isn’t it, given where our so-called leaders want to take our country?

But we were celebrating, not banging our collective heads against the wall and wondering when the inmates escaped the asylum… The first person who starts to talk politics or utters that hateful name has to pay for the next round. Keeps the company bearable.

I would argue strongly that one should stick with the traditional or “classic” recipe when ordering a margarita. Don’t get seduced by fancy ingredients or flashy names. Just make sure the bartender is using a good quality tequila, and you’ll be fine.

I personally like the frozen as opposed to on-the-rocks drink, despite my penchant for slurping too fast and getting the inevitable brain freeze YOWIE pain in the temple at least once but probably twice before I relax into a more ladylike sipping mode. In honor of the National celebration, I ordered a large drink (it was a tough week). I carefully checked for fish before beginning to enjoy the contents of my goldfish bowl. Yum!

Photo by Kim van Vuuren on Pexels.com

Only two months until Cinco de Mayo! Ole!

I love these bracelets by the female-founded company Bird & Stone. Produced in the USA, each one is tied to a “cause” and a non-profit organization that receives proceeds from the sale. Aside from the fact that I love the politics behind every statement and cause they support, this is the kind of small business entrepreneurship that I want to support. The products are ethically manufactured, and their simple designs are elegant and powerful. And since I have a “nevertheless she persisted” sticker in my office, I practically hyperventilated while ordering my bracelet, which helps support Planned Parenthood of NYC.

Other issues addressed are women in politics, women’s health, girls’ education, poverty alleviation, stopping sexual violence, and climate change. I encourage you to check them out at birdandstone.com.

So this is how I get my produce these days. These cups are loaded with fruit, veggies, herbs, nuts, other stuff that I often don’t want to think about, and it’s all good for you. And it tastes good when you add some kind of milk to it (I add almond milk) and blend it. Yum, really. Sometime it’s a dark, lumpy green, and sometimes it’s a really offensive puce color. Like that Crayola color, burnt umber, that no one ever used. Often it looks nice, like raspberry or light green. But mostly it borders on the edges of the green family, because there’s always a leafy something in it. Kale, spinach, whatever makes us big and strong.

I do feel guilty, briefly, about getting these cups delivered, but only until I realize that without them, I wouldn’t be drinking these smoothies at all. I’d rarely buy the ingredients to make them so well-balanced, and throwing a banana and an apple in a blender with some protein powder and chia seeds in no way resembles these delightful drinks.

I also get my food in a box, so what can I say? No one ever taught me how to cook, and I understand that take-out seven days a week might be hazardous to one’s health. I do have to put the food in a pan and cook it, which is presenting a challenge, but so far I’ve only destroyed one pan and a couple of pot holders.

Try #Daily Harvest. They also have lattes and cookies. How could you go wrong?

When I was a kid and my father would bring me into the city for a visit to a museum or to the theater, we’d take the train and then the subway, using those old tokens. I still have one or two somewhere, in the bottom of my coin bottle. I couldn’t get rid of them. Even though the MetroCards are wonderful conveniences (but they also have allowed the MTA to easily and substantially increase prices over the years), the tokens were cool.

I like to walk, when the weather is good. This is a perfect city for walking, except for the tourists. In the summer, it’s good, because lots of people leave. I had a car when I first moved here, but it met with an unfortunate combination of explosives and fire. So much for the combustion engine, eh? I use the subway when I have to go long distances, but that hardly happens, except for visiting Lincoln Center or MOMA.

When I was a child, my father let me figure out how many tokens we’d need for our trips to the city. We saw the Nutcracker, skated at Rockefeller Center (even though there was a better place in Princeton, it was still cool to go there at Christmas and skate near the tree), and went to dinner at the top of the World Trade Center once to celebrate some award I’d gotten. It still gives me a lump in the throat, what was lost there.

It’s a wonderful city. Not mine yet, but I hope it will be someday.

Housing costs a lot of money. On this little island, twelve miles long and not very wide, it’s amazing what some people will pay for an apartment. Millions. As others live in cardboard above airshafts and in tents in the parks, some of us are lucky enough to have real homes. How does this happen, how can we square that up?

The commute into New York for the “working class” is getting longer and longer, as folks need to go further out to find affordable housing. Students and young faculty are lucky to be offered places to live at the many academic institutions around town, as I did when I first rode into Manhattan on two screeching wheels, ready to conquer the world. But I wanted to do it without exposing my past – and that meant I had to live off what I made. No digging into the secret bank accounts, Cassie!

When I did have to hide from some bad people from my past, I didn’t go “underground,” as they say. I went to the Pierre Hotel, seen in the photo below. Known as one of the most expensive in New York, it has rooms to rent by the night, week, month, or longer. It also has extravagant condos for sale. If you want to see how the 1% live, Google this place, and get ready to retch. (Yes, I stayed there. What can I say? It was an emergency.)

It’s hard to be “normal” and live according to your means in Manhattan. No to the designer shoes and clothes!! No to the chic new dining establishments! No to the hottest hair salon in the Village! You can eat if you buy your food at C-Town, just check the expiration dates; be thankful that “vintage” clothes are still a thing and shop accordingly.

My determination to start fresh and live a modest life lasted an entire year. It was going along swimmingly until the murder of the leader of my writer’s group. I still didn’t think there was any reason to alter my beige existence, even after my best buddy Michael criticized the decor in my faculty apartment. I mean, really? It’s a stack of boxes (see below).

The location is primo and the price cannot be beat (and there’s parking beneath the building, if you can afford both the fees and the car). But if and when the feces hit the fan at work, not only is your job suddenly in jeopardy, you’d better be ready to join the fellas living on the airshaft. I guess that’s one way to keep the workers in line.

I prefer the Pierre.

There’s nothing quite like a nice glass of pink prosecco. It’s better than Champagne, I may venture, because it is so light and fruity. There’s some difference in how each one is processed, which accounts for the difference in flavor as well as price, but I’m not an expert so if you want to know the deets, you’ll need to Google it yourself. I’m also not cheap, but I do think the lower price point makes it easier to have the sparkle of prosecco more often than the special-occasion treat of Champagne. Right? So get yourself a couple of bottles and prepare for the holidays in style. Having just celebrated a birthday myself – I’m a Pearl Harbor baby (the day, not the year, thank you very much!) – I recently had reason to enjoy a glass embellished with a couple of ruby red cranberries. Very festive-looking, and changing the taste not a bit. Consider that part of your decorating scheme, from Cassie, with love.

How does the proverbial Cigar Store Indian still exist, in modern Manhattan of all places, where we conned the Native Americans out of their homes and killed them off with our foreign diseases? This substantial statue in Soho, a little worse for wear around the nasal area but otherwise in pretty good shape, guards a small cigar shop filled with twenty-somethings pretending to be adults smoking cigars. In the City that practically wets itself (oh, alright, it does wet itself) celebrating Columbus Day with a parade and all the fluffernutter that entails, we forget that there were people living here before the Europeans invaded.

This statue should’ve been moved to Washington DC along with the National Museum of the American Indian back in the 1990s.

I’m sure there must be other Cigar Store Indians left in the City. If anyone spots one, send me a pic.

Dale Chihuly, well-known for his creative swirls of glass that are transformed into giant sculptures and chandeliers, has outdone himself with this fantastic show at the Biltmore Estate. Illuminated lights within a plethora of shapes, colors, and unexpected locations throughout the grounds provide a spectacle that is brilliant when the skies darken. Even though I have an issue with an artist who uses others to create his work, there’s no escaping the brilliance of this display. Wherever you have a chance to check out a Chihuly show, do it. You’ll be amazed, and the creative side of your brain will thank you.