NYC Error 404: Not Found

There are exceptions to every rule. The rule of New York City – that you can get anything, at any time, anywhere – is no exception. You can get a shark on the subway, a watch at the shoe repair, or a diamond in the rough. But you can’t get a decent bank, doctor, or hair dresser for love or money. That’s why city slickers have an ingenuity all their own.

You can get free checking – but only at banks with fewer than a dozen ATMs in a 10-mile radius. You can get free ATMs – but your savings account interest rate is approaching zero. You can use online checking – unless your employer refuses to use them for direct deposit. Solution: open accounts with multiple banks.

You can get wonderful medical specialists – but your PCP won’t return your calls. Your doctor might return your calls, but they won’t see you for a second longer than five minutes. Your doctor might be willing to see you for more than five minutes, but their tremors are so bad that a nurse has to write out their medical instructions for them. Solution: switch doctors every year.

You can get a haircut, but it’ll cost you $35 – before tip. You can get a cheap haircut but the hair dresser will give you a style all their own. You can get a moderately-priced haircut, but the hairdresser will laugh at you. You can get an expensive haircut, but you may not be able to eat that week. Solution: cut your own hair.

Every city has its limits, but the inventiveness of its people knows no bounds.

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Candy Jar: Running on Empty

The candy jar at work remains a mystery. It is filled up sporadically with varied options. The rhyme and reason for who fills it with what is a mystery. Mars bars? Someone loves me. Strawberry-cordial filled dark chocolates?  Who did John* screw over this time? Unfortunately, much of the time there’s nothing to wonder at; the jar sits empty, its cheery orange lid covered in a layer of dust.

On a recent day a coworker walked purposefully toward the candy jar, and stopped abruptly in front of it. He held it up to the light and shook it, as though the clear plastic sides, which showed no candy within, were playing tricks on his eyes.

“Why is there no candy?” he called out, tossing it up forlornly. It was empty because he’d eaten the last of the candy two weeks early, and no one had refilled it since.

“I have m&ms,” I called back. “Do you want some?”

“YES!” he replied, in a tone far different from his usual funereal inflection.

He took a handful, and munching happily, asked, accusatorily, “Why are you hoarding candy?”

“I don’t think it’s called hoarding when I buy candy and eat it,” I suggested.

“It is if you don’t put it in the candy jar,” was the reply.

“Ooh! Can I have some?” pipped in a third coworker, ending our standoff.

I suspect that it’s my coworker’s love of candy, rather than the unpredictable nature of the jar’s filling, that leads to it sitting empty. The candy jar, and now my candy stash as well.

*I don’t work with anyone named John. Even though the security guard told me this week that his brother’s buddy John – handsome and tall – works in the same office. I’ll take his word for it.

They May Not Taste Like It, But They’re Pesachdik

My sister is many things.

She’s a clear communicator. See below if you don’t believe me:

We need to make these next year, they don’t taste pesadik.

3/4 cup sugar

3/4 cup brown sugar
1 cup cake meal
1/4 cup potato starch
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 tsp vanilla
2 eggs
2/3 cup oil
3/4 bag of chocolate chips
Bake on ungreased cookie sheet at 250 F for 30-35 minutes
Makes 30 cookies
She is also a truth-telller.
Chag samach!

Fiction for the 19th Century

I had books thrust upon me at a young age. When my grandparents moved from what had been my dad’s childhood home to an apartment, he picked out a dozens of books he thought we would grow into. Thanks to that, I never ran out of books. Rather, that is the reason I’ve always had unread books lying around. The reason I never ran out of books I’d willingly read is thanks to the public library.

While I loved the set of 1971 encyclopedias my dad brought home from my grandparents, I was never inclined to pick up any of the novels he’d brought along with them. I tried reading the Mayor of Casterbridge once, but didn’t get as far as the mayor before I put it back down. Those books remained untouched until a few years ago. Puzzling at the selection, I questioned dad’s choice of reading material. He pointed out that guessing what a girl of the 90s would want to read from the library frozen in the early 70s, isn’t the easiest feat. I conceded.

He admitted that he hadn’t really loved those books either. But if I wanted a great story, I should read Last of the Mohicans. I borrowed his copy as a consolation prize. I read it. I am still recovering from the horror.

The best I can say of it is that the book is ideal for young boys. It has uncharted territory, bloodshed, people in need of rescue, forests full of known enemies, and unexpected allies. And, as dad never fails to point out, it’s treatment of Native Americans is advanced for its time. The books treats all men, regardless of race, as having the wisdom to choose between good and evil. It may be that more of the Native Americans are cast as sly and black-hearted, but at least they’ve got a white man or two for company. Women don’t fare as well, since they’re all pretty idiots. But still – advanced for its time!

As literature, the book is wanting. Few characters were blessed by Fenimore Cooper with actual personality. Bit parts are many and stereotypes are rife. The dialogue is stilted, and frequently offensive to modern sensibilities. There is no moral ambiguity, though there’s plenty of ambiguity regarding where the plot is headed. And, perhaps most devastating to me, the books describes the cruel death of the last of the Mohicans, the tribe around whom the book centers.

As my dad pointed out, once his laughter had subsided and he could catch his breathe without crying from the hilarity, the fact that the Mohicans are no more is in the title. He can’t quite believe I found their murder a surprise ending. But my 21st century literary training lead me to believe that the title was an allusion to the end of an era. Turns out that literature was much more straightforward in 1826.

Last of the Mohicans

by James Fenimore Cooper 

Title is also

the ending. Between: damsels,

adventure, and war.

Novel Approach to Leftovers

Ivan found his customers’ refusal to take leftovers home offensive to his frugal Eastern Bloc upbringing. Kate would cringe with embarrassment as she heard him arguing with patrons about the wasted food.

“Are you sure you don’ vant to take home? Dat is at least breakvast. Maybe breavast and lunch. You have a neighbor might vant? Dog? Do you haf dog? That vould be a lucky dog. No? Okay.”

Kate didn’t mention to her grandfather that many people don’t like soggy hamburgers the next morning. Instead, she offered to take the food.

“I can give it to a homeless person, if you like,” Kate said.

Her deda nodded his approval and wrapped up the leftovers. As he left them on Kate’s table he said, “Give them to a real homeless person. Not vun of those hippie kids, ok?”

from How to Start a Fire by Lisa Lutz