X-New York Gal

posted by Evi on Dec 28

Cat’s are usually more aloof and The Smooch is no exception.

Just because I’m standing near the chimney doesn’t mean I’m waiting for anyone.

                                       A litterbox?  You call this a present?

Hey, you wanna make somethin’ of it?

posted by Evi on Dec 28

Well, Christmas is over and one more week to go before the tree comes down and everything is back to normal. Since things have been pretty hectic around here, I’ll just bore you with some pictures.

Santa’s here!

Where are my presents?

Found one!  Thanks Santa.

posted by Evi on Dec 25

Hi, it’s Christmas Eve and I finally finished shopping and wrapping gifts. My cards were sent in what is (I hope) a timely manner and most of the people they were sent to should get them before Christmas. Once again – I hope.

All my other chores have been crossed off my list and after lunch I’ll kick back and relax.

Oh wait, first I have to fold the laundry and put that away, then maybe sort my e-book collection into categories. Right now they’re just jumbled pages thrown together in loose leaf binders. I guess while I’m still up and about I should walk the dog. Oh, and once the roast thaws out, I can throw that in the oven and start dinner.

I shouldn’t complain though. My husband works 40 hours a week, then many times comes home and cooks dinner. (Actually, he doesn’t care for my cooking, so . . .)

I won’t bore you any further today. Actually, I just want to wish you all

posted by Evi on Dec 22

When I was a kid I just loved Christmas. All those toys; the tree decked out in lights, tinsel and gaily colored decorations; visiting our grandparents’ homes; cookies – it was all great. Okay, our toys weren’t those fancy gas and battery powered all-terrain vehicles all the kids want (and get) these days – I remember getting a green station wagon car you sat in and pedaled. Yes pedaled, as in using your own leg and foot power. No computers or cell phones. More like books (which I still love receiving) and board games and little toys you moved around by hand. Unfortunately as I grew older, Christmas sort of lost its magic when I started receiving clothes and underwear – of all things.

Nowadays, the holidays are just days to get through so my life and house can get back to normal. My grandparents are long gone and our families are up North, except for my Mom who lives nearby. To her Christmas is also just another day. She no longer puts up decorations except for maybe a small ceramic tree she made in a ceramics class years ago.

Somehow Christmas just got lost in the commercialization of it all. Do you really need to see Christmas trees and decorations before Halloween? Do you really need to be reminded that there are 60 shopping days left before Christmas? Is this really what Christmas is supposed to be about? Has everybody forgotten the true meaning and the reason we celebrate Christmas? It sure seems that way. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all religious on you.)

I must say, though, that my husband is still the last Christmas holdout in our family. Every year he decorates the house, both inside and out. He also makes me help decorate the tree to Christmas music. Normally, he cooks the dinner and we have my Mom and friends over. (This year we’re having dinner, at Al and Dee’s home, along with my Mom.) So, I guess all is not lost. But I would give anything to go back just once to a Christmas when I was a kid, my family was together and my grandparents were alive – and, oh yeah, don’t forget my toys.

posted by Evi on Dec 20

I guess my mother has become somewhat jaded. Brother #2 (Steven) flew down for a surprise visit – surprise to my mother anyway. So, we tried to figure out how to catch her off guard. We came up with a bunch of elaborate schemes – like dropping him off in the local Publix then taking her there on the pretense of food shopping – but when she called me on Wednesday about stopping by for coffee we decided Steven would answer the door. Since he’s been in Florida only once since Mom moved down here in 1988, we figured he’d be the last person she’d expect.

First he had to be disguised; the usual hat covering the face and dark shades. His t-shirt, however, had something to do with horseracing on it and I told him he should change into another shirt. (He’s into horses and his job also has something to do with the subject. If you’re into horseracing, his and his associate’s website is www.topspeedhorses.com). Steve said she’d never notice.

Soon Mom knocked on the door and Steven answered. I hid around the corner . She stared at him, thinking “did I knock on the right door?”, then thought he was someone else. She couldn’t imagine why that particular man would be in my house. She gave him the old up and down look and her eyes rested on the shirt. “Steven???”

Damn! We should have gone to Publix. Maybe next year.

posted by Evi on Dec 17

I’ve been somewhat remiss in writing lately. Life has been pretty hectic lately and I feel like I’ve been on a merry-go-round, but a fun one nevertheless.

First, my brother Bob drove down from New York for two weeks staying at both my mother’s house and our house. Of course we all went out a lot; Sanibel, flea markets, antique shops including all those in Arcadia, and whatever. I mean, who am I to not join in?

After Bob left, my other brother, Steve, came came down for four days so we took him around. He’d never been to Sanibel, so back we went. Hey, I love sightseeing and going into all the little shops. Somewhere in between all this, I managed to make time for my job.

Now Christmas is looming around the corner and it’s looming pretty damn fast. I haven’t sent out cards (haven’t even made them out yet), nor have I done any Christmas shopping. Last minute Evi, that’s me.

So please forgive me. But I will be posting a new entry this week titled “Prankin’ Mom 2”. Yup, we did it again.

posted by Evi on Dec 7

The first gal was a commuter on my morning train who always rode with at least one or two men. She was just so, so perfect. From her stylishly short but not too, too short hair to the tips of her expensive pumps she was the epitome of a bandbox girl. Her flawlessly made up face was partially hidden by the huge sunglasses she wore every day, shrouding her in mystery. When the weather turned colder and we all wore coats, she always topped hers off with an attractive scarf worn around her neck. This young woman was just so impeccably dressed it was sickening. I was in my very early impressionable 20’s and hoped one day to aspire to such awesomeness. Believe me when I say that never happened, though not for the lack of trying.

She also had a less attractive sister who rode the same morning train who one day shattered my illusions. I overheard her say to a friend (I had never spoken to either of the sisters) that even though her sister looked like she had stepped out of a bandbox, her bedroom was akin to a sty full of pigs mucking about in clothes and makeup strewn all over the place.

The other gal that so impressed me worked in my office at the GAB. She was a stewardess (yes, in those days they were called stewardesses) and worked part time on the days she wasn’t flying about in the air. Disgustingly perfect and extremely attractive, she wore her black shoulder length hair in a sculptured flip – a popular hairstyle of those long gone days – with not one hair daring to stray out of place. Her porcelain skin was enhanced by perfectly applied makeup; her dresses the height of style, without being faddish. She was a nice but fairly quiet person and was friendly with one other gal in the office who was also close to being a bandbox girl. (That gal left GAB to become a showroom model.)

During my years working in the city I strived like hell to attain what I considered “bandbox” looks but had too much going against me. For one thing, I still had braces on my teeth. My hair, though a shiny brunette, was definately not my crowning glory, it being so fine it never held a set. By the time I got to the office it was perfect alright; perfectly flat. After a while I just let it grow out and wore it long and straight. My nail polish, whenever I went to the trouble of applying it, was always chipping; my lipstick stayed on my coffee cup and not my lips. I had an extensive wardrobe since I spent entire but meager paychecks and most of my lunch hours in some of NYC’s finer department stores. I was cute and slim, but much too short (5’ 1”) to ever be considered striking.

And so it goes. I never managed to step out of the bandbox, but now at my age, who the hell cares? According to my husband, I’ve still got it.

posted by Evi on Dec 1

Every morning on the days I ’m not working, The Smooch and I enjoy quiet time. I bring my coffee and the morning paper out to the lanai and Smoochie Cat springs onto my lap for a petting and hair removal session where I pet him and pull out loose fur by the handful. Then he snuggles down for a catnap while I fold and re-fold the newspaper in a futile attempt to read around him.

Well, all that ended on the advent of the dog, Pistol. First I have to walk him so he can get his bodily functions out of the way. My husband walks him before going to work early in the morning but Pistol doesn’t always use the outdoor facilities at that time. The stubborn little prick has to be slid out the door (we have laminate flooring) then carried down the steps. When outside he stands there like a statue. If I’m lucky I get him to follow me on the leash otherwise it’s pick him up and drop, pick him up and drop. Most of the time he ends up doing nothing and we go back inside.

Then he follows on my heels, literally, into the lanai and plops himself down at the side of my chair. Smooch isn’t having any of this and keeps his distance.

Finally, this morning (Sunday), I got up and Bill wasn’t home. I figured he went out to pick up something for breakfast. Not knowing if he walked the dog, I decided to leave him in his cage so I could have a few minutes peace. I brought my coffee and the paper out to the lanai with The Smooch following behind. I then shut the lanai door so I wouldn’t have to hear any whining and whimpering from the kitchen. Smooch leapt on my lap and we were back to quiet time.

Didn’t last long. Bill came home and let the dog loose. Pistol headed right for my chair in the lanai and the cat jumped off my lap and under the chaise. A few minutes later I hear this Godawful hacking noise. Turns out it’s Pistol puking all over the floor. Usually Smooch is the one who pukes; hairballs, strings, you name it.

Bill got the floor cleaned up (his dog), then made breakfast. Quiet time was over.