Like Lionel Richie

There are times when I am just sitting and thinking, like when I am on the subway or in the back of a cab, and I am alone with my thoughts and my mind runs. Today I thought about my aunt Tina, who died many, many years ago. She is one of my very favorite people, on this earth or in it. She was actually my great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister. She never had children and she always told me that I was like a daughter to her. Today I thought about when she used to take me to Green Acres mall when I was just a kid. I remember when we would go in summer and drive in her car with the radio blasting singing as the hot air blew in from the windows. She was like Lucille Ball meets Wilma Flintstone. I often think of her in times when I wish I could get her advice or just hear her Forbell Street, Brooklyn-twang.

I still remember her phone number, but I can’t call.

Which makes me think of people who don’t call, don’t respond to emails or texts. But not because they don’t want to, but because they don’t have time or are not in the right frame of mind to talk.

I’ll admit; I hate the phone. Mostly this happened at the onset of cell phone-only use. I used to love it. Talked for hours sometimes. But not since I’ve gone cellular.

Why do we put off calling, meeting, talking in person? I wish I could talk to my aunt Tina. I wish I talked to her more when she was alive. I was in college when she passed away. Busy. Didn’t call a lot. Until her cancer returned some twenty-odd years later.

Then I called a lot. Visited her and brushed her hair. Fed her. I had major guilt that I was too wrapped up in my own life to be there for her more. To have her enrich my life by just talking more to her as an adult. She was an amazing woman. She always made sure my uncle had my favorite foods in the house when I stayed over—especially Entenmann’s Chocolate Chip cookies. I liked them before they had the new recipe, so it was always the original. Like her.

So call. Make time. Return that email.

Trash Talk

Garbage men are curious creatures. They are always nice to me when I see them in the morning. Yesterday one said to me that I looked very pretty today and he followed it up with “but I bet you look pretty every day.” It was nice to hear.

When I lived on Eagle Street in Greenpoint, I would see this one garbage man often. He would always say hello or comment on the weather. I would smile and say hello back, make small chat, you know the kind you can only have while walking past someone without stopping.

I moved away, three years passed, and then I saw him again randomly outside a diner. He remembered me, even saying “you used to live on Eagle.” What a great memory.

My uncle Ronnie was a garbage man. He found two puppies inside a thick Hefty bag on the streets of East New York. He heard whimpers just before the metal thing smooshed the contents of the bin.

Lifesaver. This is funny if you knew my uncle Ronnie.

He brought them to my house and my parents let my sister and I have one. We named her Pookie. I watched her give birth to five puppies five years later. And three years after that I locked myself in the bathroom in hysterics when I found out my dad gave her away after she bit a couple of neighborhood kids.

That was really mean.

Not Pookie’s actions, but dad’s.

I’ve never seen a garbage woman. Yet, by the law of averages, it’s safe to say that men are the ones who most often take out the garbage. But essentially garbage men are part of a clean up, which, again, by the law of averages, isn’t most men’s specialty.

And maybe my view of men is a little messed up. Not all, just some.

And you know how if you do something all day at work, it’s often the last thing you want to do at home?

I wonder if garbage men take out their own garbage.

I would ask but it would require me to stop.

Eva Mendes Is Gorgeous

She's like Cindy Crawford meets Sophia Loren.

Coffee Talk

I am never cursing Starbucks again.

And this has nothing do with the closing of 600 stores.

Yesterday after work I wanted a little coffee delight and thought about trying Dunkin Donuts’ Coolata instead. The Coffee Coolata was my favorite frosty drink before Starbucks moved conveniently to every corner.

I was denied.

Apparently they didn’t have Coolatas even though the signs floating overhead were boasting their photos. The service was less friendly than the people on my overly crowded train this morning and a medium was going to set me back $4.79! More than a Grande Coffee Frappucino at Starbucks. And this wasn’t my only bad experience at D’n D—I have had countless negative experiences there and they always seem really dirty.

Sure Starbucks has sometimes left me waiting for my drink because someone forgot to yell it out (or forgot to hear) and the lines are sometimes out the door. But the people who work there are always nice. Maybe it’s because they hold the title of barista.

Maybe it’s because they don’t need Rachael Ray to get you to try their products. I can’t stand her, so it actually was a deterrent.

On a brighter note: The chocolate cake they have at Pret A Manger is heavenly.