Archive for May, 2019

I didn’t sleep well last night

I didn’t sleep well last night.

Maybe it was the chicken thigh that I chewed on at eight pm. I bought it at Westridge after my two- hour library foundation board meeting. The meeting starts at six, and it takes me about twenty minutes to drive down the hill to town. Five o’clock is too early for me to eat before the meeting. So, I eat too late and more often than not regret it. As usual, the chicken had resided far too long in the warm mystery liquid at the bottom of the heated display case. Its skin had taken on the characteristics of an old plastic book cover that protects library books from everything but a nuclear blast.

Downing the chicken without joy, I went to bed around ten, just after watching the latest episode of Bosch, the Amazon Prime series based on Michael Connelly’s character, Harry Bosch.  A hard-bitten police detective, Harry seems to have too much time on his hands and spends much of it getting into trouble while solving cases that have become more complex with each new series.

Played by Titus Welliver, a name that somehow seems inappropriate for the character, Harry lives in one of those Hollywood Hills homes that is unbelievably cantilevered into space through some ingenious architectural engineering. It appears to float dangerously and gives cowards like me every reason to avoid such places. The house, though beautiful, appears ready to crash down the hill into another miraculous, seemingly unsupported, home. The night views of the sparkling city seen from Harry’s outdoor deck are unforgettable. Which is more than I can say for the story plot lines.

This is the fifth season for Harry and other assorted cops and miscreants. The combination of a too late eaten chicken thigh and the the program’s unfathomable twists and turns challenge my mental capacity. I usually find myself nodding off for a few minutes in the middle of an episode, making it nearly impossible to follow the story line. Rewinds are common. I probably shouldn’t watch murder mysteries late at night while gnawing on an aged chicken leg.

I never have trouble falling asleep. Staying asleep is my problem. Three am brings a startling mental wake-up call. Since I’m now up, a trip to the bathroom seems like a good idea even if I don’t feel the urge. A sip of water that has resided a bit too long in my aging plumbing adds to the festivities. Then it’s back to bed feeling half awake and ready for more sleep. Sometimes sleep arrives. But not last night. Instead, my mind wanders aimlessly in semi-sleep mode. I bounce from thought to thought. I exhaust the comfort of lying on my left side and switch to my less preferred right side. Then onto my back. Never on my stomach. Adjust the covers. Fluff the pillow. Repeat again at ten minute intervals.

My muddled thoughts often border on the ridiculous. Thoughts that would be laughable when fully awake are now cause for sleeplessness. Minor infractions during the day are replayed in my mind. I make mountains out of molehills. Some particularly onerous thoughts cause my heart to beat faster and pulsate in my right ear. I employ thought control to rid myself of the offending thoughts. Miraculously, I calm my thumping heart and trash the misguided belief that I am about to have a heart attack in my bed where I will lie lifeless until the cleaning lady arrives next Tuesday.

On my left side I can, with some effort, focus on the eerie glow of the alarm clock. And I am surprised at how quickly time has passed. It’s almost four. I calculate the number of hours until it’s time to get up. I’m sometimes pleased that there is time left. Sometimes not. Sometimes sleep comes. Sometimes not.

Desperate for blessed sleep, I’ve developed a few routines to get me off the moody thinking and onto something more upbeat. I tried counting sheep (doesn’t everyone?) and found myself covered with sheep shit. I employed a yoga like breathing routine that, while forcing me to concentrate on my breath, reduced my stress but made me more alert and even less sleepy. I tried reading but, like a bad book, it did not produce the desired result.

One cure for my sleeplessness evolved from a fishing trip to northern California. Marching with my son David along a meandering stream, we happened upon a beautiful cold-water pool. Stepping into it even with warm underwear and neoprene waders, it was chilling. We cast our fly lines as quietly as possible. And then it struck. A five-pound wild Rainbow Trout. The animal would not be easily landed. Jump after jump he struggled to spit out the barbless fly. I was lucky. He tired and I landed him. People had gathered near the pool to watch the contest. They murmured their admiration when my son netted the prize, removed the tiny fly from the fish’s gaping mouth and released the creature to once more offer a memorable challenge to a worthy angler.

I think about that adventure when I can’t sleep, and it often brings welcome relief from my muddled thoughts. Much like the fish, I’m thankful that I am set free. Until next time.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom

I just got home from a pre-Mothers’ Day brunch with Jackie, Dianne, Judy, Cathy and Edie. It’s become an annual ritual where we share stories about our mothers, complain about their faults and, less frequently, extol their virtues. I am somewhat of an anomaly in the group and am occasionally referred to as a Normy, or someone who is out of step with the other group members.

Today’s brunch topic was “nurturing.” Defined as caring for and encouraging the growth or development of someone, we all shared stories about our mothers that fit that definition. My story may have stretched it a bit, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.

When I was fifty, I lived in Los Angeles with Ila and our three kids. My mother, Celia, having years before rejected our suggestion to move to Southern California, still lived in her two-flat brownstone in West Rogers Park, a predominantly Jewish neighborhood on Chicago’s north side.

My father had, some time before, passed way in the same year that the Bears won the Super Bowl. The end of more than sixty years of marriage had left my mother alone in her home. My brother watched over her, but most of her day, and all of her nights, were spent by herself.

In addition to family life cycle events that brought me and my family back to Chicago, I would occasionally come to town on business. I’d often stay with my mother and sleep in the spare bedroom, the same room that, as a teenager, I had shared with my grandmother.

On this particular visit, my plane was an hour late. Our now ubiquitous cell phones had not yet been invented and making a pay phone call from O’Hare Airport seemed like too much of a stretch. So I hustled a cab and I arrived at my mother’s doorstep around eight that evening.

The brownstone’s entry door had a glass panel that allowed a visual inspection of her visitors before buzzing them into the hallway. I pressed the buzzer and waited. The door opened and my eighty-year-old, five-foot two mother appeared.

There are different kinds of smiles. Some are welcoming while others express irritation. Some are contrived while others are sincere. Some are hidden while others are expansive.

As I looked at my mother’s face through that glass panel, her smile showed relief, welcoming and love. I had seen that smile a thousand times and had always felt warm in its embrace. She buzzed me in, we hugged, and I was home.

My mother came to this country in 1925 as a teenage refugee from Zhytomyr, a town in Ukraine that then boasted of a population of about seventy-five thousand people. Beset by pogroms, my mother’s Jewish family suffered the usual set of indignities and, more to the point, state-sponsored murder.

Arriving in Chicago and speaking little English, Celia went to work at the Brach Candy Company where she was proud to often remind us that she had risen to the exalted position of “fore-lady.” Although she learned to speak English, her eastern European accent was etched into our conversations. I was never quite convinced of her reading skills even as she turned the pages of the Chicago Sun-Times. Her handwriting was shaky and her signature nearly illegible. But she excelled at adding up columns of figures entered on the paper bags that customers took home, stocked with the food purchased at my father’s grocery and deli.

She made many of the items at the deli including chopped liver and coleslaw. I’d watch her make potato salad as she peeled the Idaho spuds that were still boiling hot. Any thought of health department rules were cast aside as she dipped her arms into the huge pot up to her elbows to mix the mayo and other tasty ingredients into the soon to be savored, high calorie delight.

When I was a kid, our home, a three bedroom flat in an Albany Park ghetto, was everyone’s home. Seeming strangers stayed with us for a day, then a week, then a month. When Celia wasn’t working at the deli, she was cooking at home. Without complaint, she fed all who came, washed their underwear and made them feel at home.

Parties, both planned and unplanned, were more often than not held at our place. Complete with food and drink, they went on late into the night. I often found my ten-year old body at rest on the cot in the dining room while a penny-ante card game went on at the table next to my bed.

People came and I watched. I saw my mother welcome all who entered through her door. I heard her greet them with genuine happiness and a smile on her face. I heard her laugh and I watched as she made sure everyone had what they needed. And only when everyone else had their share did she take hers.

I don’t remember much of what she said to me as I matured. Perhaps because she didn’t often tell me what to do or how to act. But I learned from watching how she treated others. How she never complained about having too little or working too much. How, even on the toughest days, she had a genuine smile for her husband and for me.

My mother would not have known the meaning of the word “nurturing” but she practiced it every hour of the day, every day of her life. And I am who I am because of her.

Happy Mother’s Day mom. I love you.

A little credit, please

I have this cute little app on my cellphone that alerts me whenever there’s a charge to my credit card. It pops up with abandon, but that’s what happens if you’re a spendthrift. Unfortunately, it popped up once too often about three weeks ago.

My Citibank credit card was issued eons ago when Ila and I visited our favorite eating place, Costco. Where else can a guy take his girl for a sumptuous repast and feel like he’s gotten a bargain? Two kosher dogs smothered with deli mustard and onions, coupled with unlimited Diet Coke, is yours for the asking at a mere $3.50. The same price as one grande coffee from Starbucks.

Must have been a special Costco deal that prompted us to sign up for that Citibank card many years ago. Maybe it was three hot dogs for the price of two, or a lifetime supply of deli mustard in a sealed five-gallon container that defied opening. In any event, we became the proud possessors of his and her cards. A dozen years later and a million dollars poorer, my card was still swiping and inserting all over America.

Anyway, three weeks ago as I was having my morning coffee, my iPhone X emitted the characteristic sound that tells me I’ve received a text message. My speed at opening text messages is legendary. A twin to my penchant for being early to social events, reading a text message has the same assigned priority as diving under the kitchen table during a nuclear attack.

“Good morning”, the text seemed to say. It then went on to blithely inform me that eleven hundred dollars had been charged to my card by some merchant whose identity was unknown to me. I found the elusive merchant on the web and assured myself that nothing it offered had any appeal for me. Uh oh. My card’s been hacked.

I’ve had this happen before and so I didn’t panic, much. Doing my civic duty, I alerted Citi to the fraudulent activity and, promising me a shiny new card, they immediately sent my now useless card to the depths of Hades. Phyllis, the customer service rep, also suggested that I temporarily use my other card, the one that had gone unused since well before Ila’s passing, while the newly minted replacement was wending its way to my mailbox. Good idea, I thought, and dutifully shredded my old, now worthless, card.

Always the obedient one, I found Ila’s card and began to abuse it by inserting it, chip first, in an array of card readers designed to extract funds at an unprecedented rate from my meager assets. No grass was going to grow under my chip.

Not satisfied with merely enriching Ojai’s business community, Jackie and I toured New York and I left my temporary Citi card imprint all over Manhattan. It’s only plastic, I told myself. From bagels to buggy rides to Bloomingdale’s, my card impressed them all.

Returning home and feeling that I needed to punish myself for my wanton display of monetary foolishness, I visited the Citi website, logged in to my account and tried to find a history of the purchases I had made during our trip. I found the charges made to my old, now defunct, card but I was unable to view the purchases made with Ila’s card. My initial reaction was that Ila, in some kind of weird parlor trick foisted on me by her ether-like persona, was playing games with my head. Maybe to teach me another lesson and remind me of her continuing presence.

After assuring myself that there must be an earthbound explanation to my inability to view the transactions, I called Citi. The kindly customer service person, Cindy, informed me that Ila was the principal cardholder and that I had not been authorized by her to see the charges made to her card.

I asked Cindy how we might correct that oversight and was told “Just put your wife on the phone and we can get her verbal authorization to view her card activity.” Still suffering from jetlag and beset by muddled thinking, I said “That would be a neat trick because she passed away a year and a half ago.”

Sarcasm has always been the bane of my existence. And this time it bit me in the ass. “My condolences. But because of your wife’s passing we are going to close your account. All your cards are now ca-ca.” Cindy evidenced not an iota of sympathy. The thought of being without my card was like withdrawing from a year long course of opiate binging. No amount of pleading, begging or requests for mercy would sway Cindy from following the Citi procedures manual with a steadfastness equal to that of a dog on a bone.

Cindy suggested that I apply for a new Costco card where I would be the principal subscriber. I reluctantly agreed and was routed to Marilyn in the new accounts cabal. “What’s your Costco membership number?”, she asked.

“Oh, you mean the number that was on the back of my old, now shredded, card?”

A search of the Costco internet site and two phone calls later, I was rewarded with a new Citi card. Remembering that I would need to pay the charges on the old cards, I called Citi again and asked my new friend, Rachel, how I might go about settling my old account. “I’d be happy to do that for you right now. Just give me your bank routing number and your account number.”

Wishing to end the agony of this journey into the depths of credit card hell, I did as I was told and received a confirmation number as evidence of my obedience. And I waited for the funds to be miraculously withdrawn from my bank account. And I waited.

Days later with no funds withdrawn and fearing a mountain of late charges and the descent of my credit rating into the low teens, I once again called Citi and spoke with Judy. Feeling as though I was destined to meet every Citi customer service rep, I inquired about my supposed fund withdrawal. “Oh, your account has been turned over to our collection agency. You will need to speak with them.”

Collection agency? Citi’s monthly bill hadn’t even been generated and I was to be dunned? I called the agency and spoke to Ralph. A nice change of pace. “I’d just like to pay my bill.” Hardly responsive to my plea, Ralph informed me that I had the right to employ the services of the attorney who was handling my wife’s estate.

“Look Ralph, I just want to pay my bill. Please take my money.”

Set on a course that permitted no side trips, Ralph offered to settle the bill at eighty percent of what I owed. I said “Look Ralph, I just want to pay what’s owed. I don’t need any incentive.”

As though I was speaking Latin or some other dead language, Ralph insisted that I take his offer. Not wishing to prolong things and sensing that Ralph had bigger fish to fry, I graciously accepted his offer. And I dreamed about how I might most efficiently dispose of this new-found wealth.

And, to that end, my new Costco card arrived yesterday.


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