SCHOOLS OUT FOR SUMMA

I love Helen. She is the older woman living in the next brownstone over from us in Brooklyn. She was born and raised on this block and so were her parents and all her aunts and uncles and cousins, etc. She likes to tell stories how 'back in the day' the shaved ice guy lived in the building she is currently in or how her aunt used to live in my house and how her father once built doors in all the picket fences so the kids could go from yard to yard to yard.

The only times I really see Helen I am on the back porch in my pajamas. She is often on her back porch in her pajamas. She is ususally hanging out the laundry. It's a pajama party. With Helen.

I've liked Helen since the moment I met her. It was day two of living in our new place and I was sweeping the walk. She shuffled up to me and nudged me in the ribs,

H: How much ya pay for that place?
K: Oh..um..well we are actually renting.
H: Ohhhhh...ok. I was won-da-rin. (thick Brooklyn accent)
H: You two married?
K: Nope
H: Catholic?
K: Nope
H: Jewish?
K: Nope
H: Oh. My name is Helen. I've lived on this block my whole life.
K: Oh wow! Nice to meet you!

The funny thing about Helen is that for some reason she got it in her head that I am a public school teacher and E 'works in computers'. Recently on the way to the subway I had a rare Helen sighting in the front yard. I was wearing jeans.

H: You can wear denim to school? As a tee-cha? Must be nice.

It was one of those moments where it would take longer to explain to her that I am in fact not a teacher nor have I ever been. So I just said yes. Yes I can wear denim as a teacher. Sort of like the time E went on a trip to Texas to take some photographs for an upcoming photography show. When he returned Helen asked me,

H: So...did he get the computa jawb in Texas?

After a moments pause, I just said no. No he didn't get the job in Texas.

I don't mind the life Helen has created for the two of us. In fact I find it kind of endearing. This morning I saw Helen on the pack porch.

H: Goodmornin'! So...schools out for summa!
to which I replied. Yes. Yes it is.

BEING SOMETHING

I work in TV. Despite my love/hate relationship with the world of television you know what? I really love it. It gives me tons of excuses to watch really, really, really horrible TV and movies both at work and at home. Plus when E walks in on me watching 'The Real Gilligan's Island' on TBS I can say, "WHAT?! It's for WORK?!!"

Recently it occured to me that I've worked in TV for close to 8 years now. That doesn't tell you much except that well...I'm really old. Back in the day when I was working on Barney Miller (kidding) when I was working at a major kids TV network, I don't think it ever occured to me that working in TV was going to be a long-term career choice for me.

I floundered a bit after college. All I wanted to do was be something...anything! After a few shitty jobs I finally landed an interview through my father's friend a big wig at a major kids TV network. Before the interview I was nervous and worried that because I came in through my dad's friend everyone would hate me or think I was a stuck up bitch. All the people I talked to on the phone seemed young and hip and cool and I didn't want them to hire me because of my connections.

Naturally, I hoped my great outfit would get me the job. I wore a stunning mud colored, linen, potato sack dress (literally a sack) and a nice pair of coal black, square tip, Amish style chunky heels. HoTTT. As if that look wasn't 'proffesional' enough I dragged along a giant black, pleather, puffy handled portfolio the size of a front car windsheild. It held my cover letter and resume which combined came to half a page at most.

Shockingly, I landed the job. Not because of my outfit but because of my connections. The happy ending was I got a makeover, made some friends for life and have continued to work hard to make my family proud.

When my grandmother heard I landed a job in TV, the next week she sent me a package in the mail. It was a pair of nude stockings.

K: Grandmother! Thanks for the package.
G: Sure, honey.
K: Why the nude stockings?
G: Because they make your legs appear tan on TV!

While I couldn't bear to break the news to my grandmother that my recent TV gig didn't mean I'd be 'on camera', I could tell her one thing. I was finally something.

HOME

So I'm back from Guatemala. I guess you can say 'we' are back. As E put it...when I was freaking out as he kindly stuffed my dirty, clay covered flip flops into his suitcase when packing up to leave, "Um...we live together. I'll think I'll be able to return these to you...real soon." I think I was just crabby it was all ending. My mother has a theory that vacation really ends the moment you pack the flips flops in the suitcase. And I think it's really true.

Guatemala is amazing although as usual when I return from a trip I am at a loss for words as to my experience. Today at the office I managed to spit out a few stories full of yucks mixed in with a few gross TMI details to quickly disperse my co-workers from the coffee cluster by my desk and send them back to their cubes with all too descriptive images of me suffering from violent diarrhea while simultaneously puking into a gorgeous Guatemalan mosaic tiled tub.

Getting sick in a foreign place SUCKS. The 'drug store' ie: wooden shack sells spooky, glossy pills that look like bath beads and not the Alleve you know and love. You just feel like total ass and contemplate the fact you may in fact have to go to one of those nearby remote village hospitals that just yesterday you took a photo of while nudging your partner like, 'Can you believe this joint?' By most standards I'm sure those places are fine. But by vivid imagination standards they are not. Dirty sheets. Dirty needles. Foaming at the mouth dogs running through the empty, flickering light halls of some place that smells. Luckily, I didn't have to fulfill that reality nor the fantasy. Despite me moaning and clutching my stomach before the taxi came to pick us up E was right. It was time to go home.

Luckily the plane ride was sooo smooth AND we got bumped to biz class. For the record...I DO NOT FLY WELL ON AIRPLANES. I am not a relaxed passenger. I freak out. I think we are about to die at any second. When asked if we'd like biz class I consider this a trick question. What does this REALLY mean? Do you know something I don't know? Is my weight at the front of the plane crucial for reasons only you know? No matter biz class or regular I consider the fact that I will be the person going down just as someone is stuffing KFC into their face on my left and someone's baby shits their pants on my right and all this happening as episode after episode of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' plays until we are done. Perhaps it's best I shut up.

Regardless I am glad to be home. And now I will stop blogging because I've just gone through half a glass of water while typing this only to just now notice a beetle at the bottom of the glass. Home sweet home.