Years ago, Allan and I visited the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. Marcelle’s mom, Althea who worked there at the time, gave us complimentary tickets to see the collections and the exhibitions. Tim Burton was exhibiting the amazing sketches he did for the movies Nightmare Before Christmas, Edward Scissorhands, and Batman. ..to name a few. He is dark and his characters are scary…but his vision and creativity cannot be denied.

We visited the William Kentridge exhibit – displaying the South African’s works on apartheid and politics. The charcoal drawings that he animated for film were thought provoking, but at times, the point escaped me.

But these exhibits paled dramatically in comparison to performance artist Marina Abramovic’s exhibition “The Artist Is Present” and I do mean EXHIBITION!!!

The exhibit begins with Marina sitting at a table in the atrium of the museum – staring straight ahead for hours on end. Visitors are encouraged, one at a time, to sit across from her at the table and mediate as well. After taking this all in for a few minutes, we ascended to the sixth floor to view the rest of the exhibit.

In order to get in, you had two choices:

1. Walk through a large entrance way.

2. Walk through a smaller doorway where a man and a woman, both naked, are standing face to face, staring at each other and you have to pass sideways between them.

Of course, we all opted for door number two. The male and the female were both well endowed and so brushing up against protruding parts was unavoidable. As I started to embark on my entrance, I turned to face the male and began my sidestep to go through the doorway. Too late did I realize that the entrance was narrower then I anticipated, but on the bright side, I would have had a place to hold my tote bag.

Once inside, the presentations were even more bizarre. One exhibit had two men sitting on chairs back to back with their long hair entwined. They do not speak but just stare straight ahead. I did wonder if they had some sort of “heads up” notification (no pun intended) for each other if one was about to sneeze. I mean really…during a gesundheit, their heads could be snapped backwards with such velocity it would cause whiplash!

Further into the exhibit were films that Marina created from her other live performance art exhibits. We stood and watched in horror as she carved a six inch star into her abdomen with a razor blade. (I mean, not for anything, but most people who cut themselves with a razor blade wind up on a psych unit). Another film being displayed was of women dancing outside in the pouring rain with long skirts on. They were naked underneath their gauzy attire and would periodically lift their skirts high in the air as they danced and twirled and showed all, ostensibly to ward off the rain. This is good to know in case heavy rains are predicted. I could cavort naked in my backyard and possibly thwarted that torrential downpour! (But in the community we live in now, I’d probably need a variance!)

There was a girl, also naked (yes…naked seemed to be the theme throughout. I think Marina has a few Freudian issues…) suspended on a white wall…sitting on a bicycle seat. She had a gorgeous body, but I was concerned that the blood that was pooling in her lower extremities from sitting there for so long could cause a blood clot. (Always the nurse!)

It was quite a show. I didn’t get it at all.

I wonder how they went about finding the people to pose naked for this performance art. Did they advertise in the New York Times employment opportunity section? All the women were pretty buxom, so I guess the ad read “34A’s NEED NOT APPLY”. (I won’t go into what the ad might have suggested for the males.)

I always wanted to be a teacher and back in the 70’s, I pursued a college degree in Elementary Education. After graduation, I accepted what I thought would be my dream job in a parochial elementary school.

Things didn’t turn out quite as I had hoped. My classroom was comprised of thirty-four kindergartners, most of whom, for reasons beyond my comprehension, insisted on calling me Mrs. Nestle. Five of them didn’t speak English and the father of one of my charges kept pleading that I teach his son to hold the crayon in his right hand instead of his left. I was with the same children from eight am to four pm with no break and I also ate lunch with them. The desks in the classroom were nailed to the floor and I soon realized that childhood games like Duck Duck Goose would probably culminate in black and blue knees and law suits. The principal was a proponent of self-directed student learning. I confessed I wasn’t trained in that technique but she replied, “Not a problem. Just let the children play all day”. And for good measure, she threw in a student teacher who would ostensibly learn invaluable “teaching” expertise from me. Days are endless when teaching isn’t an option and I began to have fantasies of overdosing on paste and finger paint. My dream job was becoming a nightmare.

My day always began with a boy named George arriving at my desk and saying “Mrs. Nestle. I don’t feel well”. I would think to myself “I’m not feeling so hot myself George”, but instead I would happily chirp “Oh, George you’ll be fine. Just sit down and play with the Cuisenaire rods”. This went on for weeks until one day George came to my desk with the usual pronouncement and instead of my cheery response, I knelt down, gave a low growl and said “George. You’re fine. Sit down!”

It wasn’t two minutes later, little Madeleine cautiously approached my desk and whispered “Mrs. Nestle. George just thew up in his lunch pail”. And as I mopped up George’s breakfast, I knew the next day I would be handing in my resignation.

Sometimes what we think will be the path to a lifetime career turns out to be merely a stepping stone along the way. I never went back to teaching. I studied to get another Bachelor’s degree and became a registered nurse, had four little ones of my own and worked as a substitute nurse for the local elementary schools. Ironically, as a nurse, I didn’t mind taking care of the upset tummies of kindergartners.

But I often wonder what ever happened to that student teacher. She probably quit school and entered a nunnery.

I don’t know whether you have heard the news, but you can now fly your pet across the country and not have to worry about them suffocating or freezing to death in the cargo hold. PetAirways will fly your pet cross country in the luxury of the cabin of the plane, where attendants will check on them every fifteen minutes and also take them for potty breaks along the way.

Our cat Checkers, God love her, was a terrible traveler. We would take her back and forth from up north to North Carolina on a regular basis in the car and she would howl the entire way. Sixteen hours is a very long time to be in a closed environment with an unhappy cat in a cage and had PetAirways been up and running, we probably would have employed their services just for our sanity.

So even though we no longer have any pets, this Pet airline intrigues me and I have many questions that need to be answered. For example, are the animals fastened into their seats? Does the attendant stand in the aisle like on a people flight and demonstrate the ease of opening and closing the seat belt clasps? I can just hear the animals now…”Geez…if I only had a thumb!”

And what animal gets to sit at the emergency exit? The person on a people flight who sits at the emergency door has to be capable of functioning should the worst case scenario play out, so I definitely wouldn’t put the Golden Retrievers there. Their tails would be wagging and they would be giddy with the excitement of playing with the oxygen masks that have just dropped from the ceiling rather than concentrating on getting the freakin’ emergency door open.

What do they offer for the entrees when dinnertime comes? “Fancy feast” would be appropriate for the first class felines and of course, it would be served in Waterford crystal bowls. Dogs are not as discerning when it comes to food and will eat anything, as evidenced by our Golden Retriever Sandy who ate 7 corncobs, 10 spareribs and a ball of string at one seating, resulting in a visit to the all night emergency vet. If Sandy were on the Pet Plane, I would be concerned that he would be eating the seat cushions and happily munching on the carpet. And what are the selections on the drink cart? Do the attendants offer toilet water for the dogs in fancy glasses with wide rims so they can lap it up as they cruise through the clouds?

People flights usually have the armed security officers on board in case there is a terrorist attack. I imagine PetAirways will be interviewing the Blood Hounds and the Police Dogs for that position.

How do they handle the potty breaks? On the website it states that the animals are taken on a “regular basis” to a “confined area” for their nature calls. I’m picturing a huge red fire hydrant bolted to the middle of the confined area for the dogs and an oversize sand box for the cats.

What kind of on board entertainment is provided? I would venture to say that they take “car chase” scene clips for the canine spectators and excerpts from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for the viewing pleasure of the felines.

Another interesting fact is that just like on people flights, each “pawssenger” is only allowed to bring on board “anything that can fit into a one gallon zip lock bag including food, medicine and a small toy.” Guess the Homeland Security was consulted for the traveling animals too.

Well it all is pretty amazing. But I have to wonder what kind of person would sign on for the job of taking care of animals in midair. The site has a FAQ format and one of the questions was “Should I give my pet a sedative before travel?” The answer was “Absolutely not! Common tranquilizers have very serious consequences for traveling pets”.

And I would add…”Better to leave the tranquilizers for the attendants!!! They’re going to need them!!!”

Whie driving the other day, I spotted a church that had a sign out front reading

I’m sure the pastor thought it was a clever play on words that he overheard someone say…but you’ve got to ask yourself..

Did that person have a lisp?

Broad Jump: What a child did as he vaulted down the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast, bounding over the last five steps.

Pole vaulting: Leaping into midair to smack the wall above a door frame with hands that have just held a dripping jelly donut, to see if his fingerprints are higher than the ones previously left by his brother.

Diving: Realizing a tad too late that nose diving off the top of a swing set with an open umbrella doesn’t bode very well for the jumper.

Speed Skating: Deftly accomplished by a child running full throttle and then sliding across a wooden floor in stockinged feet.

Weight lifting: Hoisting a brother (usually a younger one) up in the air while bellowing “TATTLETALE!!”

Shot put: The event where one child throws an object (usually round and resembling a baseball) at another brother’s head, said object being thrown at the velocity of a speeding bullet.

100 meter dash: One brother running after a fleeing sibling while screaming “GIVE IT BACK!!”

Fencing: Carried out by a snapping motion with a rolled up towel rather than an epee.

Wrestling: Four boys. Need I say more???

Fortunately, their mother was an Olympic gold medal winner in boxing. Ear boxing to be exact.

I don’t know who invented these wonderful implements, but I am greatly indebted to them. Tweezers come in very handy, especially now that I am approaching the age where pesky hairs appear in places you don’t want to know about.  If I didn’t have a tweezers in my arsenal, I definitely would be looking like Vincent Van Gogh within a week.

I actually owe my life to a tweezers. (Well, not really; that was supposed to get your attention so that you read on!)

Many years ago, before the dawn of our children, Allan and I were upstate on vacation enjoying a dinner in a restaurant. I decided to have the turkey with all the trimmings and was eating it with gusto when suddenly a bone got stuck in my throat. I kept trying to dislodge it with bread to know avail, so I finally said to Allan “I think I have a bone in my throat…let’s go.” We went back to the car and he got the flashlight and looked down my throat. “Yes dear,” he calmly stated, “You indeed have a bone like a Lilliputian arrow stuck on the side of your throat.”

Now up until this point, I was talking fine, but once confirmation was made as to the bone situation in my throat I immediately scream whispered “GET ME TO A HOSPITAL.” Allan mused to himself “If I only had a tweezers”. Now I’m thinking…great…fine time for him to be thinking about shaping my eyebrows, but then a real sense of panic came over me as I realized what he wanted the tweezers for. Knowing that the man had obviously gone mad, I repeated my whispered plea, this time with teeth clenched, “GET ME TO A HOSPITAL”. But we were in a town God knows where, and it was dark. Where is a hospital when you need one? Allan says again…”If I could just get a tweezers”. With that, he starts the car and within a few blocks, he sees a 5 and 10 cent store. He jumps out, but they had just closed. He’s banging on the door saying ” My wife has a bone in her throat ” (quite dramatically, I might add) “and I need to buy a tweezers”.

Now I’m in the car thinking the man has gone over the edge and I’m seriously thinking of climbing into the drivers seat and taking myself to the hospital, but the thought of leaving him at the door of the store and having him possibly be taken off to a nut house by the 5 and 10 cent staff kept me glued to the seat. The people mercifully unlocked the door and let him in to buy the tweezers. They made him pay for the tweezers right away, too, obviously not realizing the direness of my situation. Now mind you, they had to find the key to the register, unlock it and fire it up. Newspaper headlines began to run through my head “Women Succumbs To Bone in Throat As Husband is Delayed at Cash Register Paying for Life Saving Tweezers”.

He eventually came out with this long, pinch-nosed deal and said “Open wide”.. like he’s a dentist or something. I’m thinking, I hope this works or I’ll be at the hospital with a bone AND a tweezers protruding from my throat. Try explaining THAT to the hospital staff!!! But, Allan, without hesitation, deftly put that tweezers down my gullet and plucked that bone from my throat. My hero!!

It was quite awhile, however, before I stopped pulverizing my turkey at family Thanksgiving celebrations and tweezing my eyebrows on occasion can still gives me the willies!

When Allan and I were first married and living in an apartment in Floral Park,  I had an encounter with a dishwasher.

Growing up, the only dishwasher that my family had was me. I would stand at the sink in our kitchen and wash and rinse the dishes and stack them in the drainboard to be dried later. I knew nothing of the workings of an automatic dishwasher, so you can imagine my elation when we moved into our little love nest and I realized that I now had a machine to do the dirty work. It was a top loader and it rolled out from under the counter top whenever its services were required.

A number of months went by and one Saturday while on a cleaning binge, I thought to myself “Gee, I guess it’s time I cleaned the dishwasher”. DUH!! I was obviously not the brightest newlywed on the block – about as sharp as a marble to be precise. I mean really, doesn’t the dishwasher interior get “clean” every time you hit the “Start Cycle” button? And to further prove that I was indeed not the sharpest knife in the drawer, I decided that it needed to be cleaned with DISH detergent. That’s what I had used all those years to make dishes sparkling clean, so why not use it to clean the inside of the dishwasher?

Exactly how much dish washing liquid a village idiot should put into a dishwasher to have the inside come out sparkling clean, no one knows. Suffice it to say, I obviously used a tad too much; a little bit of that stuff goes a long way. And of course, since I wanted the dish washer to be super clean, I probably added a decent amount. And maybe a touch more after that.

Things were going well at first. The dishwasher filled with steamy hot water and started the cycle. Then suddenly, after about 10 minutes, froth started to ooze from the top of the machine. Then bubbles started coming out even faster, cascading down the front, streaming down to the floor and making their way to the side door. “I Love Lucy” episodes had nothing on me.

I hit the “cancel” button, but alas, it was too late. Upon opening the door of the washer, bubbles literally exploded all over and they kept coming, and coming, and coming.

I yelled for my dearest who ran in and practically knocked himself out navigating the slippery floor. We grabbed some pots and started scooping bubbles (which were now about a foot high) to deposit out the door of the house and onto the patio. Now we not only had bubbles all over the kitchen…the suds were starting to fill up our patio.

And still the bubbles kept coming. Did you know the more you try to add water to bubbles, the soapier the situation becomes? Yeah, well I didn’t know that and as I tried to rinse out the dishwasher and douse the floor with water to defeat the foam, it just made matters worse.

I’m sure Allan was rethinking his spousal choice by now, but at least he couldn’t say he married a slob. We had the cleanest dish washer, kitchen floor and cement patio on the block.

Little did he know way back then, that the adventures with his bride would continue for all these years. And that’s why our blog is titled “The Escapades of Pookie and Allan!”

Today I had to call Viking to get clarification about a trip we have scheduled.  The young man that I spoke with, Derrick, was very knowledgeable and answered all my questions to my satisfaction.

As we were ending the call, he asked “Is there anything else I can help you with?”   I said, “Yes…the laundry!”

Derrick laughed that little laugh people laugh when they don’t know whether you’re serious or not…

…and then he probably made a little notation in my file.

Whose idea was it to put an “s” in the word LISP??!!??

When we lived in North Carolina, we would attend “Dessert with the Doc” seminars, given by local doctors on a wide range of medical topics. One time, the topic was “Your Poo and You.” Honestly, the doctor that gave the seminar could have been a stand up comedian. But then again, the subject matter was pretty conducive to jokes.

We laughed our way through some of the highlights of the topics he addressed: “hanging chads”, “the Hershey squirts”, “racing stripes in the toilet” and “floaters vs sinkers”.

And he could hardly keep a straight face, during the question and answer period, when a lady in the audience confessed she was plagued with gas whenever she flew in an airplane and questioned the doc about what she should do about it.

“Encourage fellow travelers not to sit near you would be my first advice,” he said barely able to get out the words. And then he offered another pearl of wisdom.

“There is a new product on the market,” he sputtered. “They’re called…” (stopping to wipe the tears from his eyes from his laughter ) “Farty Pants,” he finally blurted out.

It seems that people who have a flatulence problem need not be embarrassed anymore. They can buy  Farty Pants, underpants that have a charcoal liner embedded in the crotch that renders harmless the noxious gases emanating from a person’s bowels. And no one is the wiser except the wearer.

The underwear makers swear they work…and the liners last for a few weeks. They are washable…but the company advises that the occupant not use them in a hot tub or swimming pool. (Personally, I think someone who has this problem shouldn’t be in a hot tub or a swimming pool in the first place. The bubbles could give them away!)

After the hour of laughter, we were asked to write down our thoughts and comments on the doctor’s presentation and how effectively he gave enlightenment on the subject.

I wrote “He was POOsitively wonderful!!!”