This post should be read in the ironic and self-mocking tone in which I wrote it. I am fully aware of how self-pitying and how pathetic I sound, and that is the point.
This morning has already been a comedy of errors, although I admit that I don’t think I laughed once at my compounding predicaments.
Here are the facts:
— Yesterday as I got onto the bus going home, the strap to my over-the-shoulder bag snapped off (no doubt because of the weight of the entire Ring trilogy within). There are two drawstrings which keep the purse closed, and so I used those, in the interim, to drape over my wrist. But I have to get a new bag.
— I have 3 large paper bags filled with presents to bring home to the family. Some of the presents are rather large and of an awkward size.
— My duffel bag, which I used to pack my clothes in, does not have an over-the-shoulder strap either … It has two small straps, which can be grasped together in one hand, but the attachable long strap, to go over the shoulder for more convenience, was lost long ago.
So – needless to say – trying to get my act together this morning for my commute was a chore. I am here at work now – in the empty office – waiting for my bus, which leaves at 2.
I have not planned this well. I had to haul all of my strap-less booty from my apartment to my office … hang out here … and then haul it all again down the 6 blocks to Port Authority. But 6 blocks can be an eternity when you have FAR TOO MANY BAGS, TWO OF WHICH HAVE NO SHOULDER STRAPS.
Finally, I thought I had it all handled.
I would put my purse over my wrist and slide it halfway up my arm. I would put my duffel bag straps over the same wrist (which nearly ripped my arm out of its socket). Then I would carry one of my large bags of presents with my feeble stretched-out hand. The other two bags of presents (heavy, mind you) I would manage to clasp in the other hand.
Once I got myself into this configuration, I became about 6 feet wide.
But no matter.
I struggled out of the door to my apartment. I was too wide to get through with all the bags, so I had to take them all off, open the door, move all the bags out into the hallway, step outside, close the door, lock the door, and then rearrange myself (purse, duffel, one bag of presents on left-hand side, 2 paper bags of presents on right-hand side.) Then I had to struggle down the 7 steps into the mailbox area, where there is a door leading into the foyer. Again, because I had no hands free, I had to take all the bags off, open the door, slide each bag through, step through myself, and then re-arrange all the bags up and down my torso. Unfortunately, I was still only in the foyer by this point … and there was one more door leading to the outside world. So again: off with all the bags, open the door, slide each bag out, step out, put all bags on again.
By this point, I was drenched in sweat. I had on a nice velvety top which was a mistake. It had become a sweatshirt.
Let us not even mention the HEAVINESS of the bags. I thought I was going to die.
I took 10 steps across my little concrete front yard, stepped outside the gate, and already had to put all the bags down for a little breather.
It was then that it really hit me: How the hell am I going to pull this off?
It seemed impossible.
My shoulders ached. My arms felt elongated. Like an El Greco. My nicely arranged hair was a complete mess. The day was beautiful, it was 8:30 am, but it seemed as though it would take an act of God to get me the hell across the river, to my job, and then down to Port Authority.
Taking a deep breath, I thought of Bilbo. I thought of all that he endured. I thought about how he stepped outside his comfort zone, and went through things that were very unpleasant. I will get through this. I will somehow (SOMEHOW) climb up the steps onto the bus – I had no idea how I would, though, due to my increased width. I would somehow (SOMEHOW) store all of my presents all about the bus – which, unfortunatley, I knew would be jam-packed with other people (how dare they??) – and then somehow (SOMEHOW) gather it all up again … in the enclosed confines of the bus … and somehow (SOMEHOW) get off the bus … and then DAMMIT I still had a 3 block walk to get to my job … which, under the circumstances, might as well have been 10 miles.
But Bilbo was on my mind. So I went to pick up my bags and then noticed a nice long rip along the bottom of one of them. I could see the presents within. This stumped me. I looked at one of the other paper bags and saw another rip at the corner … one which, I was SURE, seeing how the day was already turning out, would widen as my commute went on.
Having those bags rip was not an option.
I had no other way to carry everything. I would … I literally could not imagine what would happen to me if those bags ripped on my way into Manhattan. All I could see was me taking all of my carefully chosen presents, now strewn about the sidewalk, dumping them all into a trash can on the corner, and stalking off to work in a fury. With a lighter load but with no Christmas.
I came up with a less-than-perfect solution. What if I took a large garbage bag, and put all of the presents into it? Yes, it wouldn’t have a handle – but it would be a temporary solution until I got to work – I could go buy a cheap duffel bag on the corner and then I would be all set.
Okay. So that was the plan.
I left everything on the sidewalk, raced back inside, into the kitchen, reached under the cupboard for the large box of garbage bags I knew was there. The second I touched it – I knew it was empty. There were no more bags.
I am like my own worst nightmare. You know how women complain about men who put empty cereal boxes back into the cupboard? Well … in that moment this morning … I was a woman complaining about myself. “DAMMIT, Sheila. DAMMIT.”
Okay. So no garbage bags. I was just going to have to trust to the gods above that the bags would not rip … and make my way down to the bus stop.
I hated every second of my life. I also hated Christmas, presents, sunshine, happy faces, and traveling to see my family. I hated all that was good on this planet.
I went back out to my hated bags, arranged myself in my lunatic fashion, and started off down the street. I was in pain. My biceps burned, my hands lost all feeling, and with every step it was like I could feel the rips opening up in the bags. Basically, I was fucked. Not to mention the fact that I still had no freakin’ clue about how I was going to get all of this shit onto the teeny little shuttle busses which take us into Manhattan – busses which are cramped when I only have my bookbag. I had no idea how this would turn out. I dreaded it.
I got half a block, before I had to stop and take a rest.
There were a couple of other issues:
— the shoelaces on EACH of my sneakers came wildly undone. I could hear them slapping themselves against the pavement as I limped along crazily
— after about 3 steps I realized that I had a terrible wedgie, which continued to get more and more and more severe, with every step. It was a hurtful wedgie. A wedgie that cannot be ignored. I felt like eventually it would cut me into two halves, and I would then be split apart and go perambulating off onto opposite street corners.
I must have looked insane. Trying not to trip on my flipping-about shoelaces, trying to un-do the wedgie by kicking my legs out randomly to each side (you know, wedgie behavior), all the while carrying 5 bags with my own 2 hands. I was wearing my big sheepskin coat, a long white knit scarf, and a small red knit hat. My face was sweaty and flushed. You see these people in NYC who walk around carrying all their possessions (and possibly other people’s as well). I looked like one of those people. I could not consolidate any further. There was nowhere else to put stuff.
Additionally: just in case you are trying to think of options for me: I live in a residential neighborhood which has no commerce – There is a deli across the street, which would have garbage bags, but it doesn’t open until 10. Also, I only had 3 dollars on me. I needed 2 of that for my commute.
So during my breather, I considered my options.
I realized that this was impossible and I was not going to be able to make it. Something terrible was going to happen.
I should just call a cab and splurge on the trip into the city. But there was the 3 dollars problem and I didn’t think they took credit cards.
To be honest with you all: I was BESIDE MYSELF with frustration. I felt like I was going crazy. I was DETERMINED to figure this out … but there seemed too many obstacles. Also, my arms hurt.
Finally, reason broke in.
“This is bull shit. I cannot do this. I am going to take all of this stuff home, stash it in my apartment, then go walk to the nearest ATM, take out a bunch of cash, walk home again, and call a car service. It sucks, and it’s inconvenient, but that’s all there is to it. This is ridiculous. If any of these bags break open, I am completely DONE for.”
So that’s what I did.
By this point, I was talking out loud, my voice reverberating through the empty streets.
“This is ridiculous.”
“I cannot beLIEVE this.”
“I am RIPSHIT, I tell ya, RIPSHIT.”
Ah … merry Christmas.
It was a 15 minute walk to the nearest ATM, because basically I live in a neighborhood of people who are, at all times, on the fringes of legality. Lovely folks, all with Christmas wreaths and American flags and yellow ribbons and everything, but let’s just say this: any time I approach any of them to ask a question, no matter how benign (“Where’s the post office?”) I am treated as though I am a spy for the INS. These people do not have bank cards, is the information I am trying to impart.
Finally, I get out money. I walk home. The day is beautiful, the sun is shining, the Empire State Building rises gleaming and misty above the horizon – I am blind to it all.
I am all about my bags. My DAMN BAGS.
I come home, I call a car service. They arrive in 5 minutes, and take me into the city. They take me to the door of my office. I gather together my 3,965 bags on the sidewalk, stagger towards the front door … The doorman sees me standing there. The doorman knows me by name. He smiles at me. He likes me. But does he open the door for me? Does he aid me in my time of need?
He does not.
Therefore, he is off of my list forever.
Buh-bye.
And now for the conclusions I have drawn:
Be warned. It may be a bit out there. I will try to be clear, but frankly, I am not in the mood for clarity.
As I carefully, for the 11th time, re-arranged my strapless bag on my wrist, my duffel bag up over my wrist, my slowly-ripping bag clutched in the free hand, the other slowly-ripping bag in my other hand, with another paper bag gripped in my now-feeling-less fingers … a frantic and angry thought occurred to me.
I need a husband. FAST.
Now guys … let me explain. I appreciate much about men, I appreciate them for many reasons – not just for being my little man-servant. I love men’s humor, I love the hands of men, I love the curiosity of men. I love the kissing, too.
My bed has a tendency to grow emptier and larger as the years go by. I started out with a full-size bed, and now I am convinced that it has become a king-size. All on its own. My dinner table is eerily quiet. I read as I eat. Before you all take out your mocking violins, I realize what this sounds like. And in calmer moods, I will say this: I love eating by myself, I love the quiet, I love stretching out sideways across my triple-king-size bed, I love not having to make conversation with someone if I don’t feel like it, thank you very much.
But dammit. What I would have loved more than anything else this morning was for a man to help me carry my damn bags.
And for that you need a husband.
And that was one of the other things I shouted out into the quiet misty morning, as I staggered awkwardly back to my apartment for the 8th time, realizing that this was not gonna fly, and I was gonna have to get a car service. Along with shouting out, “This is ridiculous” I also burst out once, like an insane person, “Where the HELL is my husband??”
Whoever he is, I am sure he would be absolutely thrilled to know that not only am I excited that he can take up space in my now-20-foot-wide bed, but that I cannot wait for him to do the heavy lifting.
How romantic.
So what you’re sayin’ is – you need back-up?
Dang – I thought I was having a difficult week. (I will not speak of the fit of temper I had yesterday when I a)sealed bill envelope without inserting check and then b)reopened envelope – tearing it in process – inserted check and taped envelope closed only to discover that c)the check I inserted was blank and that check for that bill was still sitting on my desk in plain view. Aaarrrgh!)
I definitely need back-up.
I just HATE to mock your pain, but this can’t help reminding me of the Monty Python “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch where each of them has to keep one-upping the others about what a hard childhood they had and kids these days just don’t understand: as I remember it, finally devolving into “we had to get up at ten o’clock at night, half an hour BEFORE we’d gone to bed, clean out the lake, drink a glass of cold sulfuric acid for breakfast, crawl naked 100 miles over broken glass in a raging blizzard to get to work, work 29 hours a day, pay for permission to come to work, come home, and then our dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing hallelujah…if we were lucky.”
Merry Christmas, Sheila! Hope you make it home in one piece. ;-)
Sheila,
I bet you could order a husband over the internet. Hell, if you can order a pizza with tennis balls on it, why not a man?
“if we were lucky…”
HA. I remember that.
Oh God, and mock away. i posted it in order for people to mock me.
But hopefully, they mock with love.
Sheila! People definitely need backup. I hear of those single mothers who go out to the store for cigarettes, or milk or something, and that is when, of course, the house with kids in it burns to the ground. And ya know, I feel for those women. They need back up. I don’t know if you remember, but I moved from my Melrose apt. to my Wrightwood apt. via the 36 Broadway bus. I made about 600 trips with all my stuff but I was self sufficient, dammit. People need back up. And lastly, concerning you yelling out “where is my husband”, last week, Stuart was teaching, and Henry and Logan and I went out and got a big Christmas tree. Being Jewish, he is just not excited about it (I know many Jews who are, he is not one of them). We decorated the tree, the kids and I, and then I noticed that it looked a little crooked. I went underneath it to adjust it, and it fell on top of me, lights, decor, and all. Logan was screaming, and I was trying to reassure him “it’s alright, this always happens” in a muffled voice because I had pine needles in my mouth. I did yell out, to no one in particular, “A husband is supposed to do this”! I needed secular, holiday celebrating backup. I hope the menora doesn’t set the tree afire. Lots of love to you Sheila. Have a great holiday!!
J
Jackie –
laughing out loud remembering you moving via a bus.
and also laughing out loud at the image of you reassuring Logan from beneath the Christmas tree…
oh Lordy, we must laugh.
Sheeessshhh.! [self-pity on] I’m sick [self-pity off] so I got dizzy when the first bag ripped HOWEVER, when you don’t have a significant other just grab a tourist. You’re a New Yorker now and you have the power, and responsibility, to provide tourists with stories about their visit to new Yawk City. Damn, a couple of hours of mutual admiration, with or without sex, can provide you with hours of free domestic labor with no strings attached. Tourists want fantasies to take home. We have stuff to do where we need an extra pair of hands.
Simple barter – no?
I can honestly say that there are no tourists in my neighborhood. Tourists usually have Visas, green cards, passports, and valid identification of some kind. In my neighborhood, I am probably the only one with an actual driver’s license.
but maybe i’ll grab a tourist (they’re everywhere where i work) for the journey down to Penn Station.
I ordered my wife through the Internet.
Well, OK, we met online in a chatroom in 1998. Our 4 and 1/2 year anniversary is a few days away.
I help her carry bags, she helps me stay fat. I make her laugh, she lets me tickle her. I open her door every third time, she doesn’t chew my ass out for not opening her door a third of the time.
It works. I hope you find yours.
A fough time…..
You think you are having a tough time of it? Check this out. Show her you care because she made you laugh at her expense.
easycure: i hope so too. My shoulders hurt!!
happy early anniversary, by the way.
You do NOT need a husband, Sheila dear. What you need is a wheelie cart that you just pile all your crap on and down the street you go!!
Now if you had a car you might want a husband so that you’d have someone to wash your car and take it to the mechanic for you.
Perhaps if I invest in a wheelie cart, the husband won’t be long to follow.
Seriously, though…I’m not, in general, a “I MUST BE MARRIED” kind of girl.
(of course I’m not. I’ve had 3 marriage proposals. I said “No” to 2 of them. What happened with the 3rd one? you ask. heh heh I’ll never tell…)
but this morning, suddenly, I realized how much I needed a husband, because I didn’t see how I was going to make it to the end of the street. Not a ringing endorsement for matrimony, I’ll tell you that.
Next Christmas – I am definitely going to review my travel plans. Rent a car perhaps. Now there’s an idea!!
The “I HATE” to mock you part was sarcasm, or in your flustered state couldn’t you tell? ;-) But of course it’s done with love.
Oh, and picking up on another comment, I know there are a lot of Jews who are bothered by, or at least try to ignore, Christmas trees or being wished Merry Christmas–that’s fine for them, I suppose, but I’ve never been one of them. We always had a Christmas tree as well the menorah, and I don’t think that’s just because my mom’s father was Catholic: her mother’s family did the same and I think regarded it as part of becoming American. I happily accept wishes for a Merry Christmas in the spirit of genrosity in which they’re offered, and wish the same in return.
oh i could hear the sarcasm in your tone!! Even in my flustered sweaty state, with my arms coming out of their sockets!
and from an earlier post, Dave, the Lewis Carroll one: Happy hannukah as well.
Thanks!
As an utterly northeastern Jew in the South (Tallahassee’s really more Georgia than Florida), I can’t help but be reminded of some comedian, I don’t remember who, mentioning that when passing through Alabama one of the locals wished him a “Happy Chaka Khan.” Mocking with love, indeed! ;-)
As I imagine the whole crazy ensemble staggering down the sidewalk, kicking legs, flapping sneakers and all, I realize that there is something missing.
If only you had had a small yippy dog on a flexi running around in circles making a nuisance of itself, then your day would have been perfect.
Lets all chip in and get Sheila a puppy – warmer than men and they don’t complain as much.
:Grin:
Have a good Christmas
Ted K.
Heavy lifting and fathering kids, is that all we’re good for? Oh wait, I forgot, home maintenance would probably be helpful too.
You could have prevailed upon a friend with a car for help.
Why are you looking at me like that?
Sheila – I feel your pain more than you know.
There are days when after work, I have to do laundry, pick up dry cleaning, do grocery shopping as well as all sorts of other little annoying things. Then when I get home I have to put everything away and make dinner. (I always say that I wish I just had someone to pick up the freaking dry cleaning on the way home.) After all the errands I pull into my parking spot at home and realized that I have a shit load of stuff and some stairs to climb. I always try to take it in one trip. Groceries, mail, laundry, dry cleaning, planner, a loose file from work to peruse over dinner, and my travel mug from the morning. I can usually make it all in one trip if I prop the door to the building open first and then use my leg to close it behind me. Man, I could use a husband too! ;-)
Other nights I’ll climb the stairs exhausted and put my key in the lock, pause and say to myself, “Oh my God. This is it, isn’t it? Dinner alone, blogging, homework, tv and wine.”
Are those violins I hear?
btw, this insane monologue also reminds me of living in Rome. Total chaos, no car, no language skills.
Great story.
Dear Sheila:
I’m working on an eerily-similar piece right now. It’s amazing; truly it is. This has squat to do with ‘being married’ — it has to do with having that Other Party for a whole host of Mundane Things.
I also understand that Married People have something called TIME. For stupid stuff; like movies and toenail-trimming. It’s true. Swear to God! I read it someplace; once….
Cheers!
-Will
That was hilarious. Be sure, though, that I was laughing with you…not at you.
Because it sounds like an excerpt from my life.
Except that I don’t need a husband. A wife, maybe, to tell me that at 26 it’s not alright to eat Creamed Corn and a Snickers bar for supper….
I hope you have a great Christmas.
I am laughing out loud at all of your comments. I love them.
and Bill – I said all the reasons I REALLY love men! I love their hands, their minds, their curious natures, and I love kissing them. BUT ALSO: I would like some help with my bags.
Is that too much for a girl to ask?
oh and by the way – I blog this from my parents kitchen now. I did make it home … but Amtrak, true to form, was a disaster. I bought a ticket on a reserved train. And yet I stood all the way to Stanford. With about 50 other people. There were no seats. On an “all reserved” train. I got into a fight with a conductor. Voices were raised. I actually said the words, “So what exactly are you going to do for me??”
But I am home now. My arms still hurt, but all is well.
Gonna go make some Creamed Corn and have a Snickers bar.
Creamed Corn and have a Snickers – OMG!
Nope, I suppose it’s not too much to ask.
Jeeze, Amtrak can’t do anything right, can they? Yeah, just stand for 60 miles, on a reserved train. Reason #305 why I drive almost everywhere I need to go.
At least they managed to get you there without derailing.
And reason number three million and five why Amtrak needs to just go away. I took Amtrak from DC home to Boston the week after 9/11. I’ve been packed in a bus all over Eastern Europe for days on end, and this was MUCH worse.
Places where there’s enough demand for passenger rail service, i.e., the northeast corridor, can support it privately and do it better and probably cheaper. There’s no reason for my taxes to be funding empty trains between Grand Forks and Fargo, or every tiny town in Bob Byrd’s Kingdom of West Virginia.
End of rant. Glad you survived your ordeal. Off in search of Creamed Corn and Snickers…mmmm!
Very, very amusing. Been there. Recently, in fact, after raiding the toy store on the other side of town, and making like Santa with a heavy bag of presents slung over my shoulder as I walked from the one mini-mall with the toy shop across the busy road to the other mini-mall with the taxi depot. Of course although Belfast is filled with loads of people who walk everywhere, these modern mini-malls were built for cars, not pedestrians, and certainly not pedestrians laden with heavy bags of toys and a bulky raincoat. One foot in front of the other, that’s my mantra. I cannot underline how much I had this Santa thing going on, if Santa used cheap plastic bags that threatened to burst at the bottom with every step. It was the length of my body. It was bulky and bulging at old angles where my odd angles made the toyboxes push out. Even worse, not only was my face red from the huffing and puffing and awkward exertion, but this town is a small town and I knew any minute 10 cars would drive past filled with people who knew me and my husband and think ambling around like a drunken Santa without a chimney to land in was something Yanks like to do for fun. Self-consciousness just makes it worse lemme tell you.
But tomorrow is Christmas, the presents are all in, the work mainly done. Enjoy the time with your family!
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Season’s Greetings and all that :-)
This was hilarious, and thank you. Happy Christmas and hope the New Year brings you untold fortune. And a trolley for your luggage!
~Pat
Oh, and one bizarre coda to all of this: It’s gonna sound like I’m bragging or something, but I swear that this happened:
I was standing, on the all-reserved train. I was furious. My sheepskin coat was huge. I had stashed my bags ALL OVER THE TRAIN. I had to go retrieve them before my stop. I had already gotten into a fight with a conductor. I was PISSED.
I noticed that 2 teenage girls (who also were standing) kept glancing over at me, and whispering.
Because of the foul mood I was in, I thought they were making fun of my coat, or my crazy hair, or my mad face. (In such moments, I immediately revert to high school when I got made fun of.) I wanted to bark at them, “WHAT ARE YOU GIRLS STARING AT??”
Finally, one approached me. She was giggly and shy. She said, shyly, “Excuse me … but … you aren’t Drew Barrymore, are you?”
Uh … what?
People have stopped me on the street before, thinking I am Drew Barrymore – so this is not the first time that this has occurred – but I so was not expecting her to say such a thing.
And I literally had to hold myself back from snapping at her: “If I were Drew Barrymore, do you really think I would be STANDING on an all-reserved Amtrak train? If I were Drew Barrymore, I’d be in my own private JET. OKAY??”
But I didn’t say that. I was nice. I said, “No … I’m not. I know – I look like Drew.” The girl gasped, “You do! You do!”
Weird. But it did calm me down a bit – and made me laugh. To be mistaken for Drew Barrymore in such a place??
I just love you Sheila — of course they thought you were Drew Barrymore…
Have a very Merry Christmas Red.
GASP! You’re not Drew Barrymore?
My bed has a tendency to grow emptier and larger as the years go by. I started out with a full-size bed, and now I am convinced that it has become a king-size. All on its own.
I think that’s one of the best ways to describe that! Well said!
Thanks for the story.
Anna – I’m going to write a fictional story about a bed which changes its size. I like the image, too – don’t know where it came from. The humorous Good Idea Fairy, perhaps…
So I’m assuming that your bed changes its size all on its own as well??
Sucks, doesn’t it. Makes it hard to feng shui the room.
Can I sell you my brother? He’s good-looking, a swimmer, medium-strong biceps perfect for carrying bags, tall, slim-built, only slightly heavier on the waist but I’m sure carrying your bags will take care of melting away the love handles, he can cook very well, especially fish and pasta (and he makes a wonderful paella!), he’s nice and kind and open-minded but also manly, he’s a good listener, he will open doors for you, he doesn’t drink, well he does but not too much, he’s a pain in the ass but only to his sister, all women love him, only disadvantages are: he smokes, he doesn’t speak English, and he wants a green card.
– I’m only kidding, of course – though, apart from the last two items, it’s all true. The real problem is he’s single and intends to remain single. All my match-making plans are doomed to fail.
“People have stopped me on the street before, thinking I am Drew Barrymore”
Ok, scratch all that stuff about my brother: I will marry you. Constitutional amendment ban or not. I’m not even gay, but I will make exceptions for redheaded Drew Barrymore lookalikes ;)
He doesn’t speak English, huh? Well, I have always thought that communication was HIGHLY over-rated!
So glad you found this long rant of mine. I was so damn frustrated, and then – when I looked back on it, I thought: Shit, this is pretty fuckin’ funny, actually.
Ha!!