Have Faith My Friends, Have Faith!   3 comments

My morning routine varies little. After my cup of coffee, I make my way down to the basement to turn off and empty the dehumidifier. As I pass the vegetable garden, I will myself to stay on the concrete path Taking a deep breath, I descend each step, repeating a silent mantra, Leave them alone, leave them alone.  My will power holds up on the way down,vegetable but evaporates on the way back up.

I bend over and peek under the giant atomic monster spectacle zucchini plant in search of any new green zukes,

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then do the same at its slightly smaller yellow squash cousin.

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If my garden was the state fair, I’d have to rate these two a gold medal, since no sooner do I slice and grill one harvest, but find several more lining up for the next time I fire up the grill.

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Next I sidle over to the eggplant where there’s no need to search. Although not as prolific as the squash varieties, it has yielded one meal and it looks like another one is not too far in the future.

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And although they’ve had their problems between the groundhogs’ occasional raids and my absent-minded trampling on them, the pepper plants are giving it their all. I gently part the leaves and count the pretty white flowers and recall how crisp and crunchy the one tiny pepper I couldn’t resist picking back in July was, even though I should have left it on the plant a little longer. One is waiting for me, if I can have the patience to wait for it to get a bit bigger, or maybe a lot bigger. Oh, yes, I’d give it a bronze medal.

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But now the fun ends. I know I should just turnaround and go back into the house,  but that masochistic part of me propels me on to the tomatoes with whom I have a love/hate relationship. I’m in awe of how huge the the plants are. But I guess they have to be if they are to hold up all those huge beefsteak tomatoes hanging from them. Green tomatoes. After checking each one for a hint of yellow or orange, I sigh and turn my back on them.

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Slacker medal for them

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You see, it’s more than my disappointment. It’s my friends I worry a bout. No, not my veggie plant friends, but my real live flesh and blood friends, the ones who were so hopeful as they accepted my overflow of small plants last May, the 23 seed tray mates of the  5 runts I kept for myself. Only two have reported red tomatoes, the rest are in the same boat as I am, seeking that slight change of green to yellow green, then on to orange……and so on.

Then came tonight – since we haven’t had rain in over a week, I hauled the hose over for a soaking than the watering can I usually use to gently administer to each plant.

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I wasn’t really looking at it, but there it was. Well, isn’t it always the way?!?

DSCN1949Have faith my friends, have faith. Your’s are on the way!

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A Rambling Mind Leads to a Blogful of Bologna and Another Weird Coincidence   2 comments

My mother’s number was 5. When packing my school lunch she always gave me 5 cookies. My number is 3. When I pack my own lunch, or bring tea and cookies into the living room for a bedtime snack, I always take 3. If I have company and  there are two of us, I put out 6. If three, 9. In talking to her people I’ve found out everyone has their own number. Think about it. What’s yours?

This is an extension of last week’s blog where I wrote about the Indian restaurants lining Lexington Avenue in “Curry Hill.” I was now on my way back to Grand Central station to catch the train home, having had lunch and catch-up time with a friend. As usual, I chose shoe leather (or in my case, sandal leather) over the subway, and as I strolled along I was thinking about all those restaurant photos I’d taken (way too many)  and wondering how many to include in the blog. Naturally the number 3 sprung to mind, and my mind rambled on from there to bologna. That’s because in addition to the 5 cookies, my school lunch box usually contained a piece of fruit  and a bologna sandwich.

Bologna was  a staple of my school days , actually our school days –  our, being my brother Jimmy and I. Jimmy’s consumption of bologna extended to breakfast as well as lunch. In addition to being a believer in the number 5, my mother believed in the importance of breakfast. The problem was – we didn’t; not if it meant cereal, eggs, or anything else children all over the country were eating. Determined to get something into me, she resorted to leftovers. If we’d had spaghetti the night before, I had spaghetti. If it had been pot roast, my breakfast was two slices of bed, covered in pot roast and gravy. Not Jimmy, though – all he would eat was bologna. Not a bologna sandwich, though, but bologna cut up with mustard. It had to be cut up into bite sized pieces and slathered with mustard. To this day, the smell of mustard makes me nauseous.

So there I was, immersed in memories of Jimmy and  mustard fumes, when I looked up and saw this restaurant smack dab in front of me!

DSCN1928And this sign in front of the door

DSCN1927PS – At that price, I hope they used lots of mustard – and included 5 cookies

The Universe Gave Me This Blog Post   1 comment

I thought I had a problem. I wanted to write a blog post for this week, but I had no ideas. Then, lo and behold one was handed to me on a platter.

I should have known I’d get an idea over the weekend since I’d be going  to Manhattan, not once but twice. Saturday, while I had a wonderful day and a delicious vegan lunch with friends, yielded nothing in the way of a light bulb going on over my head. Sunday, however handed me this post, but in a very mystical way, one that reinforces my belief that there are no coincidences.

Summer Sundays begin with coffee on the deck and the New York Times, not necessarily (in fact, not usually), the current day’s paper. Anyone who knows me well knows I am obsessed with reading the whole Sunday edition – all seven sections (Sunday News, Sports Sunday, Sunday Business, Week in Review, Arts & Leisure, Sunday Styles, Real Estate) plus the Magazine and any special sections that may be included. Only when I’ve finished, do I buy another Sunday edition; even if it takes me a month of Sundays. So there I was reading  Chronicling Neighborhood “Joints” in May 24’s Metropolitan Section,  a feature paying tribute to eateries that have stood the test of time in a city that has a continuous turnover of restaurants.

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Kindly note this paragraph. We’ll return to it in a moment.

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After arriving at Grand Central Terminal, I set out to meet a friend downtown.  About 10 blocks into my walk, I happened to look across the street and  noticed this line of parked taxis.

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I looked up at the street sign. 28th Street – I was in Murray Hill, also know as Curry Hill. Now go back and read the sentence aboutbiry

  • cabbies,
  • biryani (an Indian rice dish)
  • and Murray Hill.

For those not familiar with Manhattan, here are two  bits of information.

  • A large percentage of NY taxi drivers are Indian,
  • and there’s a two block stretch of Lexington Avenue with nothing but Indian Restaurants.

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And my own personal favorite:

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These only begin to scratch the surface. I’d have been very late to meet my friend if i snapped a photo of all the Indian restaurants. But think about it, of all the old Times I could have been reading, I found one that made mention of cabbies in Murray Hill, and of all the avenues I could have taken through Murray Hill, I happened to take  Lexington.

Life, I love ya!

I love the New York Times,  too, and since I’d finished the May 24 paper, I stopped to get

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The Universe Provides…. and SheTakes Away.   1 comment

Way back in what was another lifetime, I was a teacher. Actually you could consider it two lifetimes. When I was fresh out of college I spent eleven years teaching in the Bronx, then after taking a nine year sabbatical I returned to the profession – this time in San Jose. While my Bronx “lifetime” was a pleasurable, rewarding one, my California career took an opposite turn. I attribute it to the fact that in the Bronx I never ventured above third grade. After my first two years I descended to first grade, and eventually snuggled into Kindergarten.

As for California, all was going well until the year I volunteered to leave  my comfort zone of, kindergarten and “move up” to fourth grade.  Little did I know I’d be teaching the Fourth Grade from Hell. Looking back I wonder if it would h ave been half as bad had not the class roster included Russell, Ruben, Alex, and Mark, known to me as The Gang of Four.  I’ll say no more about them, as they are now about 35 years old, and they may find me on Facebook!

I guess it could have been worse. I could have been teaching The Class that Drove Mr Mays Crazy. True story – one day that same year I was enduring the ten-year-old old gang wannabes, the second grade teacher went home, and never returned – not until the next year, by which time he had recovered from his nervous breakdown. The now third grade class prided themselves as being the class that drove Mr Mays crazy.

I survived the fourth grade without a breakdown, and was grateful to be able to return to a first grade class for the next two years. They would be my last two years in the profession. My students were darlings, but  the fourth grade experience had done irreparable damage.

Resigning at year’s end was in the pipe dream  stage when I came across a sentence in a New Age-y magazine.

If a woman follows her heart, the universe will provide.

My heart didn’t have a destination in mind, but it did have an escape. At the end of the school year, I followed my heart the hell out of teaching!

Speaking of provisions, wouldn’t you think the universe would be only too glad to provide in the garden? Not at The House of Mars! Not yet, anyway. She’s toying with me. My soil is home to the most amazingly large, beautiful lush squash plants – one yellow squash

DSCN1899and one zucchini.

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I was so thrilled when they started putting out vibrant yellow flowers. I was crushed when they fell off a few days later.

DSCN1901This happened again and again. Flowers. No flowers. Flowers. No flowers.

I looked it up (gotta love the internet!) and found this is normal. They were all male flowers and that’s what male flowers do – mature, scatter pollen, and fall off. The article promised the female flowers would come. It sounded suspiciously like an exhortation to trust the universe to provide. I’m still trusting.

Then one day I was adding scraps to my compost pile which is nearly as far away as you can get from the squash, and still be at The House of Mars, when I saw this growing out of the pile of stones retaining it.

DSCN1898Another squash plant! The universe had provided, after all!!!!!

Later on I thought about it. The leaves and flowers looked similar but I’d discarded lots of pumpkin and melon seeds there last year. Oh well, whatever it was, Mother Universe was giving me a bonus plant, and I was grateful.

A couple of days later, I went back to check on it. The universe had provided, but she provided it to the woodchuck squatter on my property, not me.

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I decided to give it a chance, and dug up the remains to transplant to the garden.

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And that’s when the answer to its origins was revealed .

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Posted July 29, 2015 by virginiafair in Uncategorized

How Do I File a Complaint?   2 comments

Last week was hot – almost too hot for me. And that’s saying a lot.

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It was the first time in my sixteen years at The House of Mars that I had to run all three window fans at once, along with the ceiling fan in the kitchen. Normally I only use the fan in the bedroom , and only at night if I wake up and can’t get back to sleep. Most summers that only happens three, maybe four nights.

But hey! I’m not complaining. I love the heat. And I’m not one of those people who philosophizes about how it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I say BRING IT ON. Heat and humidity are what I dreamed about all last winter.

Speaking of winter, I do have something to complain about.

Hey V bite your tongueNobody’s talking about winter. That’s a bad word in July.

(Can you hear that? That’s my inner voice speaking. )

But actually a bad word in July is exactly what I’m complaining about. Many many summers ago, come the end of July, my mother would start with the comments –

“Before you know it, school will be opening.”

“We’ll have to go look for clothes for school.”

Well, there went my summer The clock was ticking.

“Look, the stores are already advertising  Back to School sales.”

Yep, the alarm was set.

Well, it’s happening. Last week while it was still mid-July and 97 degrees in the shade, what did I hear on TV but a Staples stock up for school ad. And yesterday a famous Footwear ad  about how this school year can be the best yet if you get cool shoes.

But actually now that I’ve gotten how I despise rushing the end of summer off my chest, that’s not what I’m complaining about.

This is

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Posted July 23, 2015 by virginiafair in Summer

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The Return of the Prodigal   2 comments

At first I thought my failure to blog regularly was because my work situation has changed. I am now writing freelance from home. While it was one thing to come home from a day on my computer at the office and write a  blog, it was another thing to spend all day on my laptop  up in the loft, then come down to the living room and attempt a blog post.

But that wasn’t it. I realized it was the lack of pictures. You see, normally I’d be inspired by  something in the city or at the shopping center, think I must write about that, snap a photo or two, come home and write. But then, back in January…………..

……….. I lost my camera.

I searched everywhere: in every coat, under the car seat, in my gym bag, my pocketbook, in the kitchen drawer. You name it, I looked there. I was even beginning to think about getting a new phone so I’d have a camera, when……….

……………I found my camera.

The prodigal camera had returned! It was hanging out with some t-shirts in the t-shirt drawer! If I ate meat, I’d proclaim “Prepare the fatted calf ” or whatever it was that the father said when his prodigal son returned. Instead…………..

………….. I charged the camera and started snapping shots .

Ready for an update on the house of Mars?

Marble has calmed down somewhat. He’s two years old and now that it’s summer, he’s content to sit on a little blue rug I bought at the dollar store to wipe my feet on when I come in. The cast of characters changes DSCN1877

After breakfast… with The Brothers

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DSCN1890Alone at last

Then there’s the garden. If you recall, I started  tomatoes and cucumbers from seed. Two cuke seedlings emerged, and 23 tomatoes. Not having space for that many tomatoes, I put them up for adoption and ended up with 5 for myself. Well, 2 died, and the cukes got eaten by groundhogs. The tomatoes are doing well They are the kings of the vegetable garden……

DSCN1880…….Ruling over 2 eggplants. 2 squash, 4 yellow pepper plants

I tried to rise above it, but I can’t. I have to point out, that’s not my shed.

DSCN1882Mine is pretty

So that’s what’s going on in the House of Mars. I’m enjoying this summer so much, writing on the deck is like not working at all.

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So be prepared for more blogs from The House of Mars!

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Marceau and His Rabies Vacinations – Again, a Starcrossed Path   2 comments

It’s been seven years since Marceau got busted. It started when I   recognized the symptoms of his having a urinary construction – repeated straining in the litter box with no results. Since this is potentially fatal, I rushed him to the vet. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I remember this because the vet said they couldn’t treat him since it would entail a three- day stay at the hospital and they’d be closed over Thanksgiving. He referred me to the Bedford- Katonah Emergency Veterinary Hospital since it is fully staffed 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

Bedford? Bedford as in Martha Stewart? Richard Gere? Ralph Lauren? I was a few breaths short of hyperventilating as the dollar signs flashed in front of my eyes. I packed him back in his carrier and off we went  to the moneyed town. Emergency hospitals are always expensive, but I could only imagine how much this one would cost. As it turned out the bill lived up to my expectations……. and then some! But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was  Marceau got busted.

He was released on Thanksgiving evening, and I thought all was well until I received a call  Monday – at work, no less. It was the Westchester Department of Health. The hospital had reported Marceau’s scratching a technician,  and records showed he was not up to date on his rabies shot. Visions of a truck pulling up to The House of Mars and white suited men with respirators and masks taking him off to be beheaded so they could test his brain and see if he was rabid. Then he realized I didn’t live in Westchester County. “Putnam County will be calling you.” he said

Five minutes later – different voice – same story. But this guy was cool. “Mail us his rabies certificate.” In other words. Go get the shot.

In case any one is wondering why I let his shots lapse. It’s because since all my cats are indoor cats, I saw no reason to vaccinate them. Up until that phone call, I didn’t realize New York State requires all dogs and cats to be vaccinated against rabies. You better bet I’ve learned my lesson!

Since the rabies shot is good for three years and three Mars live at The House of Mars, I’ve staggered the visits so I only have to capture one cat per year.

Last year was Marble’s turn.

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Next year is Marcel’s.

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This year was Marceau’s year.  Lucky Marceau.

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Poor me. Vet visit day is my most dreaded day of the year. It seems I send out a psychic signal and the intended flees just as i close in. I kept track of Marceau’s  sleeping mid-morning sleeping schedule for weeks so I could make a strategic appointment.  Since he likes dosing in the sun on the cat condo from 10:30 AM on, I made an 11 AM appointment. The conversation went this was – as it always does.

“Which cat will that be.
“Marceau, Mar-ceau. e-a-u

The day arrived and of course, he bolted as I closed in. It cost me a can of cat food, and a ton of guilt. The only way to get him back was to open a can which brought him on the run – along with Marcel and Marble. They got to eat, he didn’t!

When we arrived, we were ushered into an examination room. The door shut, then it opened again and in popped the head of the receptionist. “This is Marcel right?

“Nope, Marceau. e-a-u

Next the vet and a technician came in. Marceau actually enjoyed the experience since, after the examination and shot the technician rewarded him with a through combing and removed at least a pound of winter hair.

All went well, The vet  said he looked great, and was in great shape. At last the dreaded appointment was over. I paid my bill, packed up Marceau, and off we went.

When I arrived home, I took out his rabies certificate so I could put it in a safe place.

20150614_174728 I took one look and grabbed my  phone. The contrite receptionist promised to send me a new certificate right away.  One that said Marceau. – e-a-u

Sure enough the very next morning the mailman brought this.

20150614_175421 I can hardly wait to see what 2018 will bring our way! Not!

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