MERCURY RISING

What's going on in there?

Today’s methods of diagnosing any sickness or disease has become a complicated mess of medical tests. There are blood tests, throat cultures, ultrasounds, dopplers, colonoscopies & catscans, as well as scopes that go up, down & around any available openings in your body to see what’s going inside there.



No "sissy mary" thermometers back then



           But growing up, whenever my sister or I started a sentence that began with “I don’t feel good…”,  my mother would make a beeline to the linen closet to retrieve her tool for validating if there really was any sickness at all & to what extent that supposed sickness was going to need treatment. Her secret weapon for diagnosis? The thermometer. Not the “sissy-mary” plastic ones we have today that run on batteries & you stick in your ear or press against your forehead, but a “real” thermometer” – made of glass, & filled with that red liquid called mercury, which (I was led to believe)  could bring down a small nation if that thermometer ever broke or it somehow leaked out of that little glass enclosed stick.



I hope this Bursts right through
the top



She would always lay us down on her bed as she prepared her instrument of choice, first pouring rubbing alcohol on the thermometer, then glancing at it, then rapidly shaking it with one hand. I always thought this was kind of like cranking those old model T cars to get them started. I just assumed that little thermometer would not work unless you shook it about 20 times to make the red mercury go all the way down. Once in your mouth under your tongue, that red poison would just rise up past 98.6 degrees if you weren’t faking it. I always secretly wished that I would have a temperature that would make it rise so high it would bust out of the end of that stick, just like in the tom & jerry cartoons.



Perfect timing = exact temperature
AND a perfect soufle

My mother knew the precise amount of time for that thing to be under our tongues to properly clock our body temperature , as she would tell us to lay absolutely still until she came back into the room to remove it & complete her diagnosis. I’ve had MRI’s that had less strict rules than that thermometer did. She would always come back into the room with an urgency one would expect from someone trying to remove a soufflé from the oven just in time to avoid its collapse. The thermometer would come out & she would hold it up to the light to confirm our exact temperature. It would always be something like “Mmmmm… 101.6 or 99.8”. I looked at that thermometer once & I couldn’t make heads or tails of those little black dashes. Why, I couldn’t even see where the red liquid stopped. She told me once that you had to hold it at a certain angle to see it correctly, but never disclosed the secret coordinates of the angle. I’m sure if the internet was around back then, I could have googled NASA or the CIA to find this information out.

100.1  - we'd better call
Dr. King

If our temperature was under 100 degrees, she would give us a Johnson’s Baby Aspirin (loved that orange chewable pill) and rub us down with some cold water mixed with alcohol. If it was over 100, then it was an immediate call to our pediatrician, Dr. King, who would make a house call within the hour to confirm that we would make it through the night.

My mother had this same thermometer (and technique) for her entire life. I went there once as an adult & made the mistake of saying I didn’t feel well. Within seconds, that thermometer was being shook & I was on the couch being told to stay still until she returned. It was almost comforting to see that thermometer - it was one of the few lasting things that still existed from my early childhood, all the way into adulthood.

Missing my glass mercury thermometer

So a few years ago, during a bout with the flu & a high temperature, I started thinking about that thermometer. Of course, I  owned one of those modern plastic digital ones. But it always reminded me of those fake one’s you got in those little plastic doctor kits you played with when you were a kid. It never worked right – not only did it never say I had a temperature when I was sick, but just to irritate me, it always beeped & the digital readout said that my temperature was BELOW 98.6 degrees.  To top it off, it was so light & badly designed with that big digital readout sticking out of your mouth - it never stayed under my tongue, no matter how still I layed there.

"Where are the REAL thermometers?"

I decided right then & there that when this flu was done, I was going straight to Duane Reade to buy a real thermometer made of glass & filled with that poisonous mercury fluid. Why, I was an adult now & I felt confident that I could figure out how to hold it at the right angle to read it. I wanted a thermometer just like my mothers, & I wanted to have it for the rest of my life. I wanted to look at it 20 years from now & think back at all the great memories of when I was sick & burning with fever. This was going to be great.

So a few days later, I marched into my local Duane Reade & with great authority in voice, asked the girl behind the counter where the “real” thermometers where. “Isle 4, next to Tampons” she said, rolling her eyes. She was just jealous. She was too young to even know what I meant by a “real” thermometer. But I was on a mission & didn’t have time to stop & tell her about “the good old days”. On my walk home, I was both excited & a little scared. After all, this little item in my Duane Reade shopping bag was very powerful & could be very dangerous in the wrong hands with all that mercury. I hope the terrorists never think about using this liquid – after all, it was so readily available. (& so conveniently located next to the Tampons).

Giving the new thermometer a test ride

I got home, & still thinking about all my future illnesses/memories I would have with this thermometer, I walked directly into the bathroom. Why, just because I was feeling perfect was no reason not to open this baby up & give it a test ride. I carefully peeled the cardboard away from the plastic case containing my shiny new thermometer. Wow, it looked just like the one I always remembered.  I slid the thermometer out of the case. “Now that has weight to it” I thought, holding the glass stick in my one hand, while reading the instructions with the other. I tried to hold it up to the light & see the red line, but I couldn’t get the right angle. Damn. So I decided to give it a shake – maybe that mercury just needed a little heating up. So I raised my arm, & as I brought it down to begin my 20 shakes or so, I slammed the thermometer on the granite countertop of my bathroom sink, & that glass stick broke into a million pieces. I thought I would have it forever, but here it was, not even 10 minutes & it was gone. Not only gone, but the red poison was splattered all around my bathroom floor & probably on me.

Tidying up the bathroom

Well, it took me hours to make that bathroom once again safe for human inhabitation. I think if I had two bathrooms I probably would have just sealed it off for good. I took a burning hot shower & brought all my clothes down to the laundry room in a sealed plastic garbage bag. Now I know how those people in Chernobyl must have felt.

So I’ve decided I’ll be sticking with the cheap plastic thermometer for good. I may even get the new one that you just press against your forehead. Anything but that glass stick filled with poison. Why, that thing is more dangerous than any fever could ever be.  

THE CLOWN MUTILATION INCIDENT

How I remember my happy clown (pre-mutilation)

Yesterday would have been my mother’s 70^th birthday. She’s been gone for 16 years now, and there’s not a day that I don’t think about her or miss talking to her. But this post is not going to be a sad one, that’s something she would never want - my fondest memories are of all of us laughing & having a good time – everything was always an adventure -  she made things fun, even in times of adversity. So this one’s for you, ma.

Me, my mother & my sister

Nobody has a greater fan than their mother, & mine was no exception. Why, she probably headed up this secret fan club of moms. But that doesn’t mean that there weren’t times I’m sure she wanted to shake me good for some of the stunts I pulled. (and sometimes she did just that) Why, I must have thousands of stories that confirm this point, and even though I’m sure you would want to hear all of them, I’ll narrow it down to just one. (for now – depending on how this blog thing goes).

Picture it – Sicily, 1927. No, that’s not right....



Miami Beach - 1967

 I mean - picture it – Miami Beach, 1967. Apparently, my grandfather used to send my grandmother, my aunt & my mother on Miami beach vacations when she was growing up, while he stayed home, working away while the wife & kids were having a grand old time at the beach. Maybe sending everyone away was a vacation for him too. (reminds me of my friend joe who always says: I told my wife “pack your bags honey, we’re going on a pleasure trip”, to which his wife asks “where are we going?”. His reply – “I’m driving you to the airport”) Well I guess it’s funnier when he tells it, and after I’ve had a few martinis.

Anyway, this tradition of “sending the wife & kids to Miami” continued after my mother got married and had me & my sister. I don’t know if my father was so happy about sending us off to the sun & beach while he stayed home working, but I guess when you’re 27 years old & the Italian father in law tells you it’s a good idea, you just roll with it.

Don't forget to pack the wigs

It was a different time back then. Hotels were big and women’s hair was even bigger. I always remember the night before we went on any trip – my mother always headed up  the packing, which included two wig cases, (with these cool Styrofoam heads with wigs on them), several large, heavy suit cases (no restrictions back then), & the “medicine” bag, which contained all the essentials that one might need if you were to encounter a tornado, hurricane, torn limb, salmonella poisoning, or any other disaster one might expect on a trip to Miami beach.

So off we went to Miami, my mother, my sister and I, my grandmother, my aunt Kathleen & her 3 children. I was 6 years old & my mother was 26.

The Monmarte

The lobby

The hotel we stayed at was “The Monmarte” - a large hotel built in the late 1950’s, which had a huge lobby with a staircase, and a tremendous sitting area where people gathered after a tough day of lounging at the beach, to talk about their exciting daily adventures. Back in the 60s, people would just hang out for hours in hotel lobbys, all dressed up, just talking & playing cards, while their children played in the various nooks & crannies of the hotel. There were always activities for the children, & it was not uncommon for parents to let their children (even 6 year olds) run off & play by themselves within the confines of the hotel. (doesn’t sound too safe by today’s standards, but remember, this was almost 45 years ago)

Even the kids dressed up in the lobby

So on the night of the “clown situation”, all of us children were joined in the lobby by the adults, for the nightly big game of bingo in the cavernous lobby. There were several smaller prizes, but the grand prize was a HUGE stuffed clown doll. I mean, this doll was almost as tall as I was. I can still remember staring at it the entire time we played – praying to god to let me win that sweet clown. I’d be the envy of every kid at the hotel. Every prize was won & now it was time for the last game – & the lucky winner walking out with that big stuffed clown. Silence fell over the lobby as the “full card” game began….




The winning card

 B-3, I-5, O-10…. You could cut the tension with a knife as the caller rolled that big cage & grabbed out those bingo balls. I remember sitting next to an older girl  (probably an old hag of about 12 years old), and we both were down to needing one number. As the caller was about to announce the next number, I looked over to her (I’m sure with beaded sweat on my chubby little brow), and pleaded with her to let me win if they called her number first. She just made a face at me. Then the number was called. And I won!

I jumped up & down, shouting BINGO, BINGO, & hoping no one else would also win. How would they split that big clown if there was a tie? I ran up to the front, they checked my numbers (kind of the precursor to today’s lotto), and I was handed that tremendous clown doll. I remember dragging it back to my mother, who was just so proud that her little boy was talented enough to win such a prestigious prize. We all celebrated by ordering ice cream, & I handed my clown over to my mother while my cousin Leonard & I we went to play with some boy we met at the bingo game, who was also staying at the hotel.

Gotta get that flip right in 1967

 I remember my mother sitting on one of those massive lobby couches with her beautiful long straight wig (she had very wavy hair – not a very good 1960’s look) & her beaded white dress & high heeled shoes. She kind of looked like marlo Thomas in “that girl”. Me & leonard waved to her & my aunt Kathleen as we ran off to play.

Now my cousin Leonard & I grew up together & were more like brothers than cousins. He was 9 months younger than me & about half the size of me. At that time, he was the outgoing one & I was the follower. We were in cub scouts together several years later, & our cub scout leader, Mrs. Adolph, once told my mother & aunt that she thought it was better that Leonard & I be in separate troupes because she said that whenever I wanted something, I would whisper it to Leonard & he would ask for it for me. And on the other hand, she said that I used to tie Leonard’s shoes & button his coat for him. (Sounds a little like a co-dependent relationship to me).



I guess I was batman &
Leonard was Robin

 Anyway, the bottom line is that I clearly remember (sorry Len) that Leonard said that we should go to this kid’s room & play, instead of staying in the lobby of the hotel. He assured me that we would just stay a little while & no one would notice. So off we went up into the elevator & into this kid’s room. I guess we were on “children’s time” & didn’t realize that we were there for hours instead of minutes. (I remember jumping up & down from bed to bed in his room, playing “batman & robin”). I guess a complicated game like that just can’t be played so quickly.



Busted in Miami Beach



So we bid farewell to our new friend & came walking out of the room amid a flurry of policemen & people with flashlights running up & down the hall. I remember smiling & thinking like a 6 year old -  “wow, something really big must be going on!” Suddenly, one of the men grabbed us by the arm. “ ARE YOUR NAMES GERALD & LEONARD?” He said in a loud voice. “Yes we are”, I mumbled, almost immediately with tears in my eyes. In that second, I realized that this entire commotion was centered around us & we were probably in a lot of trouble. “Come with us” the man said, dragging us down the elevator & into the lobby.

Nobody was sitting chatting on the couches anymore - people were scurrying everywhere, & then I saw my mother & my aunt. They looked nothing like they did earlier – my mother was no longer wearing her Marlo Thomas wig – it was dangling in her hand, looking kind of like a wet rat. Her dress was wet & disheveled & her high heeled shoes were gone. She was standing there in stockings that looked torn & tattered. Her mascara was running & she had tears in her eyes. (and to say she didn’t look too happy would be putting it mildly)



But was my clown ok?


It seems that our little game of “batman & robin” kept us busy for three hours, and after searching the entire hotel lobby for us, the police were called. A short time after that, someone must have said something to the effect that “maybe they went down to the beach or by the pool”  & apparently that’s when the wig & the shoes came off as my mother & aunt threw themselves into the nighttime surf looking for our limp bodies. I have to admit, even though I knew I was in some serious trouble, all I could think about was my precious life size clown. I hope he wasn’t lost or misplaced in all of this mess. But I knew that this moment was probably not the right time to ask about his whereabouts.

 



Couldn't my father realize that I
just lost track of time?



 I was just praying that my mother would be happy that I was alive & forget about whatever had happened in the last few hours. But no such luck. She smiled for a second, I guess glad that I was still alive, but then started yelling at me as she walked me up to our room, yelling the entire time about how many times she told me not to venture past the lobby. Boy, how this night had turned bad so quickly. We got up to the room & there was my grandmother with my sister, everyone crying & yelling. Italians do that a lot, so I wasn’t so surprised. Then came the phone call to my father in new york to tell him I was alive. Apparently, he was getting ready to fly down to Miami to join in the search for us too. He asked If I was ok & when I told him we were playing batman & robin he just joined in with my mother about “how could I do that”. But it was just like “blah blah blah” to me. All I kept thinking was “where was my clown?”

Where was my clown?

 Suddenly, there in the chair next to the couch I saw him. I guess it was bad timing when I asked If I could play with him at that moment, because my mother, blinded with being upset, grabbed the clown & started tearing it up. Off came its head, & then an arm, & then a leg. I started crying & we were all crying & then hugging & then crying again. I guess my mother just needed to get it out of her system. Of course she loved me & was glad to see me & know I was ok. But all that fear of what could have happened took over for a second. And then as fast as this entire event happened, it was over & we were ordering room service.

It took many, many years for us to think about this story & laugh, but we often recounted this event many times over the years & every time we did, it just seemed funnier & funnier.

The wise old clown

I didn’t have that clown for more than a few hours, but in the end, he gave us all years & years of enjoyment just by talking about him. All we had to say was “remember the clown” & we’d all burst out laughing. He made us all a little wiser after that night -  I never again had to be told not to venture beyond the lobby or wherever I wasn’t supposed to be. And I didnt', because, after all, who would want to lose two clowns in one lifetime?

My Grandmother's Balls

Ahem - now that I have your attention. Even though my last name ends in an "owski ", my mother was Italian, so I grew up in a house where there was always something wonderful cooking in the kitchen. Italians spend half their life cooking food & the other half eating & talking about food 

Grandma - head chef
and ball-maker

The head chef of my family was my Italian grandmother. Although she was headquartered in the second floor of her two-family home in queens (which was shared with my aunt, uncle & three cousins on the first floor apartment), most of her time was spent cooking in the finished basement of the house. This was her sanctuary - it had a full kitchen, a huge round dining table, and a living room area where the entire family (& sometimes several dozen other people) gathered for every holiday & birthday, as well as for weekly meals and of course, dinner every Sunday at 3 o'clock. (& you'd better not be late because once the pot's on, the macaroni will get "soft like worms if it over-cooks") 


 



Healthy kids eat Italian food

   Even though we only lived about ten blocks away, most of my life was spent at that house with my cousins and my grandmother. 

Grandma's basic take on food was that if you started off with  "the good" olive oil (virgin olive oil, of course), plenty of garlic (had to be fresh) & chopped parsley (don't forget - Italian flat parsley, not the curly kind), you had the makings of a great dish. 

If you bought the wrong parsley,
you were going back.








One of her best dishes (& my all-time favorites) was her famous "rice balls", which were only made for special occasions because of the amount of time they took to make. Thinking back, I guess if you're preparing 50 of anything, it probably would take a long time to make. 

Grandma guarding her balls

 Grandma would stand in that kitchen for hours making those balls, while we were playing & watching tv. First she would boil the rice & make it cool to a certain consistency, then chop the mozzarella into microscopic pieces, shred the prosciutto & then mix it all together with some pecorino romano cheese - all with her bare hands. Without measuring, she would shape 50-60 of the most perfectly shaped balls you ever layed your eyes on. Then came the coating. She hand-dipped each rice ball into egg whites, flour, another bath of egg whites, then roll it into a bowl of breadcrumbs, seasoned with more pecorino, chopped garlic & parsley. After all the balls were ready, she would have  2 large frying pans filled with hot oil  (wesson oil for frying, never the "good oil").

Fried with love, not deep fried

Then the balls went into the hot oil. (no deep frying for grandma - she paid special attention to each ball, turning each one individually with a fork to make sure they cooked all the way through & browned on the outside). As they were done, she'd gently lay them on a dish lined with paper towels to drain the oil. As soon as they'd start piling up, all of us kids would sneak up & grab one, enjoying the crispy outside and the soft inside, oozing with melted cheese & prosciutto, mixed with the spices & rice. No sooner than we'd grab them, grandma would yell at us, announcing that she knew 3 balls were missing. Busted. How did she know the exact number of balls she made? We were always baffled about that.

Grandma has the best balls

When we finally sat down at the dinner table, we would all look at each other & start with the double edged quips such as "can you pass me one of grandma's balls?" or "grandma's balls are the best balls I've ever seen" or "my balls are better than your balls". Grandma would get hysterical with our comments, and sometimes she would even chime in with "you'll never find balls like mine anywhere". We'd all bust out laughing. She was a good cook & a good sport.



Men may be hazardous
to themselves

 About  two years ago, I decided I would try making "the balls". myself. After about two hours of mixing, dicing, shredding, dipping & frying, my back was going into a spasm & my forehead was beaded with sweat. As I placed my last ball into the dish with the paper towels, I finally figured it out. She knew exactly how many balls she made because it took so much time, effort & love to make those damn balls - OF COURSE she knew exactly how many were in the dish! I knew how many were in my dish.


So if I ever decide to make those little suckers again, remember: keep your hands off my balls. Until they're on the dinner table, of course.



Thursday Morning Quarterback

Don't be a blockhead - learn about sports

So most people blog about things they know about or have an interest in. I got inspired today by a co-worker & friend, Matt L. Matt comes from a big sports oriented family & he was telling me how his brother actually has a sports blog. 

So I thought it might be interesting to try & write a posting about a topic I know so little about. (ok - so I know nothing about it) So here it goes. SPORTS! Rah Rah.

One of the first football/baseball
stadiums


I don't know when sports began, but the coliseum in Rome kinda looks like a football stadium or maybe a little like Yankee stadium, so I'm assuming football & baseball have been around for a long long time. I don't think they had uniforms back then because they mostly wore those little mini-skirts 

Roman football  players



Gotta beat that parking lot traffic

Growing up in queens, you had to root for the Mets. Everyone in Brooklyn rooted for the Yankees. I'm not sure why because Yankee stadium is in the Bronx, so i guess it's not a logistical thing. We went to Shea Stadium to see games, but we always left around the 5th inning because my father (sports knowledgeable, but another non-sports lover) would usually say it was better to leave then, to avoid the traffic coming out of the parking lot. Thinking back, I guess a real sports lover would probably not leave a game early to beat the traffic in the parking lot.

Not PC

Anyway, getting back to baseball - there's the Yankees & the mets, but they don't play each other unless they are in the world series. Something about divisions not being allowed to play together unless they're the best team at the end. I'm not sure about these divisions, but some of the teams are cubs, bears, red socks, white socks (who makes up these names anyway?) I think there's also indians, but maybe they changed that because it doesn't sound too politically correct to start calling a team indians. 

Football is violent

 Then there's football. I understand the concept, but don't have a clue about the rules. Just a bunch of big guys smashing into each other. It seems like they take more time setting up & then there's a big commotion & they only get a few feet & then they're lining up again. I went to a football game once & almost froze to death.That's my only memory of being at a game with my uncle mike. (who actually loved sports). It's even worse on tv - you can't tell who's on what team because of the commotion on the field when they're playing. I guess that's why they wear uniforms - so you can see who's getting killed on the field. I do know the quarterback can be smaller because all he does is throw the ball & hope that the other big guys don't smash him. Then there's the guy that kicks the ball -  i'm not sure why he kicks it instead of running with it. When they run to the pole or kick it over the pole, it's a touchdown.

The happy dance

And whoever gets the touchdown usually has to do a little dance afterwards. I'm not sure if this is a rule or it's just that he's so damn  happy.The scores on this game can be really big numbers, like 47-21. Not like baseball, because their numbers are very small. (usually under 20). The entertainment in between is pretty good, especially when there's the superbowl. I think there's also a rosebowl (& maybe an orange bowl?) Maybe i'm just confused with orange juice, i'm not sure. Anyway, it's pretty confusing.

Basketball is just like football

Basketball looks like they're playing football, except it's indoors & you don't have to freeze if it's winter. They also wear shorts & t-shirts, probably because they get so hot with all that running indoors. This is another game where they run around & it's hard to know what's going on. But at least they're not trying to kill themselves like in football. Sometimes they smash into each other & fall, but mostly they just try to make a hoop. Interesting gerry fact: I just found out last week what "swish" means. It's when someone gets the ball in without touching the rim. I hope that's helpful for people like me that never knew what  that meant.

Short guys play basketball too

Most of these guys are very tall, but sometimes there's a shorter guy in there - maybe he makes a lot of "swishes", so they hired him. There's a clock that times the game, but even though it says a certain amount of time is left, it can take hours for this game to finish because that clock is always stopping

Hockey is more interesting

Hockey is like football, except they're on skates & like to just punch each other. There's alot of blood when this happens, so it's a little more exciting than the previous games I talked about. Especially if you have good seats & they smash into the plastic in front of you. But with this game there's a "penalty box". For those of you who don't know what that is, it's when they do something wrong, they have to sit in there. It's just like time out with little kids, except they're adults & are usually full of blood. 



Wow - i guess i know more about sports than I thought. But if I haven't covered anything, just email me & I'll be glad to answer any additional questions about these games. But for now I have to go so I can avoid the traffic in the parking lot.

Subway Etiquette 101 - Pass the mash potatoes please

Just 5 more minutes mom



A little more cheese please

 Just a random thought - why do people eat on the subways? I'm not talking about nibbling on a candy bar or putting a piece of gum in their mouths, but actually eating real food like they're sitting at grandma's on Thanksgiving day. I saw someone last night balancing an entire meal on their lap and eating a fried chicken dinner like they they were going to the electric chair & this was their last meal. And in between munches, they're touching their face, their nose, the seat, the railing and pretty much anything that's within reaching distance.

I always think to myself, " can't these people wait just a few more stops to get off & get food above ground like everyone else?". And mind you, most of the time these people look like they could stand to wait a few stops before shoveling in more food into their mouths, or at least go on some sort of diet anyway.



Don't touch the poles

 It's bad enough there's enough germs lurking around the subway to make a small country sick, but here's these people holding food in their hands like they just washed up at the Plaza washroom before they picked up that food. Then there's the homeless person laying flat on his back next to them, spread out like he's getting his first restful sleep on a new mattress.









Me holding on for dear life.

 On the other end of the spectrum, I never eat anything on the train. A matter of fact, if I wasn't afraid of falling, I probably wouldn't even hold onto the hand rails. But since I don't have very good balance & have to hold onto that railing, I don't go anywhere without my Purell.



I'm Mister Purell

  I have several small bottles in my bag, one in my coat pocket & several of the pump models in my apartment & office. Yes I'm the brunt of many good natured ( I think) comments from my co-workers & family, but I don't care, I want to be protected from 99.9% of of the most common germs that cause illness. (yes, I can do a commercial about this stuff).

So people - next time you get that urge to start cracking open a lobster or something on the subway, please wait for me to get off first. Or at least use the Purell. (and if you don't have any, just ask me)