“BED PAN ALLEY”
For those of you who don’t know me well,
(With apologies to Monroe Rosenfeld who coined the phrase
“Tin Pan Alley”)*
allow me to assure you that I am a very tra-ditional
person. My clothes are the proper
length, the neckline low enough and the hem line
high enough so that when I bend or stoop no one
blushes (but I may have to stop wearing thongs)!
I drive the correct speed, I stop at red lights, I
put the directional on to change lanes, and for
those drivers who are not as careful, I never give
them the middle finger (the mono-digital salute.)
My hair is the right color, my make-up putty #10,
gives me a wonderful glow and those extra-long
eyelashes keep my vision clear of flying insects.
I really try to obey rules and be respectful, at
least if someone is watching! However, I must
advise you this is purely my perception of me.
If there is such a thing, I may have refractive
vision of me in my mind’s eye. Do we look the
same to others as we perceive ourselves?
So, during our current crisis, adherence to
rules was second nature to me and that made
it easy to accept every suggested precaution to
stay safe. At one point I even wore masks in the
apartment when I was home alone. On certain
occasions I even double masked and changed
gloves to go room to room – like I was visiting
somewhere. Additionally, I lost weight – not so
much from dieting, but from washing my hands
every minute and showering every hour. Does
Weight Watchers have a calorie count for that?
A chore that really takes patience is putting
away freshly ordered food. Have you tried wash-ing
and drying individual grapes in sudsy water?
Strawberries are harder and you have to soak
them longer to get the sand out and snipping
those little bristles is tough. As a kid I loved
blowing soapy bubbles with a wand, however,
blowing bubbles from eating strawberries? Nah!
To avoid person-to-person contact, I shlepped
up from my 17th floor apartment to the 18th
floor to have a non-stop ride to the lobby. Don’t
even remind me about the risk of slipping on
the steps or the possible germs on the railing.
I even carried what looked like a 6-foot fishing
pole to keep everyone at an acceptable dis-tance.
I have inside, outside, port side, and stern
side shoes. I have bedroom slippers, kitchen
slippers, bathroom slippers and slipper sox. I
have one bathroom for contaminated clothing,
one for daily use and showers, and an extra
bathroom as a backup. I use my terrace for
airing groceries I don’t need immediately. I
have home-made masks, professional masks,
masking tape (in case I need to seal the doors)
and even Purim masks. Wait! Did we celebrate
Purim or Passover recently? Anyway, I think
the event started with a “P.” The days go so fast
it’s hard to keep track.
All these precautions were taken to keep me
safe and well. Did I miss something? A modern
translation of Scottish poet Robert Burns says,
“The best-laid plans of mice and men often
go awry.” He wasn’t thinking of me when he
wrote that phrase over 200 years ago, but boy
oh boy, I was recently thinking of him. With all
my planning it seems I did miss something to
protect myself. Never mind avoiding the Covid
virus, how about avoiding something else called
dehydration! How about WATER!!!!!! Years ago,
there was an ad with a cranky older woman
asking “Where’s the beef?” Well, in my case this
cranky older woman needed to ask “Where’s
the water?”
One morning after I got up to take a sip of
water I suddenly found myself taking a nap
on my kitchen floor. I’m always a bit tired and
gladly welcome a nap, but this was definitely
unplanned or else I would have brought along a
soft pillow. When I “woke up” I was swimming
in a puddle of water. Who knew such a small
bottle of water would make such a mess? I was
thinking why am I doing a single-handed breast
stroke and I’m not even in my bathing suit? An
almost birthday-suit yes! Does half of a birthday
suit count? Water, water everywhere, just not
where it needed to be – in my mouth. Let me
assure you a single-handed breast stroke is not
easy.
Somehow while taking my unplanned nap I
managed to break an arm. Even without medical
training I knew it was broken because it was
too early for breakfast, and the snap, crackle,
pop sound was coming from my shoulder/arm,
not a box of Rice Krispies. Oy vey! What to do?
I hesitated to activate my trusty “Life Alert”
button. I figured, eh! “I’m not dressed, my hair
isn’t combed, no make-up… where’s my cell
phone – I’ll call someone for help. Really, at 3:30
a.m., who’s up? Which friendship was I going to
end? Which of my children was going to have
their first heart attack because of me? After
thinking about my choices, I finally decided to
press my “Life Alert” button. I never tested it in
the five years I owned it and much to my surprise
someone answered. He sounded nice, but I’ll
save that for a later time. My response was so
original - “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
When I eventually got to the hospital, it
occurred to me that I almost looked like the
day I was born…the difference being a few more
teeth, a touch more hair and a cell phone and a
charger. Nothing else. My personal philosophy
is, “The only good time to go to a hospital is to
have a child” and that meant I was definitely
not going to have a good time.
As we well know, during these uncertain
times, visitors are not allowed to visit, and since
I was unable to hold my phone, for the most part
my only companions and conversations were
with me, myself and I. It’s kind of scary to have
a conversation with yourself and still lose the
argument. That’s not good. I’m not sure things
finally did get better. Or maybe it was really
the oxycodone finally kicking in. You tell me!
For example, I think the chef in the hospital
was either confused with his meal preparations
or maybe the food mistakenly was being sent
to patients instead of the food disposal unit.
On many occasions Alpo came to mind when
the cover on my plate was removed. I think the
cover was placed there not to keep the food
warm but as another miserable surprise added
to the misery of having to be in the hospital in
the first place. One day I was served what looked
like a month old decomposing sponge. I tried
to cut it, but with only one hand available and
not having a saw handy, I was in real danger.
If it flew off the plate and hit me in the head I
probably would have sustained a concussion. I
got nowhere! The “genuine plastic” knife barely
pierced this concoction, two tines of the fork
broke off and were embedded in whatever it
was, and I think I chipped a tooth when I finally
picked it up with my freehand and bit into it.
Somehow the icicles clinging to the sides of it
should have been a first clue. I was thinking
I could have used a “Clorox cocktail” at that
moment and even that wouldn’t have cleansed
my palate - but unfortunately, housekeeping
wouldn’t oblige me.
My assortment of roommates eventually
slowed down. My next to the last was “Lady
Godiva” which in some ways was a pleasant
change from my last time in the hospital with
Mrs. Potty-mouth who found more ways to
use the “F” word than I knew existed. I didn’t
stay with Godiva too long. Her introduction to
“Chamber pot”
24 NORTH SHORE TOWERS COURIER ¢ September 2020