Anna Murray's Open Salon Blog

Another Fuckin’ Wives’ Tale

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 11:03:06 -0400

The last two weekends at the barn have been blissfully quiet. (See previous blog post, An Old’ Fuckin’ Wives’ Tale) When I've arrived, Norah and her sister Madge have remained in the tack room, their sanctum sanctorum. The tack room has a fridge, a dusty old sofa, and a TV with cable.

As I’ve tacked up Hershey, no one has come out to abuse me for brushing him “like a fuckin’ idjit,” or for washing my bridle so badly “a retard could do better.” All has been tranquil, except for muted bits of soap-opera dialog coming from behind the door, and the incessant crowing of Norah’s rooster coming from the yard. Smoke has seeped from under their door. Not because the place is on fire, but because of the four packs the sisters daily puff through.

I took it as a sign that I’d graduated. Having beaten me into shape, they finally trust me to groom and ready my horse without constant hen pecking.

Little did I know the muttering going on in the smoky chamber. One might describe it like this…

Madge: “You think that fuckin’ idjit knows her stirrups are two different lengths?”

Norah: “Nah. Just look at the way she’s brushed that fuckin’ harse.”

Madge: “One iron must be two inches longer than the other.”

Norah: “Retard.”

Madge: “How long do you think it’ll take her to notice?”

Norah: “Well, she’s not so bad. I’ll betcha a pack of Camels she figures it out by next week.”

Now, in my own defense, I had felt my stirrups were two different lengths and I had been bothered by it. I checked the number of holes and even measured them against my arm. And the numbers didn’t lie. So on I went.

Then, on Sunday, I finished tacking—the third browbeating-free week in a row—when Norah burst out of the tack room in a cloud of smoke.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna ride that fuckin’ harse again with yer irons two different fuckin’ lengths!” Clearly she had just lost the pack-of-cigarettes bet to her sister.

“But I measured them.”

“Measured them? Fuckin’ idjit. You don’t measure stirrup irons.”

“What do you do?”

Madge came out, her arms crossed with I-just-won-a-pack satisfaction. This just egged her sister on.

“Shut up or I’ll wring your fuckin’ neck.” My hands went to my throat, but this was evidently for the rooster who'd been shouting in his own way. “You fuckin’ look at them!” she said to me.

Norah stood me in front of the Hershey, looking down his barrel. Sure enough, one stirrup was clearly two inches longer than the other.

“Wow. But why?”

“Why?” Norah roared at the sky. “What a fuckin’ retard question! Because it’s a fuckin’ fact of life, that’s fuckin’ why!”

With a herk on one side and a jerk on the other, the sisters had fixed the stirrups.

I wonder what other parts of my life are perpetually lopsided because I don't just "fuckin' look at them."

NYC's Worst 5 Places for Dawdling Offenders

Tue, 6 Mar 2012 09:03:08 -0500

I’m tired of feeling guilty about being an impatient New Yorker. In our Deepak-Chopra, slow-food-movement, yogafied world, rushing has gotten a bad rap.

So, enough about the Power of Now. How about the Power of Get the Hell Out of the Way?

Here are the five places where malingerers really need to pick up the pace.

5. 5. Ladies Rooms

I’m a woman too. I don’t get it. What in tarnation is taking you gals so long? Pee and go.

4. 4. Escalators

The top of one of these jobbers is a lousy place to fish your lipstick out of your handbag. Or to check your email.

That also goes for stairs, street corners and the middle of Grand Central Station.

3. 3. Sidewalks

Three abreast is not allowed. Other people can’t pass you. Walk in a line.

New York City pedestrians must obey the same etiquette as drivers. If you linger in the left-hand lane, I reserve the right to tailgate you and glower when I pass.

2. 2. Busses

The bus driver is not your personal tour guide. Do not hop on and engage in a lengthy dialog about where the bus turns and whether it stops at 51^st Street. There’s an app for that.

If you are a tourist and are confused, what you need to do is stand on a corner, and look confused. You will be instantly mobbed by helpful New Yorkers who will tell you anything you need to know. When we’re not late, we’re considerate.

1. 1. Fairway

There’s a new one on 86^th and Second Avenue. And, like its older siblings on the Westside, the produce department reminds you of a toy store in the midst of a Christmastime run on Tickle Me Elmo.

All disabled and elderly people should stay away from Fairway on Sunday afternoons. And while we’re at it, that includes moms with toddlers. Four o’clock on Superbowl Sunday with a triplet stroller? Are you kidding me?

Now, if the elderly or disabled can help out—say by using their canes to give slowpokes a salutary thwack or two—then you get to stay. (Toddlers are still banned.)

If we all agree to 1-5 above, we can husband our patience for the circumstances where it’s really needed, where no power, human or divine, can ever make things go faster.

The Van Wyck

Garbage trucks blocking crosstown traffic

Transferring to the E train at 53^rd Street

The 2012 Republican Primary

Who’s getting in your way?

Rick Sanatorium

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 13:02:31 -0500

“I watched the debate last night, you know, the one with that awful fellow, Rick Sanatorium,” said my 91-year-old neighbor, Joan.

“Santorum,” I corrected.

“Anyway, I watched that Sanatorium for an hour and a half. It made me sick to my stomach. I also heard he‘s raping women with wands.”

Joan is visually impaired. And it’s amazing how much a person relies on both sight and speech to get the facts straight. Especially regarding who said what to whom. “I think that’s the governor of Virginia,” I said.

“Can you explain that wand thing? Is what Sanatorium’s doing really rape?”

I come from an ovarian-cancer family. So I have some personal familiarity with the wand thing in what you might call the voluntary way. I considered what you might call the “involuntary way.”

“Yes. It’s rape.”

“I thought so.”

“But it’s the governor of Virginia who’s doing it.” I thought I could perhaps clarify that a bit more. But I was not getting very far, even with Sanatorium.

Due to her age and disability, Joan relies on Chris and me in a lot of ways. With a little help from her friends to augment her daytime aide, Joan remains largely independent, and—most important—in her own home. We’re there if the TV remote acts up, or the pill bottle cap won’t come off. Or to get books on her Kindle. Joan can’t get the language straight for that either. She says “Unload” rather than “Download.” As in, “Can you unload something onto my Kindle?”

“Download,” I’ve said fifty times.

I seem to have an obsessive need to correct her. It’s like I want more of an impact than just on pill bottles and cable boxes. If I can somehow help her get the facts and the names straight, I’m improving her sight just a little bit. Really keeping her out of the Sanatorium.

“Golly, I remember in 1952. I went all out for Adlai Stevenson. I worked like mad for him. On the phone all day long.”

“Too bad he lost.”

“And we were always marching. I went to Washington to support pro-choice and civil rights. That’s what’s great about being young. You have so much optimism, and the energy to be passionate.”

The Greatest Generation is so naïve, I thought. Even more so as they age, with all the attendant verbal and factual foibles.

Through the lens of my Gen-X cynicism, I clearly see how every once-venerated and trusted institution has committed treason against its people. From the Catholic Church and its pedophile cover-up, to Congressmen whoring themselves out to big donors, to the Country waging war for oil.

“Yeah, I don’t think people feel that way anymore.”

“Sure they do. Just look at that awful Sanatorium.”

I suddenly felt ready for a Sanatorium.

The Italian Method of Preserving Tax Revenue

Thu, 19 Jan 2012 15:01:16 -0500

Italians are brilliant.

I’m not talking about daVinci and Michelangelo, here. I’m talking about modern-day Italians.

Modern-day Italians in government.

Modern-day Italians in the branch of the government devoted to tax collection.

Now, I am aware the above statement tends to, shall we say, contradict current news-media coverage. But I have my own experience:

Over Christmas, I shopped in Italy. Specifically, for shoes. Specifically, five pair of shoes. Italian suede shoes make me purr like a cat in a sunbeam.

Being Catholic, such excessive (or really any) self-indulgence makes me feel guilty. (See related post on cleaning ladies). However, the Euro was tanking over the holidays, when my husband and I were on vacation. And also, there is the European Union tax refund. The VAT tax is 20%. That’s some serious pasta-dough.

So with this flimsy but time-hallowed justification (Never mind how much I’m spending! Look how much I’m saving!), I was lured into a shop by an absolutely mouthwatering pair of boots with the most cunning buckle you have ever seen. And I ended up buying five pairs of shoes.

And then I tried for my tax refund.

With all my shoes packed up in shopping bags, I reminded the sales clerk I was a foreigner. Despite my barely intelligible attempts at Italian, horrible American sneakers, and embarrassingly baggy American clothes, the sales clerk expressed surprise. My accent was so good! Was I not from Naples?

No. America.

Was I sure I wanted the refund? It would take time. My husband already looked impatient.

I was sure.

The sales clerk, now cranky, brought out a thick binder. After repeated snapping and unsnapping, he extracted the correct form. There was an instruction card, written in tiny type, in four languages, in the back pocket of the binder.

He shrugged his complete befuddlement. I moved to his side of the counter. Together, we spent the next fifteen minutes filling out the form while Chris answered email.

Empowered by this experience, I shopped some more and filled out more forms. I found the forms festive, really. Practically every store had paperwork in a different color.

Then, after some time searching the tiny side-streets of Milan, Chris and I found the tax refund shop marked on our hotel tourist map. A clerk looked at our forms. She shook her head, pointing to all the different colors. Different color, different company. Where was the orange form? Her company was orange.

Outside, after a brief discussion, Chris and I agreed to soldier on—a kind of experiment to see if we could actually succeed in getting our money back.

We found another tax refund company. A blue one for our blue forms. But after waiting on their long line, we were once again refused. While our colors did match, their particular forms required a stamp at customs.

The clerk (perhaps breaking with protocol) offered the following helpful advice: There were many counters for all the tax refund companies at the airport. Honestly, she said, it would be easier to do it there.

It was January 8^th on the other side of customs at Milan’s Malpensa Airport. We saw a sign, like the star to the wise men.

It said, “VAT Tax refund forms stamped here.”

A few quick steps and we found the door for the VAT Tax Refund Stamp-Your-Forms Office. A handwritten paper taped to the wall instructed us to knock and wait. We did.

A short man in a blue sweater with three-day old stubble and smelling of cigarettes poked his head out.

“Are you from Switzerland or Norway?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“You must go to the other office,” he pointed out a route, past a long line of customs offices. “It’s on the other side.”

On we walked, following arrows, to the Non-Swiss-Non-Norwegian VAT Tax Refund Stamp-Your-Forms Office. The row of customs windows seemed to go on forever. My backpack grew heavier. Chris’ feet hurt. Though I have a bad sense of direction, we seemed to be going in a giant U.

We finally found the Non-Swiss-Non-Norwegian VAT Tax Refund Stamp-Your-Forms Office entry door.

A short man in a blue sweater with three day old stubble and smelling of cigarettes poked his head out.

I looked at Chris. Had he done something extreme? Like signed us up for an Italian reality show? A kind of intervention where desperate husbands enroll their shoe-addicted wives to chase the VAT Tax Refund White Rabbit?

But his face bore its own shocked down-the-rabbit-hole expression.

The short, cigarette-y man motioned us in.

He held up his hand, so he could finish with the Norwegian in front of him. The Norwegian subsequently exited out the Norwegian-Swiss door on the opposite side of the office.

Cheerfully, the man stamped the forms that required stamps. And then, with a certain gusto, he stamped the ones that didn’t require stamps. Then he sent us out the Non-Swiss-Non-Norwegian door.

Now late for our flight, Chris and I tag-teamed the rainbow of tax-refund counters, lined up like rental car agencies.

Finally, we had our Euros back.

Sighing, at last in my airline seat, I said, “Let’s never do that again.”

Chris agreed.

Here in New York City, there is also a tax-waiver process for foreign travelers. Tourists hand over their passport to the store cashier and are immediately exempted from our 8.9% sales tax.

I can just hear the Italians, chuckling at us.

Tipping Point

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:12:03 -0500

‘Tis the season for little envelopes stuffed with cash. The minute December hits, we who live in a city with lots of service providers start to fret about the holiday tips we must distribute. You’d think this question would get settled once and stick. But every year most Upper East Siders I know have the same discussion. Whom do you tip? How much do you tip?

There’s a running joke in buildings that the doorman and super start lobbying for tips just before Labor Day. Normally surly or sleepy doorman (see related post) wake up and charm-up just as the leaves turn amber. If you want your squeaky door fixed, here’s your signal for immediate action: Santa waving hello at the Macy’s-Day Parade

The who, what, where of tipping is a carefully guarded question. You don’t talk about it, any more than you talk about your weight, or salary. One doesn’t want to be thought stingy, or, in contrast, a pushover. Very close friends will tell you how much they tip-- sometimes. Mostly, if you ask how much someone gives as a Christmas tip, they’ll evade. “Oh, I forget. It changes every year. Look over there! That Christmas tree is on fire!”

So, in the interest of at least some disclosure here’s my list.

The tipped:

In our building: Four doormen, one handyman, one porter, the super

Others: dog walker, barn manager, Pilates instructor, garage attendants.

It seems that there is no official rhyme or reason to tipping. My personal rule is if they can make your life miserable in the coming year, give them a tip. I have to say, though, tipping the garage does not seem to have kept our car from dings and scratches. On the other hand, who knows how bad it would be if we didn’t tip?

Not tipped:

Postman

Nail salon person

Hairdresser

The reasoning here is (A) The post office is going bankrupt anyway. And half my mail goes to the people on 9, with no other reason than their name begins with M. If email had a postman, I’d tip him. (B) Only the real pushovers tip the nail salon. (C) You could make a legitimate argument here about the hairdresser. Let’s see if my hair comes out green in March.

In my opinion, this whole topic should be more data-driven. Who wants to start a website for an anonymous survey of tipping on the UES? Any takers?

A final thought: Tipping is a measure of thankfulness to people who take care of you in a personal way throughout the year. All griping aside, in this season, I am thankful to them and to our city that provides so many opportunities for personal connection.

Whom do you tip?