Erica K's Open Salon Blog

Smiling Lady Not Smiling Today

Tue, 29 May 2012 16:05:42 -0400

The lady who sits outside the elevator

on the third floor,

who always wears a necklace

of chunky multicolored plastic beads

isn’t smiling today.

I call her “The Smiling Lady”

because she always smiles,

and sometimes compliments me,

but she isn’t smiling today.

She glowered at me,

or so I thought.

I felt as if she were accusing me of

some crime, unseen.

Was my crime not being old

and sick and in the nursing home

with her,

of not being her visitor?

Does she ever have a visitor, I thought.

She set the tone for the day.

I had no patience for Mom.

I was testy, short-tempered,

not wanting to pin up her hair,

but I did.

Not wanting to wipe

the dribble off her chin,

but I did.

Not wanting to be there at all.

Does that make me bad?

That I realize I can’t take it, week after week,

phone call after phone call,

that I am not impervious to the pain of others,

that I am not superhuman,

that I don’t want to care

Has Anyone Else Received an Email from Mrs. Ahmed?

Thu, 24 May 2012 10:05:51 -0400

Good morning, all. I was wondering if anyone else received a lengthy email from Mrs. Zainab Ahmed, and if so, how you are choosing to respond (or not) to it? I would call this part spam and part scam or spam, spam, spam, spam and eggs and spam. What do you think?

Here is the body of Mrs. Ahmed's email:

Attn: Dear Mrs Erica,

Good Day and My compliment to you and your entire household,My name is Mrs Zainab Ahmed i am contact you Due to the current war and political differences going on in my country Libya, I have been thrown into a state of hopelessness by the administration lead by Col Muammar Gaddafi.I have lost confidence with anybody within my country.I got your contacts through personal research,and had to reach you through this medium. Due to security network placed on our daily activities by the Col Muammar Gaddafi lead government.

My late husband who was killed last three months by Col Muammar Gaddafi officials, before his sudden death, my late husband used to be a special Assistant to Col Muammar Gaddafi just because he resigned and asked Col Muammar Gaddafi to do same for the interest of the people of Libya, He sent his officials to kill my husband. Since After the death of my late husband ARIF Ahmed, Col Muammar Gaddafi lead government has taken over and sized all my late husband properties and closed all his local bank accounts here in Libya and place me and my family under house arrest after three of his men raped my second daughter to death.

Please I need your assistance to transfer the sum of 9.5 million dollar my late husband Deposited with a bank in UK in my name as the next of Kin into your private bank account in your country. I need you to help me secure this 9.5 million dollar in your private bank account before the new transition government in Libya will have knowledge and of it and frozen the account. This 9.5 million pounds is the only hope I and my entire family have to start a new life once again and I cannot afford to lose it to any government that is why i need you as my foreign beneficiary that we stand to contact the bank for the release of the funds to you and i promise to give you 40%per of the funds.

If you are interested to help me in transferring my funds to your account, do kindly provide me with the below stated information of yours.

(1) Your Full Names
(2) Your Contact Address
(3) Your Contact Telephone number
(4) Your Age And What you Do For A Living

Once I receive the above stated information from you, I will provide you with the 9.5 million deposit slip of the funds and the Information and direct you on how to contact our bank to enable them transfer my 9.5 million dollar to your account in your country reach me true this email : ( zainab2ahmed@yahoo.com )

Sincerely Yours,
Mrs Zainab Ahmed.

OC: Midweek Music Fest

Wed, 23 May 2012 10:05:36 -0400

"They call it Stormy Monday

But Tuesday's just as bad

They call it Stormy Monday

But Tuesday's just as bad

Lord, and Wednesday's worse

And Thursday's all so sad."

It’s “hump day,” the Wednesday before Memorial Day weekend: the perfect time for a mental pick-me-up. I thought we could all share a favorite song, aria, symphony, instrumental piece, etude or anything musical that tickles your fancy, whether it be happy, sad or a little of both.

My contribution for the day is “Stormy Monday,” a blues classic, performed here by jazz chanteuse Dianne Reeves and the late, great soul and gospel singer, David Peaston, with David Sanborn on sax. This clip was taken from The David Sanborn Show, televised in 1988.

After being laid off from a teaching position in 1981, Peaston moved from St. Louis to New York City and worked as a background singer on recording sessions. In the late ‘80s, he won several competitions on the Showtime at the Apollo TV show, wowing the audience with his rendition of “God Bless the Child.” He was first signed by Geffen Records and later moved to MCA Records. In 1989, his premier album, Introducing . . . David Peaston, made him an overnight sensation; a single from the album, “Two Wrongs (Don’t Make It Right),” topped the Billboard Black Singles chart at number 3 that same year. In 1990, he was honored with a Soul Train Music Award for Best R&B/Soul or Rap New Artist.

He was diagnosed with diabetes, eventually had both legs amputated and used prosthetic limbs. In 2006, despite the loss of his legs, he launched a comeback with the album, Songbook: Songs of Soul and Inspiration. He died from complications from diabetes on February 1, 2012 at the age of 54.

This song is dedicated to his memory and to anyone who is or has ever gone through hard times. I hope it puts a smile on your face.

All I Have Left is My Skin

Sun, 20 May 2012 19:05:29 -0400

“All I have left is my skin.” That’s what Mom told me today when we were sitting outside. It wasn’t the easiest visit with her. As my husband Lorin says, every visit costs. It costs me emotionally, if in no other way. I may leave elated after a good visit or depleted after a not-so-good visit. Today was the latter. I brought Mom the usual coffee and potato chips (no Wendy’s cheeseburger and vanilla Frosty today, at her request), and a pair of Clark’s sandals, that were a little tight around the toes.

Mom was really happy to see me, but she was distressed. She has never really been happy, but it’s worse when you have Alzheimer’s. We drank coffee, ate cookies and watched the last 15 minutes of Lidia’s Italy, her favorite cooking show.

Then she said, “I’ve lost all my bobby pins.” To be accurate, I scrounged together 5 in the top drawer of her bureau.

I was not surprised. Mom has been losing things more and more: first it was the Yardley English Lavendar soap, which I bring her in 4-packs (one bar is put in her bureau, and the other three go to the nurse’s station for safekeeping), now it’s bobby pins. Oy vey! The bobby pins cost about $2.99 for a package of 90, so it’s no big deal. But she’s down to 5 pins in 2 weeks. She says she doesn’t know where they have all gone. I think she throws them in the trash can. Only The Shadow knows.

The bobby pins dominated our visit. Where they went, who took them, how could she keep losing them? All I could say, was “I don’t know.” I told her it was not a big deal, that I would buy her another package and put half (or less) in her bureau drawer and leave the rest with Miss Bell at the nurse’s station, along with her soap. This seemed to calm her a bit, but the agitation was still present.

I had a really good talk with my stepmom today. She says that I have done all I can for mom, I couldn’t do any better. But today it doesn’t feel that way. Once again, I feel I have failed her. I am not able to “fix” her. Mom wanted to go outside, so I got what I call the “hall pass” from the nurse and took her out. I wheeled her for a couple blocks, then she said, “Erica, are you there?”

I said, “Yes.”

How could she think I had disappeared?

I kept one hand on her shoulder for the duration of our ride after that. She had gauze wrapped around her right wrist from an abrasion, and the handles of her wheelchair were now swathed in fleece to prevent continued abrading of the skin. She looked like a suicide attempt.

She said she wanted to stop and sit outside Park Gardens, so we did.

“How is Mary Ann?” I said. Mary Ann is her only surviving sibling, and she has leukemia.

“She’s alright,” she said.

“I wish I could trade places with her,” she said.

Does she know she has leukemia, I thought.

Mary Ann, the youngest of the sisters, is a very upbeat person, a typical (sorry if I’m being stereotypical) Midwestern, who never complains. Mom’s family hails from Wisconsin, and they are known for their stoicism. Mom’s favorite sister and best friend, Rony, died in 2009.

I didn’t know what to say.

“The trees are beautiful,” Mom said, “and there’s a breeze about.”

“Yes,” I said. I was running out of positive things to think or say.

“Why couldn’t I just go?” she said.

Again, I had no real answer, but said, “Don’t worry so much about the bobby pins.”

“They must wonder how I’ve let myself go,” she said.

“Who do you mean?”

“Everyone,” she said.

“Do you want me to put some makeup on you?”

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

I applied some chapstick to her lips.

“You still have beautiful skin,” I said.

“Yes, but’s that’s it. All I have left is my skin.”

Then it was back to talk on the bobby pins.

"You'll fix it, you always do," Mom said, with a smile on her face. I told her I'd do the best I could.

That's a tall order. I can't fix it, but I wish I could.

In the end, isn’t our skin all we have left? We have what’s inside, but too often no one sees that. For a woman of 82, my mother does have beautiful skin. She took great care of it all her life and pushed me to moisturize starting at age 30. I don’t think my skin will ever be as supple as hers, though. I tend to think it’s what's underneath that truly matters.

Bully Nuns

Tue, 15 May 2012 16:05:07 -0400

“Well those silly bully boys

They lost more than their toys”

The Tiger Lillies

At Blessed Sacrament School (also known as “BSS”), which my brother called “Bull Shit School,” the atmosphere was rife with bullying. Corporal punishment was not only allowed, but encouraged, it seemed, and I would be a liar to say I wasn’t afraid of some of my teachers, especially the nuns. Sister Mary Alphonse may have been the worst. (I have changed or altered names to protect the innocent and guilty.)

She was my homeroom teacher in seventh or eighth grade, and did not suffer fools or lack of cooperation gladly. Cooperation included being silent during homeroom period. She had a distinct limp when she walked, from a hip surgery, we thought, and sported a cane. The cane was employed in various uses: slamming on the desk of an uncooperative pupil, pointing towards the blackboard, and slamming against the blackboard. She taught Algebra. Luckily, I was good at Algebra. One of my best friends, N, was not as fortunate. Math was her worst subject. Sister Mary A seemed to delight in sending N to the blackboard to do the most complicated problems even though she knew she was bound to fail. The blackboard was positioned adjacent to her desk, so she would have to turn her head or get up to actually see the blackboard. To this day, I have no idea how she saw without standing up, but somehow she managed.

N would stand at the board and do her best, but inevitably could not solve the problem at hand. Sister A would glance over and say, “Erase Line 4, N!” in a very hostile voice. Then, “Erase Line 3,” and on it would go. Usually Sister A would stare straight ahead as she barked her commands.

The end result was N reduced to tears at the blackboard, hands shaking. It went on time and time again, so often that the rest of the class started to tune it out.

As I said, I was good at Math, but I had my moments too. One day I was sent to the blackboard and lost my train of thought or something, and could not solve the problem.

“Erase Line 4, Miss K,” said Sister Alphonse.

Then it was, “Erase line 3,” and finally, “Is that you, Erica K?”

Jesus, who else would it be?

I was a deer in the headlights. I stood at the blackboard feeling what I thought N must have felt all those times. I was frozen; it was me and the chalkboard and the chalkboard wasn’t speaking to me. Sister Alphonse took her cane and pointed to line 3. I still could not figure it out.

Sister Alphonse’s rage knew no bounds. In retrospect, she must have been in a great deal of pain all the time. Why else would she have been so mean?

One morning during homeroom period, Elena, who sat directly in front of me, was talking to her buddy in the adjacent row. Sister Alphonse quietly hobbled down the row, struck her cane on Elena’s desk and slapped her in the face. That was for talking.

Then there was Mr. T, the Social Studies teacher who was having an affair with one of our classmates. He would taunt me for not talking in class—I was the shyest person in my grade, for sure. He made fun of my name and looked to the other pupils as he was mocking me, with a Cheshire Cat grin widening his pockmarked, saucer face, as if seeking approval for his bad behavior.

A favorite activity of Mr. T’s was to drag Orlando, a tiny Filipino boy, by his tie outside of the classroom and slam him against the wall while holding onto his tie. He also liked spinning him around by his tie. Sometimes I thought this was some kind of sick game between them. I can’t remember what Orlando ever did to deserve this, but it was par for the course.

Then there was Miss Nelly, who punished our third grade class by turning off the lights, pulling down the shades, taping a sheet of black construction paper in the window of the door and locking us inside. Kids started screaming and calling for their mothers or pissing themselves. It was mass hysteria for however long it lasted.

Sister Kathleen terrorized me during First Holy Communion practice in second grade. I don’t know what it’s like now, but in the 60s and early 70s there was no AC in the school or the church, only giant, useless circular fans on poles. It was June, 1968. We were all dripping with sweat as we filed down the hallways in preparation for Communion practice at Blessed Sacrament Church. It was so hot in the church that some kids fainted. I was so devout that I spoke all the prayers in full voice—I wanted to be a nun when I grew up—and at the end of the Our Father, I would always say, “Amen!”

Sister Kathleen turned around in the church and said, “Who said ‘Amen’?”

I confessed.

She walked up to me in line and said, as the sweat was glistening on my brow, “You do NOT say ‘Amen’ at the end of the Lord’s Prayer.”

I promised I would never do it again. Sister Kathleen was my homeroom teacher so I really had to watch my step.

Of course, I did it again, and again, and again. It seemed the more I got scolded, the more I did it. At least I learned to catch myself once and only whisper “Amen.” What a nightmare.

I know my story does not compare to the horrors that so many children and teenagers have endured over the years and continue to endure at the hands of bullies, cyber or otherwise, but I suppose the point I wanted to make is that bullying is an equal opportunity employer. No age discrimination here.