A coworker who has season tickets to the Knicks couldn't make it to last night's game, so she offered me the tickets. I actually had to think about it for a second. But a game in the Garden is a game in the Garden, and despite my loathing for Isiah Thomas, once I realized they were playing against Lebron and the Cavs, I had to go. Sameer wound up as my date, so we dined on some Be Bim Bop at Kum Gang San and then made it to the seats about a minute after tipoff. It is good hanging out with that fella. We've only been friends since the eighth grade.
The seats were pretty good, and the Knicks kept it close in the first quarter. Then they built a 17-point lead by halftime and wound up winning the game in what had become a laugher by midway through the fourth. Hooray, all is right in Knicksville.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The Indignities Mount
After Ben the Exterminator visited this past Monday, I went five consecutive nights without a bite. "A few more nights," I was thinking, "and we can cautiously conclude that this is over." Last night, however, the bedbugs were up and at em. I woke up with a bite on my upper right arm, three on the back of my neck, and one on my lower lip.
My lower lip.
A bedbug got me, right on the kisser. Talk about adding new meaning to the notion of sucking face.
I have tried to convince myself that I was probably laying on my side, with my mouth pretty much touching the pillow or the bedsheet, and so my luscious, Botoxish lips were the most accessible flesh for some random bedbug in search of a meal. The other option, that a bug crawled onto and across my face, gazed lovingly at my impish-yet-pouty smile, and planted a tender chomp on my lower lip...it is almost too much to bear.
Today I vacuumed the room, the bed and the bookshelves with the intensity and anger of a frat boy who has realized that he had sex with the dog last night.
My lower lip.
A bedbug got me, right on the kisser. Talk about adding new meaning to the notion of sucking face.
I have tried to convince myself that I was probably laying on my side, with my mouth pretty much touching the pillow or the bedsheet, and so my luscious, Botoxish lips were the most accessible flesh for some random bedbug in search of a meal. The other option, that a bug crawled onto and across my face, gazed lovingly at my impish-yet-pouty smile, and planted a tender chomp on my lower lip...it is almost too much to bear.
Today I vacuumed the room, the bed and the bookshelves with the intensity and anger of a frat boy who has realized that he had sex with the dog last night.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Hey, guy I fired
"Rick, I'm ready for some more cases if you have any to assign," typically means, in modern office parlance, that you've actually done work on the cases I already had assigned to you.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
38 Special
38, today am I. I think that I was born at like 9:50 a.m., and Mike came out ten minutes later? I know for a fact that Mike came out ten minutes later. Hell, that has been a fact that I have lorded over him for, oh, about 38 years now. Of all the ways that I psychologically tortured him as a child (and an adult), among my favorites was saying, after he sought clarification on some passing reference that he likely had merely not heard, "oh, I can't explain it now. In ten minutes you'll be old enough to get it." I'm good, no?
Today was a roller coaster ride of a birthday. Morning celebration with Cathleen, kids and the Entin Bells featured a "doughnut cake" -- Max's genius alternative for normal cake. At his behest, Cathleen bought three Dunkin Donuts, uh, doughnuts, piled them up on each other and implanted candles. A bit much of a sugar jolt for me pre-coffee, but the kids seemed to like it. Miriam made me a great card ("You are the jokiest boy I've ever met.").
I arrived at work late and over the course of the day I had to fire someone for the first time ever, and I learned that a former client of mine, whom I had worked with many times and liked, had died. Firing the guy was a no-brainer, as his screw-up was monumental and was not, unfortunately, unprecedented, but it was stressful nonetheless. Fortunately, to his credit, he was gracious and professional in accepting his dismissal, but that in the long run may have made it all that much harder for me. In a sense it would have been easier had he screwed up and then had been angry with me for holding him accountable. I mean, I wouldn't be worth shit as a program director had I not fired him, but I can't escape thinking about the impact it had on his life. As for my former client...well, a few times every year I am reminded that my clients have AIDS and, despite the amazing advances in treatment that have been made over the past decade, it is still a terminal illness. I remember this client as a friendly, vibrant, chatty woman who would get all dressed up to attend what I considered low-level administrative hearings regarding her benefits and whom, despite the number of times I asked her to call me Rick, would always call me Mr. Kahn in her thick, high-pitched, Puerto Rican accent.
After work, I met Cathleen in Manhattan for dinner at Casa Mono, a Spanish tapas restaurant opened by celebrity chef Mario Batali. It was smaller than I had expected, and the tables adjacent to ours were practically on top of us. And it was loud, with music booming over us as if we were in some hipster bar. But once we had ordered our food, and began consuming our bottle of wine (something red, I cannot believe that I have no recollection of what it was), and adjusted to our surroundings, I realized that I was hearing Up the Junction coming from the speakers. Oh my god, they were playing Squeeze! A really good restaurant just became sensational. What are the odds of walking into a semi-trendy Manhattan restaurant on your 38th birthday and having the night's soundtrack be one of your favorite bands from 20 years ago?
The food was great: bacalao croquetas with an orange sauce; mussels with chorizo; duck with cranberry mostaza; lamb shank with jerusalem artichoke puree; grilled brussel sprouts; sauteed mushrooms with garlic. We polished off the bottle of wine by the end of the meal which meant that either Cathleen finally had gained the capacity to drink a half bottle of wine at dinner, or I was a bit cocked. She alleges the latter. For dessert she managed to make it through only half of some amazing chocolatey chocolate thing, and I managed to wolf down my entire burnt vanilla custard (sort of a creme caramel) which featured battered and deep-fried bay leaves on the side (you eat the fried dough, but not the leaves). We headed home and spent a while talking with Claudia who had put the kids to bed; she regaled us with tales of how Max was this incredibly helpful, caring and thoughtful older brother during the entire process, supplying her with ideas and assistance in trying to pacify a congested and ear-infected Eliza.
I can distinctly recall the days when 38 seemed old to me, and yet I still feel like a goofy kid most days of the week. It's more of an "in denial" thing than a "young at heart" thing, but old is as old does, I suppose. Back in those days of actual youth, I'm not sure I had any sense of what 38 would be like for me, but I imagine that had I had some measure of focus, I would have hoped to have married my true life partner, and perhaps have fathered two amazing kids whom I cherish more than anything. Regrets, I've had a few, but I could not be in a happier place.
Today was a roller coaster ride of a birthday. Morning celebration with Cathleen, kids and the Entin Bells featured a "doughnut cake" -- Max's genius alternative for normal cake. At his behest, Cathleen bought three Dunkin Donuts, uh, doughnuts, piled them up on each other and implanted candles. A bit much of a sugar jolt for me pre-coffee, but the kids seemed to like it. Miriam made me a great card ("You are the jokiest boy I've ever met.").
I arrived at work late and over the course of the day I had to fire someone for the first time ever, and I learned that a former client of mine, whom I had worked with many times and liked, had died. Firing the guy was a no-brainer, as his screw-up was monumental and was not, unfortunately, unprecedented, but it was stressful nonetheless. Fortunately, to his credit, he was gracious and professional in accepting his dismissal, but that in the long run may have made it all that much harder for me. In a sense it would have been easier had he screwed up and then had been angry with me for holding him accountable. I mean, I wouldn't be worth shit as a program director had I not fired him, but I can't escape thinking about the impact it had on his life. As for my former client...well, a few times every year I am reminded that my clients have AIDS and, despite the amazing advances in treatment that have been made over the past decade, it is still a terminal illness. I remember this client as a friendly, vibrant, chatty woman who would get all dressed up to attend what I considered low-level administrative hearings regarding her benefits and whom, despite the number of times I asked her to call me Rick, would always call me Mr. Kahn in her thick, high-pitched, Puerto Rican accent.
After work, I met Cathleen in Manhattan for dinner at Casa Mono, a Spanish tapas restaurant opened by celebrity chef Mario Batali. It was smaller than I had expected, and the tables adjacent to ours were practically on top of us. And it was loud, with music booming over us as if we were in some hipster bar. But once we had ordered our food, and began consuming our bottle of wine (something red, I cannot believe that I have no recollection of what it was), and adjusted to our surroundings, I realized that I was hearing Up the Junction coming from the speakers. Oh my god, they were playing Squeeze! A really good restaurant just became sensational. What are the odds of walking into a semi-trendy Manhattan restaurant on your 38th birthday and having the night's soundtrack be one of your favorite bands from 20 years ago?
The food was great: bacalao croquetas with an orange sauce; mussels with chorizo; duck with cranberry mostaza; lamb shank with jerusalem artichoke puree; grilled brussel sprouts; sauteed mushrooms with garlic. We polished off the bottle of wine by the end of the meal which meant that either Cathleen finally had gained the capacity to drink a half bottle of wine at dinner, or I was a bit cocked. She alleges the latter. For dessert she managed to make it through only half of some amazing chocolatey chocolate thing, and I managed to wolf down my entire burnt vanilla custard (sort of a creme caramel) which featured battered and deep-fried bay leaves on the side (you eat the fried dough, but not the leaves). We headed home and spent a while talking with Claudia who had put the kids to bed; she regaled us with tales of how Max was this incredibly helpful, caring and thoughtful older brother during the entire process, supplying her with ideas and assistance in trying to pacify a congested and ear-infected Eliza.
I can distinctly recall the days when 38 seemed old to me, and yet I still feel like a goofy kid most days of the week. It's more of an "in denial" thing than a "young at heart" thing, but old is as old does, I suppose. Back in those days of actual youth, I'm not sure I had any sense of what 38 would be like for me, but I imagine that had I had some measure of focus, I would have hoped to have married my true life partner, and perhaps have fathered two amazing kids whom I cherish more than anything. Regrets, I've had a few, but I could not be in a happier place.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Are the bugs winning?
If you can't tell already, this bedbug experience speaks directly to the obsessive side of my personality. Screw my other blatherings and falderal; I just might turn this blog into Bedbugs 24/7. Of course, then I'd be forced to compete for viewership with my new favorite website: http://www.thebedbugresource.com/.
Six days post-extermination and I'm still waking up with multiple new bites each day. This is not entirely unexpected. The insecticides do not necessarily kill on contact -- they typically wreak havoc on the bugs' nervous systems, eventually causing death -- but they require contact for death to ultimately occur. Because bedbugs feed only once every five to seven days and otherwise spend their time in their "harbourage," up to a week after a spraying adult bedbugs will still venture out for a night-time Rick meal. Also, eggs that were not hit with insecticide will hatch and eventually turn into bugs which will likewise seek my flesh. The goal with spraying is to coat the areas that the Rick-seekers will traverse so that they encounter the insecticide and, after leaving me with a new itchy welt, finally meet their demise. Indeed, the professionals recommend that you continue to sleep in your room after a spraying so that you can act as bait to lure the bugs out into the poisoned environs.
We, nonetheless, had concerns about the scope of Ben's spraying the other day, so we called and requested that we take another hit. I was at work, but Ben arrived before noon. He helped Cathleen disassemble our bedframe (separating the headboard from the mainframe), at which point they saw two bugs. Then, as Cathleen was moving items off of my small bedside table, they noticed two tiny little newbies scurrying off. Ben sprayed the entire bed and table directly with Bedlam. With each passing day our comfort level with the insecticides grows. In another week I will no doubt be willing to bathe in a vat of Ben's favorite pyrethroid mixture.
In the meantime, reality has forced us to cancel our annual holiday open house party, which had been scheduled for this coming Sunday. The bugs appear to be contained within our bedroom, but if someone were to come to the party and take a bug home with him...it would be an unforgivable act. On the one hand, our apartment is such a war zone right now: bagged clothing here, boxed up stuff there, that prepping it for the party would have been a huge effort. But I look forward to that party every year, and I'm bummed that we're putting it on hold. The new plan is for a bedbug free party maybe in January, but it won't quite be the same.
Six days post-extermination and I'm still waking up with multiple new bites each day. This is not entirely unexpected. The insecticides do not necessarily kill on contact -- they typically wreak havoc on the bugs' nervous systems, eventually causing death -- but they require contact for death to ultimately occur. Because bedbugs feed only once every five to seven days and otherwise spend their time in their "harbourage," up to a week after a spraying adult bedbugs will still venture out for a night-time Rick meal. Also, eggs that were not hit with insecticide will hatch and eventually turn into bugs which will likewise seek my flesh. The goal with spraying is to coat the areas that the Rick-seekers will traverse so that they encounter the insecticide and, after leaving me with a new itchy welt, finally meet their demise. Indeed, the professionals recommend that you continue to sleep in your room after a spraying so that you can act as bait to lure the bugs out into the poisoned environs.
We, nonetheless, had concerns about the scope of Ben's spraying the other day, so we called and requested that we take another hit. I was at work, but Ben arrived before noon. He helped Cathleen disassemble our bedframe (separating the headboard from the mainframe), at which point they saw two bugs. Then, as Cathleen was moving items off of my small bedside table, they noticed two tiny little newbies scurrying off. Ben sprayed the entire bed and table directly with Bedlam. With each passing day our comfort level with the insecticides grows. In another week I will no doubt be willing to bathe in a vat of Ben's favorite pyrethroid mixture.
In the meantime, reality has forced us to cancel our annual holiday open house party, which had been scheduled for this coming Sunday. The bugs appear to be contained within our bedroom, but if someone were to come to the party and take a bug home with him...it would be an unforgivable act. On the one hand, our apartment is such a war zone right now: bagged clothing here, boxed up stuff there, that prepping it for the party would have been a huge effort. But I look forward to that party every year, and I'm bummed that we're putting it on hold. The new plan is for a bedbug free party maybe in January, but it won't quite be the same.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Chanukah
The "Hannukah" spelling really irritates me. As a language, Hebrew's intrinsic value lies in its ability to not just forgive, but to encourage, a good gathering of back-throat phlegm in nearly every sentence, what with it's baruchs and melechs, not to mention its chutzpah and chanukah. Vernacularizing it further by dropping the initial "c" would be like spelling Christmas with a "G," people.
Chanukah has seemed a little extra special this year. Maybe it's that both kids are into the menorah-lighting -- Max, because he kinda knows what is going on; Eliza, because she is wide-eye entranced by the dancing flames. Maybe it's that we've been able to share the experience with others a bit more -- two nights with the Entin Bells, this night with Jeff and Laura (after I spent a great day with Jeff, catching up with him mano-a-mano for what seemed like the first time in years). On the second night, we gave Max a Playskool pirate fisherman set-up, and he needed my help assembling the pieces. As we sat on the livingroom floor putting the toy together, with the menorah flickering on the table next to us, I could feel and see myself 30 years ago, on the livingroom floor in Yorktown, excitedly putting together some new Micronauts figure, with the menorah lighting up the front bay window.
Then, last night, as we were herding the kids to go to bed, they wanted a last look at the menorahs (we have two). With Cathleen holding Max, I picked up a protesting Eliza, and to calm her down I suggested that we sing a Chanukah song. With the apartment lights off, and the candles casting a glow about the room, and two tired kids barely keeping their heads up to stare at the flames, Cathleen and I sang through our limited Chanukah repertoire. It was one of those moments when the chaos dissolves, and we're only aware of each other, and all we have left is our happiness.
Chanukah has seemed a little extra special this year. Maybe it's that both kids are into the menorah-lighting -- Max, because he kinda knows what is going on; Eliza, because she is wide-eye entranced by the dancing flames. Maybe it's that we've been able to share the experience with others a bit more -- two nights with the Entin Bells, this night with Jeff and Laura (after I spent a great day with Jeff, catching up with him mano-a-mano for what seemed like the first time in years). On the second night, we gave Max a Playskool pirate fisherman set-up, and he needed my help assembling the pieces. As we sat on the livingroom floor putting the toy together, with the menorah flickering on the table next to us, I could feel and see myself 30 years ago, on the livingroom floor in Yorktown, excitedly putting together some new Micronauts figure, with the menorah lighting up the front bay window.
Then, last night, as we were herding the kids to go to bed, they wanted a last look at the menorahs (we have two). With Cathleen holding Max, I picked up a protesting Eliza, and to calm her down I suggested that we sing a Chanukah song. With the apartment lights off, and the candles casting a glow about the room, and two tired kids barely keeping their heads up to stare at the flames, Cathleen and I sang through our limited Chanukah repertoire. It was one of those moments when the chaos dissolves, and we're only aware of each other, and all we have left is our happiness.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Away, ye critters
Yesterday was Extermination Day. We had spent the prior week washing all of our clothing and sealing it up plastic bags. Most of the clothing now sits in large plastic bags, to remain unworn for the next few weeks. The essentials -- a handful of shirts, pants, underwear, socks, running clothes -- are in large ziploc bags that will sit in our dresser drawers. When we have determined that our long, national bedbug nightmare is over, we can take all of the clothes out of the bags and resume normal living. Cathleen fantasizes about living in this downscaled manner in perpetuity, but she is crazy. We all know that.
Ben the Exterminator arrived at a little after 9:30 in the morning. Ben has been to our home a couple of times before to deal with what we like to call "the mouse problem." Ben seals up holes, and "the mouse problem" goes away. Bedbugs, of course, don't respect the seal-up-the-hole method, and they require a good dose of toxic juice. Ben came armed with toxic juice.
When we first scheduled an exterminator to come, Cathleen asked what insecticides they'd be using. We were told they'd be spraying something in the walls -- one of three frighteningly named poisons: Suspend, Bedlam or Tri-Di. Then they'd spray Steri-Fab on the surface areas in the room. I called my brother-in-law, John, who has a Masters in Industrial Hygiene, and asked him to weigh in on whether it was judicious to have these things sprayed in the midst of our young children. John, bless his toxicologically-educated soul, did some quick research and gave us enough information that we felt comfortable having our home so insecticided. John also seemed to suggest that we were doing a greater disservice to our children's health by raising them in the big city. John, you country bumpkin.
Well, when Ben the Exterminator arrived, Cathleen asked what he'd be using that day. "Onslaught" was his reply.
I am a total sucker for a good name. Onslaught, however, is not a good name.
We then set about calling John (no answer), researching Onslaught on the web, calling the company that makes Onslaught, and having a mini-conference call with Mike the Exterminator Boss. We learned little, except that Onslaught is a residual insecticide. This is a good thing to have when dealing with bedbugs, because when you inevitably miss the eggs or the larvae that are hidden in crevices somewhere, when they grow up and venture out the poison is still there for the killing. This seems like a bad thing when you have young children and small dogs who might venture amongst the poison. Like we do.
Ben the Exterminator does not have much of a bedside manner. He looks a bit like all of the kids in my high school that came from Putnam Valley, which is to say that he looks like he just came home from a Megadeth concert. Long hair and a dour demeanor, except that Ben is in his forties, and not an angst-ridden 15-year-old. He is a bit rough around all of the edges, and was unapologetically impatient with our chemicals-might-be-harmful paranoia. I eventually explained that we had two concerns: getting rid of the bugs, and protecting our children's health, and that he had better respect that. He finally calmed down enough to focus on working out a solution, and we ultimately decided that he'd spray the hell out of our room but nowhere else; he'd put traps in the kid's room and under our couch, and if we later found bugs in them, we'd have to revisit our gameplan.
I then worked with Ben in our bedroom, moving furniture and the like. First he unscrewed the lightswitches and outlets and sprayed stuff into the walls. Then he sprayed all over our bedframe, and throughout our dressers (in every drawer, etc.). I took apart our four-piece "lawyer's bookshelves" and spied a live bedbug sitting happily in the crevice where two of the component pieces meet -- eeeewww. Ben sprayed every piece. He then sprayed the base of the wall, where it meets the carpet, all along the perimeter of the room. And that was it. He then checked around in Sophie and Joseph's apartment for signs of bedbugs (nothing visible), and did the same in the basement. And then he sprayed in the rental apartment because they recently started seeing roaches. Total bill: $500.
Having confirmed that our lawyer's bookshelves were infested by at least one bedbug (and no doubt others), I was concerned that the 30 or 40 books in those shelves were perhaps laden with eggs. So I bagged up the books and stuck them in our freezer where they will sit for a couple of days. Bedbugs can't survive in the freezing temperatures, and so we have a little Francine Prose and Jonathan Lethem squeezed in between our sun dried tomato ravioli and our espresso-ground Gorilla coffee.
Cathleen and I had earlier talked about sleeping that first night in the basement, but I convinced her that it would be safe to sleep in our apartment. Max, however, was so excited to sleep in the basement that it really wasn't even up for discussion. Kids are weird. So we celebrated the first night of Chanukah and then slept in our basement. A great miracle happened there...
Ben the Exterminator arrived at a little after 9:30 in the morning. Ben has been to our home a couple of times before to deal with what we like to call "the mouse problem." Ben seals up holes, and "the mouse problem" goes away. Bedbugs, of course, don't respect the seal-up-the-hole method, and they require a good dose of toxic juice. Ben came armed with toxic juice.
When we first scheduled an exterminator to come, Cathleen asked what insecticides they'd be using. We were told they'd be spraying something in the walls -- one of three frighteningly named poisons: Suspend, Bedlam or Tri-Di. Then they'd spray Steri-Fab on the surface areas in the room. I called my brother-in-law, John, who has a Masters in Industrial Hygiene, and asked him to weigh in on whether it was judicious to have these things sprayed in the midst of our young children. John, bless his toxicologically-educated soul, did some quick research and gave us enough information that we felt comfortable having our home so insecticided. John also seemed to suggest that we were doing a greater disservice to our children's health by raising them in the big city. John, you country bumpkin.
Well, when Ben the Exterminator arrived, Cathleen asked what he'd be using that day. "Onslaught" was his reply.
I am a total sucker for a good name. Onslaught, however, is not a good name.
We then set about calling John (no answer), researching Onslaught on the web, calling the company that makes Onslaught, and having a mini-conference call with Mike the Exterminator Boss. We learned little, except that Onslaught is a residual insecticide. This is a good thing to have when dealing with bedbugs, because when you inevitably miss the eggs or the larvae that are hidden in crevices somewhere, when they grow up and venture out the poison is still there for the killing. This seems like a bad thing when you have young children and small dogs who might venture amongst the poison. Like we do.
Ben the Exterminator does not have much of a bedside manner. He looks a bit like all of the kids in my high school that came from Putnam Valley, which is to say that he looks like he just came home from a Megadeth concert. Long hair and a dour demeanor, except that Ben is in his forties, and not an angst-ridden 15-year-old. He is a bit rough around all of the edges, and was unapologetically impatient with our chemicals-might-be-harmful paranoia. I eventually explained that we had two concerns: getting rid of the bugs, and protecting our children's health, and that he had better respect that. He finally calmed down enough to focus on working out a solution, and we ultimately decided that he'd spray the hell out of our room but nowhere else; he'd put traps in the kid's room and under our couch, and if we later found bugs in them, we'd have to revisit our gameplan.
I then worked with Ben in our bedroom, moving furniture and the like. First he unscrewed the lightswitches and outlets and sprayed stuff into the walls. Then he sprayed all over our bedframe, and throughout our dressers (in every drawer, etc.). I took apart our four-piece "lawyer's bookshelves" and spied a live bedbug sitting happily in the crevice where two of the component pieces meet -- eeeewww. Ben sprayed every piece. He then sprayed the base of the wall, where it meets the carpet, all along the perimeter of the room. And that was it. He then checked around in Sophie and Joseph's apartment for signs of bedbugs (nothing visible), and did the same in the basement. And then he sprayed in the rental apartment because they recently started seeing roaches. Total bill: $500.
Having confirmed that our lawyer's bookshelves were infested by at least one bedbug (and no doubt others), I was concerned that the 30 or 40 books in those shelves were perhaps laden with eggs. So I bagged up the books and stuck them in our freezer where they will sit for a couple of days. Bedbugs can't survive in the freezing temperatures, and so we have a little Francine Prose and Jonathan Lethem squeezed in between our sun dried tomato ravioli and our espresso-ground Gorilla coffee.
Cathleen and I had earlier talked about sleeping that first night in the basement, but I convinced her that it would be safe to sleep in our apartment. Max, however, was so excited to sleep in the basement that it really wasn't even up for discussion. Kids are weird. So we celebrated the first night of Chanukah and then slept in our basement. A great miracle happened there...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)