Unexpected Poetry #1

DISCLAIMER: I am not a poet. However, I do appreciate poetry (good and otherwise), and this will hopefully be the first in a series of questionable prose that is, at least in part, questionable because it should have been a poem. So, with only added line breaks (and perhaps the occasional emphasis or punctuation), we restore balance to the universe by returning the text to its rightful form.

For my source today, I turn to the Highland Park Public Library email newsletter, advertising upcoming events at the library.

Sleep Mask Making

Did you always want
to make a sleep mask?
This is your chance to design
your own



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If you can read this…you’re too close.

Let’s be honest: this post has been a long time coming. I live in New Jersey. We gotta talk about the driving here.

“But…” you say, “the driving is bad in lots of places. Driving in Manhattan, driving in DC? Driving in Boston? Those are pretty awful, right?”

Yes. They are. But New Jersey, oh you beautiful Garden State, you hold the key to my road-raged heart.

I’d like to argue – and I suspect there will be little dissent – that the NJ infrastructure isn’t exactly conducive to a calm and pleasant driving experience. I’m sure the engineers who came up with some of the intersections in this fine state were either well-intentioned or perhaps just out of their minds. Either option does leave a little leeway for forgiveness. But that you have to go 12 miles before turning around or even thinking about an exit, or that you have to make a complex and easily-missed series of right turns in order to make a left can make a neophyte’s brain short-circuit. Thus, my highly scientific hypothesis number one is that the roads create the rage. Cutting off three lanes of traffic to take the right-exit jughandle to make a left? Par for the course.*

A most unfortunate road sign

Where are we if you can’t even spell “trucks” correctly, New Jersey?

Hypothesis number two is a little more psychological. Much like the internet, the roadway allows for a certain measure of anonymity. This is dangerous. A former roommate once posited that if we all had the same car make and model, there would be a lot less idiotic behavior on the roadways. It’s more difficult to create false vendettas when you can’t pick out the car/driver who just passed you. It’s also more difficult to feel entitled if your car doesn’t cost upwards of $15,000 more than the car next to you. And plus we wouldn’t have sports cars with far more powerful engines than, say, a six-year-old Toyota Corolla.

But how do you deal with these situations? Well, constructively, one would hope. Talking to the other driver is always a good option, for example. Cursing is most people’s solution; I’m not proud to say that I’m guilty of this on occasion. However, my verbal responses have taken other forms, too. For example:

  • Never underestimate the power of screaming the word “Turdmonkey!” at another driver. You will immediately feel better, both because you got the anger out of your system, and you just said “turdmonkey.”
  • If someone acts like they are going to try and cut you off, but they’re the ones merging into your lane, it is completely permissible to proclaim, “Get behind me, Satan!” as you do not allow them to pull in front of you. Smirking as you glare into the rearview mirror is also a nice addition.
  • When you are pulling into a parking lot in which there is a sign that clearly states “Incoming traffic has the right of way,” feel free to bellow that at another car coming from the other direction who is about to disobey their stop sign.

The other day, though, it all became clear to me. Why are New Jersey drivers so…uniformly horrible? In a state in which I was sued by someone for being rear-ended by someone else, how do you get off claiming self-righteousness? Like so: 

A driving school car pulls out in front of me onto the road I’m taking to get home from work, a relative backroad, although at that point it has two lanes going in each direction. Immediately, I allow the car a little extra space. They begin to veer over their line into my lane, but a hundred feet or so in front of me. Then they straighten out, and promptly cut across two lanes of traffic with no turn signal to make a left turn at the stoplight. As I pull up to the light and pass the car, I expect to see a terrified high-schooler in the driver’s seat, and a harried-looking driving instructor as passenger.


The driving instructor was…driving. Say what you will about “maybe he was showing the kid what not to do”. I don’t think so. I’ve often heard it said, to my great dismay, that “if you can’t do, teach.” And, apparently…sometimes that’s true.


*Let it be known that I do not personally endorse this behavior, nor do I participate in it.

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How (Not) to Ruin a Classical Music Performance

Advice from a performing musician

Part 2: Please refrain from talking or other disruptive behavior during the performance.

I recently saw someone pose the question, “Why do we applaud after a performance?”(ie, why that has become tradition).  This  is a question to which I admittedly do not know the answer, and one which I am at this writing disinclined to research. An interesting thought, though – many people have posited that it’s our way of showing appreciation for the artists’ efforts, regardless of whether the performance resonated with us personally or not. I’m sure there’s a whole sociological dissertation in there somewhere.

Answers or no, I can tell you oodles of stories that illustrate how not to show your appreciation for a performance: unwrapping noisy candy during an aria. Getting up for another drink during an Andrew Bird concert in a legit theater (as opposed to an outdoor, free-for-all concert venue). Loudly discussing the plot during a play. It never ceases to amaze me just how capable we as a society are of being oblivious to those around us.

Classy surroundings for a classy audience.

Earlier this year, my trio had a performance in Baltimore at a relatively ritzy retirement community. It was a nice gig, all in all: we got paid to play, the chapel in which we performed was absolutely beautiful (see above photo), and what’s more we had a pretty decent guaranteed audience, between the residents of this particular community and a number of folks that were bussed in from another community that’s located about 40 minutes away and is managed by the same company.

The risk, though, of playing to a primarily older crowd is that they can be a little…unpredictable. This was more of an active adult community than an assisted living facility (although I’m sure that component exists somewhere on the grounds), so the likelihood of a dementia-ridden woman waking up and screaming because she didn’t know where she was or who was trying to get her to be quiet in the middle of the performance was comparatively low. That example, by the way, totally happened during my big moment in the fall play when I was a freshman in high school. I will never forget the feeling of abject terror that poor, confused woman roused in me as I hoped I didn’t forget all my lines while she yowled incoherently. But, lingering trauma aside, my trio had high hopes for a well-behaved, appreciative (if not captive) audience.

Those hopes were dashed to bits during the third movement of the first piece on our program. The slow movement of Brahms’ first piano trio elicits this ethereal mood; it’s one of those pieces of music that somehow expresses the hopes and fears of existence without words. It’s sublime.

Or it should be.

The piano and strings alternate between hymn-like passages that eventually lead into a cello solo, and then back to the serenity of alternation, only with the piano twinkling above the strings the second time through. For me, it’s as if you’re sitting outside on a cloudy day, but every so often the wind picks up and the cloud cover for a brief time exposes the sun in a literal ray of hope. The piece feels glacially slow. Just as I was settling in for my long winter’s nap to the pace of the movement, I heard this small noise. I dismissed it, and turned my attention back to my upcoming entrance and the taffy-pull of a harmonic progression going on. But then there was the noise again. Every ten seconds or so (which, again, felt like a veritable eternity), there was a tiny, but incisive metallic click that reverberated through the whole echo-chamber of a sanctuary in which we were playing.


Did I mention this is the quietest movement in the *CLICK* entire concert?

Even though the room was pretty big and, as I’ve said, extremely *CLICK* resonant, I could tell exactly where the offending sound was coming from. Around the fourth “CLICK” I placed it: diagonal from my piano bench, about 6 rows in. Thinking perhaps it was somebody hitting their walker or doing something innocent, I channeled the balance of my mental energy into trying to plead telepathically with this woman sitting there to stop whatever she was doing.

But she didn’t. And that was when I realized what was causing the sound.

In what was clearly a premeditated move by someone who is either blissfully unaware of what’s protocol at a classical concert or has reached a stage in her life in which she just doesn’t care anymore, this elderly woman was sitting there, in our concert, clipping her fingernails. 

Go ahead, let that sink in.

Now, try listening to this movement, imagining intermittent punctuations of fingernail clippers, particularly in the quietest moments. Maybe Old Lady Oblivion was trying (in vain) to be conscientious in spacing her clips out so liberally. Or maybe she had 43 fingernails. Whatever the case, that noise lasted the entire movement. Let’s also remember that she was in a church. Because I don’t think she remembered that fact. After the performance, we looked for a pile of clippings on the floor, alarmingly to no avail.

The cellist’s girlfriend happened to be sitting in front of the Fingernail Fiend, and here’s a great “what would you do” moment: do you turn around and shoot her the skunk-eye or ask her to be quiet? Or do you just sit there, praying, as everyone else (including performers) surely is that the noise will just stop of its own accord? Well, the cellist’s girlfriend chose the latter, and I can’t blame her really, because as she pointed out, this criminal clipper looked pretty mean. And who knows if saying something would just result in more distracting noise?

So, my dear cultured friends, I ask this of you: cut your nails; it’s good personal hygiene. But for the love of all things good in the world, and for the mental health of the performers, clip outside of the concert hall, ok? Don’t be another fingernail fiend.

Posted in Gloriously awkward moments, Music | 2 Comments

How to Be A Well-Behaved Audience Member

Advice from a performing musician

Part 1: Turn off all electronic devices. 

I remember the days when watch alarms were the only things one had to worry about silencing before a concert. But now the pre-concert announcements have gotten so creative and overarching, it’s to the point where you may as well just say, “if it has an ‘OFF’ button, turn it off now.” This has become something of a news item in recent months, what with Alan Gilbert stopping a performance to tell someone to shape up or ship out when a cell phone went off during a performance of Mahler’s Ninth. There have been other similarly unfortunate events, as well. I lived through one of them this past summer at a concert in Austria, during which an otherwise seamless and intricately-woven Lieder concert was interrupted not only by a cell phone, but by a cell phone whose ringtone was a musical excerpt (I have mercifully blocked the tune from my memory). Not only did this ringtone happen once while I was playing an especially quiet and crystalline piece, it happened multiple times. Not only did it happen multiple times, but at one point the owner of the phone answered the phone. In the room. During the concert. Trust me, if looks could inflict serious injury, I’m not sure that woman would still be around to tell the tale. In fact, there were SO many nasty glances (I know I was the sender of a few), I know for certain that she wouldn’t have survived the remainder of the song, much less the concert. And what’s more, let it be known that I never, never, ever want to have a livid Austrian hiss at me, “Bitte.” That single word contained within it “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD IN THE WORLD,” “Are you kidding?” and, well, some other choice words that I think are best left to the imagination. So, bitte. Turn off your phones.

But phones aren’t the only devices capable of inflicting concert-disrupting ignominy. Once upon a time (a year or so ago), I attended a voice recital in Philadelphia’s Kimmel Center by a personable, talented mezzo soprano. I was at the performance with a couple singer friends of mine, one of whom had sung an audition in Philly earlier in the day. I also played in her audition, and thus had my standard barrage of music-related paraphernalia in my bag: pencil, metronome, black binder. The black binder I’d left in the car prior to attending the concert, but as usual, I’d left my metronome in my purse, not because I thought I’d need it, but because I didn’t think to take it out. Usually, it’s no big deal, and heck, I’ve made it through numerous international airport security checkpoints with a metronome in there, so what’s the danger in carrying it around in everyday life?


The second half of the recital began with a sublime piano introduction to the first song; I honestly can’t remember what the song was, but I know it was heartbreakingly beautiful. A few seconds in, though, I started to hear this obnoxious mechanical high-pitched tone. Persistent, almost like the sound of someone’s hearing aid that needs to be adjusted. Invasive, like a mosquito whining its way around a hot room. Since I couldn’t swat this away, I instead shot my patented wide-range skunk-eye out from my balcony seat, largely because it was nearly impossible for me to tell where the sound was coming from. The pitch didn’t stop though. And to make it worse, it was just slightly not in the key of the piece being played. Juuuuust enough to make it really grating every few bars of music. After about 30 seconds (which felt like a small eternity), something prompted me to lean down, and I realized in horror that the sound was coming from something really close to me. When I leaned down again, my heart dropped to the pits of the earth. That obnoxious noise was coming from my purse. Apparently, some deadly combination of buttons had been inadvertently pressed that had done the follow things:

  • set my metronome to “tuner” mode, thus activating a continuous pitch,
  • set the tuner to not the standard pitch of A 440 Hz, but rather something slightly higher; I think it was set on Bb 442 or something like that,
  • unmuted the metronome,
  • and, the icing on the cake, turned the dang thing ON

However that all may have transpired, I made as little fuss as possible and silenced the thing, very cautiously avoiding eye contact with everyone seated anywhere near me. The shade of red on my cheeks probably nearly matched the bright red of the singer’s dress, and I quietly whispered to the friend I was sitting next to, “Oh my God, that was my metronome.” So, unnamed pianist and unnamed mezzo, I am so sorry. Even if I gave you a story to tell about the obnoxious audience in Philadelphia, that doesn’t excuse what happened, however out of my control it was. Thank you for not stopping the performance to embarrass the culprit, and thank you for not letting that stupid metronome ruin an otherwise fantastic performance. I’m not sure I could have mustered the nerves of steel to have done the same.

So please, people. Turn off your cellphones. And, absent-minded musicians (ahem), leave your metronomes out of the concert hall.

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Deck the Halls

Why is it that all elementary schools, in one way or another, smell the same? Even after all these years since I was a student in one myself, I can walk into a grade school and immediately be transported back to the days of recess and prepubescence by the smell of – what is it? Crayons, school lunch, and worksheets? Energetic little kid? That mysterious powdered stuff that the poor custodian would liberally sprinkle on throw-up? I defy you to set foot in an elementary school and put your finger on what it is that conjures up those immediate feelings of anxiety. And yet, every time I set foot in one of those schools, there I am, back in kindergarten when my mom had to pick me up early because I’d thrown up raisins all over my little green and white striped dress with a sailboat on the front. Or back in fourth grade when I had to stand on the wall at recess which was, at the time, an ultimate punishment. The list could go on with my varied and strange memories, but this is about a new elementary school memory, not an old one.

As a pianist, I have the distinct pleasure of becoming an occasional school hero. By that I mean that I get to swoop in during the week before a chorus concert, play an accompaniment part that the students have (usually) never heard, astonish them with my exceptional playing abilities (this is mostly the prevailing opinion among fourth-graders and younger), play the concert(s), and cash the check, whenever it arrives (usually at least a month later if it comes from the Board of Ed). I won’t lie: I will rearrange almost anything  I can in order to take these gigs. They don’t necessarily make for the most musically fulfilling experiences, and yet I relish them even so.

This year, I played five different schools’ winter concerts from the beginning of December to the end of January. There was the little girl who burst into tears the second she walked on stage, even though she’d been perfectly fine in front of her peers in the dress rehearsal the day before. There was the requisite kindergarten boy who stood there staring straight ahead, participating in no way other than occasionally turning around and looking at his classmates as if to say, “What on earth are you guys doing? You’re still singing? Where am I?” And dear Lord, watching second-graders try to bounce up and down simultaneously in rhythm was like watching a human game of Whack-a-Mole. There were neither pukers nor passer-outers, mercifully – at least during the concerts themselves – and of course all the parents and families and friends fawned and oohed and ahhed and videoed and photographed and iPhoned and did every other thing that one can do to capture that glorious moment when your child picks their nose on stage. I mean, when they have their one-line solo. Right.

Sometimes, I am fortunate enough to be the recipient of the fawning and oohing and ahhing. This has manifested itself in bottles of wine from the teachers, more bouquets of flowers than I could ever have dreamed of getting from a beau, and very sweet, though sometimes strange compliments from the students themselves. That a fourth-grader would think to say “You played so well” to an adult (or in my case, something that passes for one) still astonishes me. But recently, I got a compliment from an adult. A really…exceptional compliment.

I was leaving an elementary school concert, walking down the long hallway from the gymnasium to the main entrance. Walking down the hallway alone – or so I thought – and musing on the sound of my heels resonating in their clicking in a hallway that’s usually filled with shrieks and giggles, I heard a voice from behind me call out, “Hey! Were you the pianist?” I stopped, turned around, and said yes to the voice, which ended up belonging to an older man also walking by himself. Lest you fear this is headed down a lecherous path, rest assured that this was a friendly grandfather type; I felt no instant urge to bolt. In stopping, though, I’d committed to walking the rest of the way down the hallway with my new friend.

As Friendly Grandfather and I walked toward the front door together, he surely realized the same awkward lockstep into which we were now entrapped. So, here’s what transpired:

FG: You did a great job.
me: Oh, thanks so much!
FG (as he finally caught up to where I was standing): Here. Here you go, here’s a present. Payment.

At this point, Friendly Grandfather fumbled in his pocket and pulled out…a cough drop. A standard-issue Halls cough drop in a white paper wrapper. What choice do you have in a situation like that? I had to take the thing. Uncomfortably. And you know we both realized what an awkward moment had just transpired. After that, never had a hallway seemed so endless. We strolled down together, the cough drop practically emanating its awkward and radiating presence from my own pocket now, as we made forced conversation about whether I worked with those kids daily (no), how clever the theme for the concert was (very), and how much patience one would have to have to work with elementary schoolers (a lot).

Finally, at long last, the doorway. Abruptly, Friendly Grandfather – I never did actually figure out, by the way, to which (if any) student this man was connected – bid farewell.

FG: Well, great job again. Have a good life…and hey, have a good cough drop.
me: (taken by surprise) Thanks! Same to…you?

And I walked in the opposite direction, laughing to myself and shaking my head in disbelief that this had really just happened. I applaud Friendly Grandfather for his self-effacing humor about the cough drop. There was no good reason for him to have given it to me, and I think it’s really kind of appropriate that this all happened in an elementary school, the land of awkward opportunity. But best of all is the sign-off. So, readers near and far, wherever you are, here’s my wish for you: Have a good life. And for crying out loud…

Have a good cough drop.

Posted in Childhood memories, Gloriously awkward moments, Life Musings, Music, Teaching | 3 Comments

Life imitating art?

I have seen the movie “Forrest Gump” once, I think. Some folks I know could play that “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” game with no outside assistance, or could quote every line from just about every major movie. I am the opposite of those folks. However, I am at least familiar enough with most of the big hits to get a decent amount of pop culture references. Like, if someone says “Jenn-nay” in a slow drawl, I at least know what movie’s being alluded to. Which is all the more reason why the following anecdote is more or less inexcusable.

A week or so ago, I was chatting with a friend of mine, and he began the conversation by saying something along the lines of, “Don’t you hate those days when you just wake up temporarily stupid?” For example, spelling a simple word blatantly wrong, but staring and staring and staring and still not being able to figure out for the life of you why “droor” looks weird. We all have those moments, or days, or…lifetimes.

We continued to catch up about our respective New Years and holiday experiences, and he began to tell a few stories about his brother, who was in town for the holidays. Now, these stories are things I always look forward to because the brother is a fascinating, incomprehensible person (I’ve never met him, but feel like I have). Apparently, this time around, at the family Christmas celebration, my friend’s girlfriend had given his mother and sister a veeeeeery nice box of assorted chocolates. The brother, a notoriously picky eater (to quote, “This is the guy who treats a jar of mayo like it’s asbestos jelly”), realized upon going to try one that the chocolates were unidentified. There was no legend to the candy roadmap presented before him. And once again this is decidedly not a man who enjoys venturing into the culinary world without suitable directions. Thus, apprehension and near-panic ensue. What if it’s a chocolate he doesn’t like? What if it is and it’s the only one? What if? What if?!

I countered this story by saying that I’d recently had a similar experience, in which one of my students had given me a small Godiva chocolate sampler box as a holiday gift. Since the box said they were all truffles, I just assumed they were all the same flavor. The first one I ate was delicious. Raspberry. Dark chocolate. Eye-closing, deep-sighing, edible bliss. However, the next one I ate was subpar. Not raspberry. Not nearly as delicious. I quickly glanced at the box and noticed on the back, next to the nutrition facts (now you understand why I didn’t look at the box too closely), there was a list of the four flavors of truffles included. And, lo and behold, I’d unwittingly eaten the best one first. Disappointment. So, I summed up this whole experience by saying that that’s just LIFE. You take a chance. You go with it.

My friend then asked, “So what you’re saying is…life is like…a box of chocolates?”

My jaw dropped. Oh my gosh. I’d just tried to be profound and insightful and instead, I (completely unironically) came to the same conclusion Forrest Gump did. Forrest. Gump. Not a (fictional) man known for his rapier wit. Just put me on a park bench in a khaki-colored suit and a plaid shirt and call me done for the day.

But you know, some days are winners. The stars align, and the bright golden haze on the meadow means that everything’s going your way. Some days, you should just call it quits around 2 pm because nothing better is going to happen than the totally stupid thing you just said or did. But remember, after all: stupid is as stupid does.

Posted in Food. I really like food., Life Musings | Leave a comment

This is dedicated to the one I (don’t) love

As a person with a largely unfortunate track record when it comes to relationships, I feel qualified to make the assertion that being broken up with can make you think like a crazy person. And I say that not in the context of “crazy girl for expressing valid emotions.” I say that in the context of…crazy person. Like, small-time criminal crazy.

For example.

Recently I was dropped like a hot coal by someone I, at the time, really liked. The details aren’t important, both because this isn’t about internet slander, and also because frankly details just don’t matter for the purposes of this illustration. One detail that does matter though, is that his car was kind of a mess. We’re talking, “Wait a second while I get in the driver’s side, you can only open the passenger door from the inside”, “I hope you don’t mind having the glovebox sit open on your lap because it doesn’t latch” and “Yeah, I know pretty much every warning light that could be on is on – I swear it’s fine” kind of a mess. Not to mention the first time he picked me up for a date, I walked up to him pouring water in some deep recess under the hood. I didn’t (and still don’t) care, though. My car has its own idiosyncrasies, and I’m not one to judge based on what you drive. However, I am one to file away little tidbits of information and later to recall them in opportune moments. Like the fact that his trunk, much like the glovebox, doesn’t latch properly. As in, you don’t need a key to open it.

When I was dishing with a very dear friend after I read the “yes, I’m breaking up with you” email, this fact resurfaced. And yes, to derail the story momentarily, that email was in response to a legitimate question from me, because our in-person conversation was so vague and evasive that I wasn’t sure if I’d just been dumped; for those of you who watch Parks & Recreation, it was a real-life Ann Perkins/Chris Traeger “breakup,” only far less frighteningly positive and earnest. I also don’t think he said “LITRALLY” once.

Anyhow, I half-jokingly mentioned the broken trunk latch as a means for revenge, and my friend said, “I think you should just throw a dead fish in his trunk. Ruined forever.” Our reasoning was that doing so wouldn’t actually HURT anyone; it would just be really really disgusting. And honestly, we were joking when we said all this, but deep down, I started to think, “Hmm…if I went by there reeeeallly early one morning…” Scary.

There are other examples. Another friend and I plotted to steal all the underwear from a guy who tossed me aside – that’s still one of my favorites. Because, honestly, it’s one thing to dream about sending vindictive emails or sabotaging any future relationships he might try to have. But it’s an entirely different and far more hilarious thing to think of the guy chafing uncomfortably while he tries to figure out why all his valuable electronics are intact, but all of his underwear is gone. Dreams about stealing and defacing personal property are not only much more satisfying, they’re also somehow more emotionally healthy. I encourage healthy delusions in my recovery processes.

But then sometimes, life hands you a gift on a shining silver platter.

For a little over a month, I dated a Princeton PhD student. Things just sort of fizzled ultimately, and I was mostly ok with how the nascent relationship ended. But I went – and still do go – to the town of Princeton fairly frequently. And for some time after the end of that relationship debacle, I was nervous every time I walked down Nassau Street. Take someone who already has minor paranoia about running into people unexpectedly, compound that with having the potential run-in be someone who broke up with you, and the result is a person who looks more like a felon on the lam than someone leisurely wandering down the street. I don’t hide my anxiety well.

A little over a year later, I was driving down one of the roads that runs perpendicular to the main drag in Princeton. Incidentally, that road also cuts through part of campus. Consequently there are several pedestrian crosswalks within a fairly short distance. I always try to be really cognizant of this and stop to let the walkers cross – you know, trying to build up good pedestrian karma so maybe people will actually stop for me when I’m the one walking (not to mention it’s the law). I had gotten through two stoplights and was coming up on the last crosswalk before I turned off the road, and I saw a handful of folks walking toward the crosswalk, so I slowed down. This put me as the car right in front of the crosswalk. And as I glanced at the couple of people who were walking across, I saw this guy loping behind a bit, so I figured, ah, ok I’ll wait for him to cross too.

I did a double-take. It was HIM. It was the PhD student, who I know for a fact doesn’t even live in Princeton anymore. But there he was, crossing the street right in front of my car. And I had this moment. It was a moment of disbelief and, well, evil.

“What would happen if, right now, I just let my foot off the gas? Just a little. Just enough to scare him and make him look up and see me grinning like a demon? Not going to commit manslaughter, just startle.”

It was a long moment.

Yet, in spite of overwhelming temptation, I didn’t do it. I kept my foot firmly on the brake pedal and let the pedestrians – even the flaky goof – cross unharmed and unfazed. But I smirked to myself in knowing that I, for once, was in a position of supreme power. And as much as I’d like to think that sort of attitude isn’t really like me, I know it is. Because while hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, crazy hath no truer manifestation than a woman spurned.

Posted in Crazy Cat Lady, Jersey Life, Life Musings | 2 Comments