Shopping for world peace

I haven't written since the summer. You know, life gets in the way of writing. Let's see, what have I been doing lately that is taking all my time?

- I am producing a great radio program - go to www.heartofthematterradio.com to listen to past shows.

- I am studying for the PMP exam. I take the exam on December 8.

- Work. If I thought I was busy before, I am flat out right now.

- Recreation and sleep, not sure what they are but I understand from others they are great concepts.

Now, the reason I'm writing. I watched the NBC Nightly news this evening and their last feature was called the Great American Apparel Diet. Basically, women are de-cluttering their lives and committing to not buying clothes for a year.

Wow! What a novel idea! What a notion! What a great opportunity.

Is this something I could do? Is this something that I could commit to? I like the idea. I like the idea a lot. IF I do decide to do this, when should I start? It stands to reason January 1, 2011 would be as good a time as any, you know, don't want to miss the Christmas sales. I can be judicious in my buying over the next few weeks and get a few things that I absolutely need. Some great pyjamas, summer and winter, a few white shirts (I always pick up a few each spring), a nice pair of black jeans (they are always in season) and a to-die-for suit that will satisfy my need to buy all things Jones New York.

As I put together my list I wonder what other areas this new found resistance to buying clothes will spill into? Can I stop buying purses for a year? Should I not get books and simply read all those I have in on my too-cramped bookcases? Unlike many women, I don't have a problem with shoes.

I just called my sister-in-law and explained the concept to her and she readily agreed. Without convincing, without blackmailing, without begging. She has agreed. So it would seem as though I have no excuse but to buckle down and find a way resist the 30% - 50% off racks.

One thing did cross my mind - how will I bond with my friends if we aren't shopping? Does this mean we will have to have meaningful conversation about important things - things other than, "this top looks like you and will go well with those orange pants you just got."

I think I will start making a list of things we can talk about instead of shopping:

- world peace

- what does happiness look like?

- what are you reading right now?

- what was the highlight of your day?

In good hands ...

I am sitting on a plane on my way back to Bermuda. I’ve been missing in action for two weeks now. When I say missing, I didn’t check voice mail messages, I breezed through email and didn’t answer any calls of distress.

I was on vacation.

I want to share the highlights of my trip with you.

My mom’s 65^th birthday surprise.

Visiting the birthplace of my maternal grandfather, meeting and getting to know long, lost relatives.

Seeing my husband after a two week absence.

All in good time. I have to share the most pressing of experiences with you. I met the Deputy Prime Minister of Israel, quite innocently.

Mark, who is a serious theatre buff wanted to see two or three plays during our rendezvous in the Big Apple (is it still called that?). I protested (the plebeian that I am) and agreed to see one, any one but one.

Mark, in his wisdom, patience and calmness selected the show, I mean, play that would change our view on plays for the foreseeable future. We would go to see David Mamet’s Race, starring Dennis Haysbert and a few others. I know Mark selected this particular play because I think Dennis (yes, we are on a first name basis) is lovely (“are you in good hands?”).

Once Mark arrived in New York, our first stop was to collect the tickets for the Saturday matinee. We studied the seating chart and I asked a question about a box (the tickets were the same price as for the Orchestra.) The seats aren’t as good and you are at an angle.

We fatefully picked 106 C and D. The seats were six row from the front without being right under the actors’ feet, we could see the stage comfortably and it all looked perfect. Tickets purchased we went about our business.

Come Saturday morning we had a number of chores to accomplish before making our way to the stage, as it were. In fact, we walked 700 blocks, or so it felt, to get to the theatre on time. During our errands Mark had collected a bag (reusable, no less) full of stuff. I didn’t get too curious about what was in there, lest he ask me to carry my share of the burden.

After a brief discussion with the ticket checker, I said I was going in search of the comfort facilities so as not to have to disturb my row mates, the cast and crew should the urge suddenly to go to the potty come over me.

Mark insisted I take the bag and check it. I took it downstairs asked about the checking process, learned the cost was exorbitant ($2.00 – surely it is cheaper to hold it on your lap during the play) and took it back upstairs with me.

I made my way to our seats, climbed over the early birds who were in the aisle seats, handed the bag back to Mark and sat down. He looked at me incredulously and ask why I didn’t check the bag. I told him it was too expensive.

- How much?

- Two dollars.

- You are telling me we spent in the region of $250.00 to see this play and you can’t come up with $2.00 so we can be comfortable and unencumbered? Is that what you are saying?

As I tried to think of an appropriate response, a man came to the aisle and said, you have to stand.

Mark, ever the wit, said, “who’s coming, the Queen of England?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a woman and man squeezed by us. They were well dressed and polite. Due to the location of the bag between my legs and the base of the chair, the man stood on my toe, but I won’t blame him, after all, I really should have pinked up the two bucks!

Shortly after we resettled and I found a suitable location for our luggage, I turned and noticed the row behind us was almost empty save a few tough looking fellas. As I looked closer I realized they had ear pieces in their ears and were talking into the lapels of their jackets. I roughly jabbed Mark with my elbow and whispered my discovery.

Stunned, I took a closer look at the couple who were ensconced beside Mark. Who were they and why were secret service agents breathing down our neck?

The play started and we didn’t have time to speculate further.

The couple, Mark and I noticed, spoke a foreign language. So the play progressed and the man, leaned over and asked what sequins were. I told him and we kept watching the show.

During intermission, Mark asked the guy where he was from. He said, Israel. Fair enough. I leaned over Mark and said, “we are from Bermuda.” Mark said quite loudly in my ear, “he didn’t ask you where you are from.” I said, but he wanted to know!

So we were chatting, them saying that Dennis Haysbert looked very presidential on stage, apparently, '24' is aired in Israel. We told them about the Allstate commercials he is also famous for and me asking casually when they were leaving, you know being neighborly trying to gather as much information as possible while keeping one eye on the secret service folks, making sure I didn’t destroy any international agreements or eradicate years of peace-keeping between Bermuda and Israel.

Just before the intermission ended, the couple to my immediate left returned and were talking about the Mossad officers behind us. I asked them if they knew who the folks to our right were. They said, yes, the Prime Minister of Israel – she had seen him on the news. I turned to Mark and told him, and just like a bad sitcom, the curtains rose and Mark looked totally shocked and I couldn’t stop laughing!

Mark then turns to the guy, (Mr. Prime Minister) and says, am I safe sitting here? More suppressed laughter from me, tears running down my cheeks at this point because if some Palestinian fundamentalists were to gate crash the party, yours truly and her life partner would become “collateral damage”.

Remember I told the head of state that we were from Bermuda? Don’t know you Bermuda featured briefly in the play. When our tiny island nation was mentioned, our fellow play goer from Israel nudged Mark and said, that’s where you are from.

As the play ended there was a lot of activity around us as the secret service moved into position to allow their charges to move carefully and safely to the exit. Everything went like clockwork as Mark and I made our way outside.

When we reached the front door the true magnitude of who we were sitting beside, hit us. There were about three NYC police cars and almost twice that number of black bullet proof limousines waiting at the curb. I was like, “WOW!!! OH MY GOD!” Mark kept saying, “this is surreal!!!”

We stayed outside for a few minutes, as did half the theatre, to see exactly who warranted the type of security evident inside and outside the playhouse. A few people came up to us, because we were recognized as the couple who sat next to the head of state. We told our side of the story to all and sundry.

Later that evening, the phone in the hotel rang, and guess who it was … no just joking!

We didn’t get any calls but I did tell Mark that he had had a thorough back ground check done by Mossad. They had to know he didn’t have any terrorist leanings in order for be considered safe for the Deputy Prime Minister of Israel to sit beside.

We learned through our research on line (thank God for Google) that the man is in fact Israel’s Deputy Prime Minister, Leader of the Labour Party and the Minister of Defense, Mr. Ehud Barak. He was the head of the Israel Defense Force, so in fact, didn’t need the secret agents, he could have taken all comers alone.

I have neglected to mention the drama on stage – the play was excellent and very well done. I loved the back story and would recommend it … as for Dennis Haysbert, this was his first play, on Broadway no less, and he did an outstanding job.

... and yes, with Mossad around, we were in good hands!

The Four Flood Week

Nothing good can come from a conversation that starts, "Aderonke, on your way home, stop at the supermarket and pick up a mop because what we have at home isn't working."

This is how the conversation started with my husband, who was at home with the appliance installation team.

We had purchased a new set of appliances, washer, drier, fridge and stove. We felt we had done a great job, there were no arguments in the store or afterwards about which models we were buying. He got to select the washer and drier, after all, he does the laundry week in and week out. He selected the fridge because that is a 'guy thing', or so he insisted. I selected the stove because it has a beautiful blue oven. There, that was easy!

We arranged for the appliances to be delivered and installed and as a free service they cart away the old stuff. A piece of cake - or so you would think.

I understand, from second hand information that there was a challenge getting the fridge in through the kitchen door so they came in through the front door. Problem solved. The fridge and stove went were installed smoothly after that.

They had to disconnect the old washer and take it out. Apparently, at this point my husband left the guys to do their job and went upstairs. From all accounts, the next thing he heard was yelling and the guys were calling him. He bounds down the steps at full speed to find water gushing from the washer tap into the kitchen and dining room. He dashes outside to turn off the water supply to the house. That accomplished, he calls me to get the plumber's number to fix the situation.

I decided I would call the plumber myself, maybe he would respond faster hearing a desperate woman crying on the phone. The ploy worked, he was at my house in less than half an hour - can you believe it?

When I called to check on progress, I didn't get a lot of information from my husband, not a good sign. I then called the plumber but because he was standing in my house, in an inch of water, he wasn't talking a whole lot either.

I finally get home that afternoon with three types of mops, because I was assured each was for a different function. I sat in the car for a few minutes to brace myself for the disaster that awaited me in the house. Water was all over the place, furniture had been moved into the front room and a heater was in the middle of the floor. I can only guess that my husband decided that would be the fastest way to dry the floor without a working mop.

I turned off the heater, took out some towels (at this point my husband said, I'm off duty now, you can take over, and retreated to his man cave.) I surveyed the damage and fighting back the screams started working. I had the mess cleared up in about 15 minutes and turned on the fan to dry the rest.

I didn't mention the huge hole in the wall where the tap for the washer used to be. Apparently the installers broke the tap and the plumber had to break into the wall to get to the pipe. I shudder to think about this.

Anyway, as we rested for the night, I thought to myself, it could have been worse. I'm not sure how, but I'm sure it could have been worse.

I awake the next morning and trudge down to the kitchen to make coffee - as is my routine every morning. As I walk into the kitchen, my slippers are immediately soaked. I look down and see there is a huge puddle of water near the fridge. A few expletives escape and I rush to find the towels and the mops and the bucket. I start cleaning up the water and realize it is coming from the water connector to the fridge. As soon as it is a reasonable time I call the plumber. He insists he will be there shortly - I should leave the key in a safe and obvious (but not too obvious) spot.

When we return home that evening all is dry and the fridge is working perfectly.

Later that night, as I am washing dishes and notice there is water on the floor near the sink. I am thinking to myself, I can't believe I did this while washing dishes. So I open the cupboard and lo and behold, everything under there is soaked. I pull out the junk that is stored under the sink and try to find the leak, it is coming from the pipe.

I call the plumber, at this point, I'm thinking of proposing to him so he can legally move in with us. He assures me he will be there in the morning, place a bucket under the sink and just leave the key ... yeah, yeah I know the drill.

As we rest for the night, I think to myself, it could have been worse. I'm not sure how ...

I awake the next morning half expecting to find the kitchen flooded, it was just as I left it.

I came home that night, it had rained heavily during the day, and I thought to myself, the plumber probably didn't make it. To my surprise, he had been, worked his magic and left.

I am thinking to myself, surely this is the end of the flooding at my house. So I go up to my bedroom and start changing out of my suit and notice there is water on the floor near the window, surely leaving the window open that tiny crack couldn't have let that much water in that it flooded in my bedroom. I stand there staring at the water on the floor trying to decide if I should run for the towels, the mop, the bucket and the fan or should I scream or just climb into bed.

I called Mark and showed him the water. He just shook his head and headed back to the man cave.

As I cleaned up the water - of which I have now become an expert - I said to myself, it could have been worse. I'm not sure how but I'm sure it could have been worse.