the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life with Sophia (Page 17 of 27)

The Overcoat Photo (Behind the Scenes)

IM Message One (Neil and Sophia)

Sophia:  (in Los Angeles)  How’s the weather?

Neil:  Tonight it is freezing.

Sophia:  What are you wearing?

Neil:  My leather coat.

Sophia: Don’t wear that.  It’s too cold for a leather jacket.  Wear that other coat.

Neil:  The old one?

Sophia: Yes.

Neil:  It think it may be too short on me now.  Let me see.  Later.

 

IM Message Two (Neil and Sophia)

Neil:  I took a photo of the me in the coat.  I’m sending it to you.  How does it look?

Sophia:  I can hardly see anything.  Everything looks orange and dark.  Can’t you photoshop it?

Neil:  It will be faster for me to take another photo.  Be back.

 

IM Message Three (Neil and Sophia)

Neil:  I’m sending another photo.  This one is special for you.

Sophia:  Ha Ha.  That’s cute!

Neil:  I used Photoshop and combined two photos — a naked one and one with the overcoat!  I stood in the exact same spot for both.

Sophia: What color is the coat?

Neil:  Grey.

Sophia:  It looks orange in the photo.

Neil:  It is the bad lighting.  I tried to fix it in Photoshop, but it just washes everything out.

Sophia:  It looks like your mother’s coat. 

Neil:  It is not my mother’s coat. 

Sophia: What man wears an orange coat… other than a pimp?

Neil:  Do you like the photo?

Sophia:  It’s funny. You should post it on the blog.

Neil:  Are you serious?

Sophia:  Yeah, why not.  You can’t see anything.

Neil:  I’ll think about it.  I don’t have anything for tomorrow anyway. 

 

IM Message Four (Neil and Charming but Single)

Neil:  Hey, C!  What’s up?

Charming:  Not much.  Work really sucked today.

Neil:  Why?

Charming:  Because my boss…

(Fifteen minutes later — Why do women remember every little detail of their work day while men just answer, “Nothing”?)

Neil:  Can I ask you a favor?  I want to send you a photo.  Tell me if you think it is OK to post.

Charming:  Sure.

Neil:  It is a little risque.

Charming:  You’re not sending me a photo of your penis, are you?

Neil:  Why would I send you a photo of my penis?

Charming:  You write about your penis.  

Neil:  I write about my penis.  I don’t take photos of my penis.

Charming:  Well, some men do.

Neil:  You have men sending you photos of their penises?

Charming:  Some guy from match.com just sent me one last week.

Neil:  Why would he send you a photo of his penis?  What are you going to do with it?  Put the photo on your fridge?

Charming:  I have no idea. 

Neil:  Believe me, I’m never going to send you a photo of my penis.  Expecially when it is so cold.

Charming:  You are an enlightened man.  Please tell other men that sending a photo of your penis to someone you just meet on Match.com does not make you good dating material.

Neil:  If you are going to send a woman something, it should be a photo of your bank account.

Charming:  I just want a nice, normal guy. 

Neil:  I will pass the info on to the blogosphere.

(note:  C is available and very charming.  Men, I perfectly understand your love of your own penis.  But please do not send any photos to a woman you are interested in.  Let it be a mystery until the day of the big unveiling.  Would you want her to send YOU an unrequested naked photo of herself? [uh, note — edit out that last sentence later])

Neil:  Well, C, here’s my picture?

Charming:  Oooh, cute! 

Neil:  Cute?  It is supposed to be a little risque, not cute. 

Charming:   I find it cute.  I like your little hat.

Neil:  Can I post this on the blog?

Charming:  Yes.  Hot!

Neil:  Do you like the coat?

Charming:  Is it your mother’s?

Neil:  It is NOT my mother’s!

Charming:  It’s orange.

Neil:  It’s gray.

Charming:  So, is this what you are doing in New York?  Taking naked photos of yourself?

Neil:  Just one photo.  To show how cold it is… in an artistic way.

Charming:  Yeah, right.

Neil:  Do you have any “artistic” photos of yourself you want to run by me?

Charming:  No. 

Neil:  OK, so thanks.  Let me post it.

Charming:  Wait, wait, wait… I haven’t finished telling you about my boss today. 

Neil:  Oh, yes… go on…

Charming:  So, we’re at this conference, and I’m giving this presentation… and remember, I was working on this all weekend… and… my boss…

(As she told me about her day, I thought about the title of my first best-selling self-help book on male-female Venus-Mars relationships:  Women Like to Chat, Men Like to Photograph Their Penis)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Neilochka Leaves His Apartment

Can Jews Have Sex During Hanukkah?

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Help!  Today is Thanksgiving!  That means, that Sophia and I are going over to Beth and Roger’s home for dinner.  They are lovely people and I’m sure everything will be terrific.  It’s just that their family is so… not Jewish. 

I hate to bring this up, but you know that scene in Annie Hall when Annie Hall’s family looks at Woody Allen like he is a Hasid.  It’s not the ham that bothers me.  They also serve turkey.   I’ve gotten used to all the pumpkin-colored sweaters that everyone wears.  I can even deal with everyone holding hands before the meal and thanking Jesus, our Savior.  And it’s not even the drunken woman who actually asked me last year “Can Jews can have sex during Hanukkah?” 

For me, the big problem is… the football. 

After the Thanksgiving meal, the women hang out in the kitchen while the men go into the living room to watch sports.   Bleh!  Call me a metrosexual if you want, but from my point of view, shouldn’t men WANT to hang around with the gender that smells good and has tits?

Last year, Sophia pushed me into the living room, hoping I’d do some male bonding.  I did get one good laugh out of the guys, when I mistakenly called NASCAR as NASDAQ. 

This year, I want to be prepared for the inevitable male-bonding:

Who is playing in the big game today and what are the names of the top players of each team?   Women are not the only ones who know how to fake things.

P.S. — If you haven’t had a chance to “Thank Your First Commenter,” feel free to do so today!

A Charlie Brown Blog Post

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Every once in a while I like to share my enthusiasm for some old-fashioned American pop culture with Sophia, who didn’t move to this country until she was an adult, and missed out on such important bonding experiences, like watching reruns of The Brady Bunch after school.  Unfortunately, my attempts at getting her to love what I loved usually strike out.  She thought Star Wars was ridiculous.  She found the Wizard of Oz — get this — a little boring. 

Last night, it was time to introduce her to the Peanuts gang.  A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was on TV.  Even though it is one of the gang’s lesser holiday specials (the Christmas one is the best), how can anyone resist Charlie Brown?   Uh… well…

First of all, I forgot how SLOOOOOWWWLY these cartoons are paced.   Even I was hoping for Homer Simpson to jump into the frame and create some drama.  I cannot imagine today’s hyper kids watching these gentle, rather unfunny holiday shows.

Sophia was confused with the characters from the start.

Scene 1 — Charlie Brown is being tempted to kick the football by Lucy.

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Sophia:  What’s going on?

Neil:  Charlie Brown will try to kick the football and Lucy, the girl, will take it away.  It’s a running gag.

Charlie Brown falls on his ass.

Sophia:  That wasn’t very funny.

Neil:  Well, it used to be. 

Sophia:  Really?

Neil:  Well, I guess it was never really that funny.

Scene 2 — Linus enters Charlie Brown’s home.

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Sophia:  You know, I was wondering — why is Charlie Brown bald?

Neil:  I have no idea.

Sophia:  Are you sure he isn’t an old man?

Neil:  He’s a kid.

Sophia:  And what about this guy —  his friend?

Neil:  Linus?

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Sophia:  He looks like he has hairplugs.

Neil:  That’s just how he was drawn.  He’s a kid also.  Look, he carries around a blanket.

Sophia:  Why?

Neil:  Uh, it’s a security blanket.  It’s complicated.  He’s intelligent, but he’s anxious.

Sophia:  Like you?

Neil:  No.  Not really.

Sophia:  Is this also supposed to be funny?

Neil:  Sort of.  Not ha-ha funny.  Gentle funny.

Sophia:  These are just weird characters.

Scene 3 — Snoopy enters Charlie Brown’s home.

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Neil:  That’s Snoopy.  You’ve heard of him, of course.

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  You’ve NEVER heard of Snoopy?

Sophia:  Is he a spy?

Neil:  A spy?

Sophia:  Why is he called Snoopy?

Neil:  I don’t know.  But he’s like the most popular character.  He was on t-shirts and things!

Sophia:  Does he talk?

Neil:  No, he doesn’t talk.

Sophia:  So, what makes him so popular?

Neil:  He’s cool.

Sophia:  ?

Scene 4 — Peppermint Patty calls Charlie Brown on the phone and invites herself over for Thanksgiving dinner.  She says she is bringing Marcie and Franklin.

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Sophia:  Is that a man?

Neil:  No, that’s Peppermint Patty.  She’s a tomboy.

Sophia:  No way, that’s a man. 

Neil:  No, it’s a girl.

Sophia:  Wow, she is so butch.

Marcie enters.

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Sophia:  And there’s her girlfriend.

Neil: It is not her girlfriend! That’s Marcie.  I don’t remember much about her.

Marcie calls Peppermint Patty “Sir.”

Sophia:  You see!  She is a man!

Neil:  She’s not.  Marcie just calls her “Sir.”

Sophia:   This is one freaky show!

Franklin enters.

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Sophia:  Is he the one black character?

Neil:  Yes.

After A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, there was the “world premiere” of a new Charlie Brown cartoon, but I shut it off the minute I saw Snoopy doing Tony Hawk stunts on his skateboard.  Charles Schultz would NOT have Snoopy on a skateboard.

Sophia:  So, you really watched these cartoons all the time?

Neil:  I used to love the Peanuts.

Sophia:  What did you love about it?

Neil:  I think I related to Charlie Brown.

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Peanuts characters by Charles Schultz/United Media

 

The Second Annual “Thank Your First Commenter Day” Coming This Wednesday

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Of all of the blogging friends I’ve made, I am particularly fond of the several wonderful bloggers who either live in France or are of French heritage. I have no idea how I connected with all these Frenchies and Francophiles, considering I’ve mostly either made fun of the French or called France anti-Semitic for their knee-jerk anti-Israel politics. Just last week I needled Elisabeth about the fact that the peace-loving French are now bigger arms dealers to the developing world than the United States.  Who’s eating the freedom fries now, huh? 

But my French readers know I am more bark than bite.  They know that secretly, I would like nothing more than to stroll up and down Boulevard St. Germain flirting with a beautiful Parisian woman, charming her blouse Decoupe off with my one semester college French.

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?

French is so classy!

Last night, I reached into my inner-Gallic and went with Sophia to the 23rd Annual Beaujolais and Beyond Festival in Los Angeles, sponsored by the French-American Chamber of Commerce. The event was basically a wine-tasting of “le Beaujolais Nouveau 2006.” While I like wine as much as the next guy, I cannot tell the difference between the $2.99 stuff at Trader Joe’s and a $300 dollar bottle of wine. But I’m sure it just takes experience, and I was willing to learn. I mean, I can taste the difference between Coke and Diet Coke with my eyes closed, so why not wine? It was interesting hearing knowledgeable French people talk about the differences between Chiroubles and Fleurie. When the server asked me what I wanted to try next, I answered, “red wine.”

So, there I was, getting drunk, listening to people speaking French, which is always sexy, and watching beautiful women walking to and fro, and I started fantasizing about living in Paris, sitting in a little cafe, surrounded by Alison, Elisabeth, Blue Poppy, La Coquette, Lauren, Maitresse, Paris Parfait, Rue Rude, Michele, Anne, as they all took turns singing Edith Piaf songs to me while I played my accordion, wrote a novel, and painted a nude all at the same time.

Ah, what a life!

But then I splashed some Volvic on my face and woke up to reality. I stood up, and shouted, “I love all you French people. You are beautiful and cultured. But I am an American. A proud American. France might have culture, high fashion, and orange flavored water, but America has — THANKSGIVING!

Yes, that’s right. What is more American than stuffing your face with turkey and celebrating some religious fanatic pilgrims? Who needs the Louvre when we have the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? I watch it every year hoping that the Underdog balloon finally gets punctured and falls on top of the unsuspecting crowd huddling in the freezing cold. Now that would be funny!

Americans are innovators and are not afraid of adding new traditions to their old favorites. For instance, last year, the blogosphere went wild over my Thanksgiving meme “Thank Your First Commenter Day.”

That’s why the TRADITION MUST CONTINUE:

ANNOUNCING:

THE SECOND ANNUAL “THANK YOUR FIRST COMMENTER DAY” — this Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving.

(the following is reprinted from last year because I know many of you are lazy and hate clicking on links to old posts)

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Many years ago the Pilgrims came to these Shores, and couldn’t figure out what the hell to eat. They were unfamiliar with the weird-looking animals and crops of this New World, the winter was coming, and frankly, these future Mayflower WASPS just weren’t that bright.

(This was years before the Africans, the Chinese, the Germans, the Irish, the Jews, and the Italians came and actually built this country for them.)

But, back to the story of Thanksgiving.

The Pilgrims were saved by the kind Native Americans, who showed them how to eat corn, potatoes, wild turkey, and canned Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. Because of these kind Indians, today we celebrate Thanksgiving.

(The fact that we later killed these Native Americans, took their land, and forced them to run casino operations is something we can deal with on another day.)

Today, it is all about GIVING THANKS.

How can we thank our fellow BLOGGERS?

We read each other, we help each other with our designs and templates, and we cry on each other’s shoulder when a “blog crush” goes sour.

On Thanskgiving, we should THANK our fellow bloggers.

When I first started blogging, I was like a Pilgrim who just landed on Plymouth Rock. I was isolated and alone. For weeks, I wrote this blog without any direction or confidence in my ability. And then he appeared — like the Native American with his corn — my first commenter!

Although I appreciate all of my lovely readers, today I want to give a special shout-out to TERRY FINLEY. He wrote the first comment on “Citizen of the Month” back in April:

Nice blog. Thank you.

Our health is really important.

Check out my blog.

Terry Finley

It may not be poetry, but it touched my heart. Afterwards, I commented on his site, and then we lost touch, which so frequently happens in our busy blogging lives. I tried to click on his link today, but he seems to have stopped blogging. I sincerely hope my comment wasn’t the cause of him losing interest in blogging.

Terry, if you’re out there, I’d like to thank you and say hello. I hope that you are happy, healthy, and having a lot of sex!

If YOU would like to participate in this “THANKSGIVING DAY THANK YOUR FIRST COMMENTER DAY,” it is simple:

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Go into your archives and find the first person who ever commented on your blog.

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Copy the URL and a special thank-you message on Wednesday– and post it either in my comments OR on your own site.

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If you don’t have any comments yet, don’t feel like a loser. Did the Pilgrims give up? Of course not. They just stole from the Indians. Just write a comment here at “Citizen of the Month” about how much of a loser you are and pretty soon, everyone will come to you, showing pity. In this competitive blogging world, you have to use whatever works.

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See you here on Wednesday for “Thank Your First Commenter Day!”

And stay tuned for more information about another holiday tradition, the First Annual Blogger’s Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert. I need to start making an official list of who is singing/playing what song, just to make sure that two bloggers don’t fight over who gets to sing “Little Drummer Boy.”

Of course, everyone is invited to participate, even the French.

Season Tickets

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So let’s see, the Pet Shop Boys, Vince Gill, and a chamber concert all in one week? Dude, my life is so boring. We’ve done Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, the Book Fair, and Drama Club this week. Sigh.

V-Grrrl, commenting on yesterday’s post

When I was a teenager, my father gave me two pieces of advice on how to deal with women:

1)  Never hurt a woman.

I still don’t really know if he meant physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

2)  Take your wife out on weekends.

This completely went over my head when he first told me this piece of wisdom.  Tickets for the weekend was a central concept to my father’s vision of marriage.  My father was always getting theater and concert tickets “for Elaine” (my mother).   Even though he always said he was getting it “for her,”  I think he got them equally for himself.  My  father was the type of person who could never admit doing anything for himself.  It always had to be for someone else. 

My father was also obsessive-compulsive, so he had a huge bulletin board in his bedroom where he would micro-organize all his tickets to concerts, shows, and events.  He believed that if you bought tickets ahead of time, this would force you to go out, even if you got lazy at the last moment.  He would sometimes subscribe to a theater season a year ahead of time, so he always knew he had something to go to every weekend, and didn’t have to worry about it.  Box offices throughout New York City would know his name when he called up, because he would send his check in the mail before the season actually began.  He subscribed to the Roundabout Theater, Circle in the Square, Lincoln Center, Queens College Concert Series, Theater in the Park, and several others, including discount Broadway show tickets from the Theater Development Fund. 

My parents would go out practically every weekend, frequently taking me along.  There were times when it was clear that no one wanted to go, but we went anyway because we “had the tickets.”   It was my family’s version of being forced to go to church on Sunday morning.  We would travel two hours into Manhattan during a snow storm to see a poorly-reviewed version of an Ibsen play (awkwardly updated to 1920’s Chicago) just because the tickets hung on the bulletin board and the date was penciled in on the large calendar my father kept next to the bulletin board.  My friends would be drinking beer outside on Saturday night while I would be dragged to hear Chopin with my parents.  I  frequently fell asleep during these concerts and my mother would elbow me so I wouldn’t snore.

I realize that when I described my parents on this blog in the past, I created a picture akin to the parents of Seinfeld — real Jewish outer borough types.  That IS an accurate description of them.  But there was one big difference,  My father had an obsession with high culture.  Where did it come from? — I have NO IDEA, but it was important that we immersed ourselves in it. If my mother didn’t have a sense of humor about some of the boring stuff we saw, I would have turned into a hopeless prig.

Years later, though, much of my father’s wisdom has started to make sense — especially about the importance of going out.  In the two weeks since she came back from New York, Sophia and I have gone to three concerts, a Broadway musical, and a movie.  Like my father, we bought the tickets early enough to force ourselves to go out.  We knew that if we waited until the last minute, one of us (usually me) would start copping out, wanting to watch “Dancing with the Stars” instead.  But to be honest, going out is pretty tiring, especially to someone like me, who is happy enough just sitting at the computer, blogging.   Tonight we didn’t go anywhere, which was pretty nice.   After we watched — what else? — “Dancing with the Stars” (dancer Cheryl Burke is so cute!), Sophia turned to me and said, “Remember, tomorrow we’re going to the Improv with Danny.”

“Do we have to?” I sighed.

“Yes,” she answered.  We already have the tickets.”

Some things never change.

Even Cowgirls Have to Pee


Vince Gill’s “What the Cowgirls Do”

Tonight, Sophia and I attended a concert of country star Vince Gill, which was a little odd, considering neither of us know any of his songs. Bu it was still fun seeing all the fake LA cowboys coming out of their BMWs, many of them wearing cowboy boots they just bought in Beverly Hills.

During intermission, I was standing at the urinal between two accountants wearing large cowboy hats. And NO — despite what some women think — men do not “check each other out” while peeing. I can’t believe Sophia even asked me that question. In fact, while standing at the urinal, I was too busy coming up with a country song to write on my blog, but I gave up after trying to rhyme “urinal” with “Vince Gill.”

As I left the bathroom, I saw Sophia waiting on line for the Ladies Room. While I was pretty much in and out of the Men’s Room, thirty women were waiting to get into their bathroom. This is such a common event — women waiting for the bathroom — that most of us take it for granted. But why? When are women finally going to get their act together and ask for more bathrooms in theaters and concert halls? Why are women so patient? There is no way men would wait so long to pee. Most of us would just do it against the wall.

Now, I know some blame the patriarchal society for the lack of adequate restrooms for women. I say, BS. Those days are over. I live in California, a state that is not afraid to give women political power. Both of our senators, Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein, are women. The new speaker of the house, Nancy Pelosi of California, is a woman. Write to them and tell them that you are tired of waiting to pee! More bathrooms for women! It should be a law!

Or as Vince Gill might sing:

My Cheatin’ Heart
Just Felt Amiss
Seeing all the pretty cowgirls
Waiting and waiting to piss.

(by the way, Sophia liked the Pet Shop Boys much better)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: This is Not a Blog Anymore

The Final Chapter of the “Closet Trilogy”

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Narrator:  Tonight on the HGTV, it’s “Design on a Dime!”  Let’s meet today’s couple, Neil Kramer and Sophia Lansky.   Their problem:  limited closet space.

Sophia:  There just isn’t enough room to fit all our clothes.

Neil:  And all your shoes.  Who needs so many shoes?

Sophia shoots him a look.

Narrator:  In order to get more closet space, some friends suggested that Neil and Sophia use professionals.  For instance, blogger Two Roads made this comment:

Call a California Closet designer and let them do it. It was the best thing I did and I doubled the amount of space in my closet without lifting a hammer. It is worth every penny and since they know what they are doing there is no headache worrying about measurements and parts and such.

Of course, Neil is too cheap to go the route of asking a professional.  That’s why he is on “Design on a Dime!”

Neil:  Did you see how expensive California Closets are?!  For the same price, we could just rent another apartment for our clothes!

Narrator:  Being a cheapstake, Neil went to Home Depot and bought a “closet kit,” but when he returned home, he realized that he was totally clueless on what to do next — and didn’t have any tools.

Blogger Rhea thinks this lack of building skill is part of the Jewish tradition, like keeping kosher and kvetching. 

Here in Boston a lot of the carpenters are Irish or Italian. My Jewish friend thought it would be nice to employ a Jewish carpenter. So this guy named, I don’t know, Marvin Rosenberg or something, comes in to install the new kitchen counter. Can you imagine a carpenter with that name? Do I have to tell you he was lousy at it. Yup, Jewish men are accountants, professors and writers. Forget power tools.

Neil:  I have no idea where this stereotype comes from, since I know quite a few handy Jewish men.  Even Jesus was a carpenter. 

Sophia:  Jesus could also walk on water.  You can hardly swim.

Neil shoots Sophia a look.

Narrator:  Desperate to put up the shelves for cheap, Neil turned to Sophia’s friend, Leo.   Several hours later, after installing the shelves, Leo became a hit with women around the world.   Blogger Tatyana said:

Nothing’s sexier than a man named Leo with a hammer in his hands…does he have a phone?

Today, Sophia and Neil started putting their clothes back into the closet. 

Neil:  I was very proud of what I had accomplished.

Sophia:  Even though you really didn’t do anything other than serve us apple juice.

Narrator:  And then, as Sophia was hanging a cute little floral print skirt, the entire top shelf gave way.  Half her clothes fell on her head.

Sophia:  So, there we were holding up up the remainder of the shelf to make sure the entire wall didn’t collapse on her head, when Neil runs off.  And where was he going?  To get help?  No…

Neil:  I went to get my camera so I could take a photo for the blog!  (I never made it to the camera, though.  Sophia selfishly demanded my help)

Narrator:  Luckily, Sophia was able to fix the problem.  Leo had installed it wrong.  Sophia had to take the shelf down and reinstall the brackets correctly.

Neil:  And I brought Sophia some apple juice.

Narrator:  And now Sophia is very happy with her new closet.   And Neil… well, he is another cheap guy getting away with murder on “Design on a Dime.” 

How the Advice of Bloggers Saved My Ass

Thank you for your advice on not doing it myself. Once I actually looked inside the closet, I realized that I had absolutely NO IDEA how to remove and reposition the old installation, not to mention putting up these new shelves and rods, even though the guy at Home Depot said it was “relatively easy.” Is it so wrong that I’m a lover, not a builder?

Luckily, Sophia’s friend Leo knows how to do most handy things… and, lucky for me – he was home bored. Sophia helped as his assistant as he did all the hard work… we bought him some sushi for dinner… my role was pretty much reduced to serving apple juice… and 7 hours later — ta-dah! — MORE CLOSET SPACE!

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Update: A cool NY Times article about “closet-starved” folk in New York City. (thanks Pam)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Neilochka Girls

Making a Plan at Hot n’ Tot

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After much thought, I realize that my frustrations lately haven’t really been about writing every day for NaBloPoMo, but about — surprise, surprise — moving back with Sophia.   Since she’s come back from New York, it has been very nice being together, but NOT exactly the way I fantasized.   I visualized us running down to the beach every morning hand-in-hand and with as little clothes as possible,  then skinny-dipping in the Pacific Ocean while eating homemade breakfast burritos in the surf.  Sadly, we’re still having the same exact issues we had the LAST time we lived together.

One of our arguments is always about “our stuff” and our limited closet space.   It is an especially loaded subject now because it is still not clear whether I am here for good, or just for the the short term.  Who knows — maybe me moving back before we resolved things was a bad idea.  We’ll see.

But we have matured… a bit.   Here’s my evidence:  Over lunch today at the Hot’ n Tot restaurant, we decided to be proactive and make a plan.  Rather than fighting, why not BUILD extra shelves in the closet?

Can we actually build new shelves?  Will we survive?  Will I be able to walk into Home Depot without getting hives?  Will someone get injured by a falling hammer?  Stay tuned!

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She’s With Stupid

My Republican-voting separated wife is a little down today after all the Democratic wins yesterday during Election Day. To cheer her up, I’m bringing her to see the British duo, Pet Shop Boys tonight at the Wiltern Theater. This should be special for her, since Sophia is a classy dame who likes jazz and classical music, so I think this might be her first “pop” concert. And as an added treat — I think they are also going to be performing on her beloved “Dancing With the Stars” later tonight.

One little problem. Artists frequently sing a lot of the songs from their latest CD. I just looked up the Pet Shop Boys latest on Amazon. It is titled “Fundamental” and it is supposedly their most “political” work. They have one single that was a hit in Europe titled “I’m with Stupid,” which is an attack on Bush and Tony Blair, and even posits them as gay lovers. I even found a video of them doing the song where extras walk around in mocking “George Bush” masks.

If I’m divorced by tomorrow, you will know the reason why.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Stolen Photos, Stolen Lives

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