My George Kostanza Life

Some days, I do absolutely nothing and talk to no one. Today was not one of those days.

I had trouble getting out of bed. It took me a while to realize I was tired and anxious. Although this is only my third week on Prozac, already the feelings of tiredness and anxiety are almost foreign to me. I didn't quite recognize today's feelings. Dismissing them as a side effect of the drug, I plowed on.

At 10:00 am, I picked up this message from my mother: Sylph? Where are you? Why aren't you home? Did you know you are meeting me at noon? I'm home waiting for you.

Ignoring the message, I meditated following the instructions from my course. And you know, I felt better after, either in a real sense or because I felt relieved to have done my homework.

At 11:00 am, the phone rang again. This time, I picked up. It was my mother again: What? You are home? Why are you home? Why didn't you answer the phone when I called earlier? Are you coming down?

I made my way down to my mother's, where I met with the Rat Man. He was there to apply the second treatment of rat poison and seal the holes in my mother's house so her tenants would be rid of their mice problem. For some reason, all three tenants in the three apartments were home. This is a very different work world we live in, where young people in their twenties and thirties living on their own are home during the day. Yet, I know they work; they just don't work 9 to 5 shifts.

My uncle also met us, to meet the Rat Man. His restaurant property is infested with "rats as big as a boot" is what mom said.

While waiting for the Rat Man, Mother pulled out a wad of money from her pocket.

Mother to Uncle: Keep this for me, will you?
Uncle to Mother: No. Why don't you put it in the bank?
Mother: No. I don't trust banks.
Uncle: I want to give you back the money you gave me last time. I don't want to hold it for you.
Mother: Why not?
Uncle: What if something happened to you and I return all this money to your children? They will wonder whether I've kept some for myself.
Mother: So you don't pull it out. You just keep it.
Uncle: You already have a bank account. Just put it in the bank.
Mother: But I might need it. I want to fix the house in the summer.
Uncle: So withdraw the money in the summer.
Mother: I don't want the government to trace my money.
Uncle: Are you involved in the black market?
Mother: Of course not. But my tenants give me cash for rent. I don't want the government to know I'm depositing so much cash.
Me: Oh for godssake. There are lots of people much wealthier than you and the government pays no attention to them. Why would they go after you? It's legitimate rent money.
Mother: But it's cash.
Me: It's petty cash. A few hundred a month is not a lot.
Mother: It's a lot to me.

When the Rat Man arrived and Uncle explained about his rats...

What will you charge me, said Uncle to the Rat Man.
I can't tell you that till I see the property and determine what needs to be done, said the Rat Man to Uncle.
I can't give you the address to the restaurant because I don't want to promise the restaurant owners anything, said Uncle.
Then I can't give you a quote, said the Rat Man.
But Uncle gave the location.
So Rat Man will take a look see in the area, promising not to speak to anyone in the restaurant.

When the Rat Man left, we stood outside the house a bit. There were fire trucks and service trucks and trucks with drills at the street corner. Lights were flashing. A police cruiser sat cross-wise at the bottom of the street to seal it off. The smell of gas was in the air. An officer walked up to us and told us to go back inside, confirming there was a gas leak and it wasn't safe to be outside. Since we don't live in that house, we hurried away instead, leaving the tenants in the house to perish if they came out.

Mother to Uncle: Come to lunch with us.
Uncle to Mother: No, I've already eaten.
Mother to Uncle: You are here already. So just come for tea.
Uncle walking away from Mother: But I'd rather be home.
Mother walking after Uncle: Come keep us company.
Uncle running away from Mother: Stop following me.
Uncle runs across the street and down an alley way.
I pull Mother in a different direction.

Over lunch with my mother, I queried her about our Jewish connection. Somehow, I conveyed the story of Chinese Jews to her and the seven surnames given them by the Ming emperor. To my surprise, she rhymed off the seven surnames. She knew all about it. "Does that mean we're Jewish?" I asked. "I guess," she said with a shrug.

Then she went grocery shopping and I carted the stuff home for her like a good Yiddish mule. And like a good Jewish mother, she said, "How come I ask you so many times to get me taralli biscuits (dry, Italian egg biscuits shaped like a small doughnut) and you don't get me any? You know I like to eat them. I even promised Mrs. Nextdoor I would get her some. I told her my daughter lives right near the Italians and she will get us some. But no, you never get me any even after I ask so many times. Don't forget, you are coming here for dinner tomorrow night so you can bring me the biscuits. I want three packages."

So on the way home, I went in search of those damn biscuits. The three stores I went to were out. One of them had some but the biscuits were large thin rounds. I bought one package to see if she'll like them.

I got home at 3:00, exhausted and thinking I should do my yoga exercise to complete my meditation homework. But The Boy charged in, home early from school. "We had a short day today. Staff meeting. Why aren't you watching TV? Who's cheering for team Canada?" Then he bounced downstairs to catch the women's hockey team leading Sweden 2-0. We watched the game for half an hour. The Boy made some phone calls, then he was off. He's gone to Friend's house as Friend had to look after his sister and couldn't come over. Alone, I watched Canada's women win the country's third gold at these Olympics and I think how young, hopeful, preppy and white all the hockey players are, even though some of them are mothers with young kids.

I finally got down to my yoga, following instructions on the course CD. Half way through, the phone kept ringing.

From my mother: Will The Boy eat sweet and sour pork? If I make sweet and sour pork, will he eat it or will he only eat sweet and sour chicken?

From The Boy: Mom, Friend is having dinner now. What are we having for dinner? I need to know so I can decide where to have dinner. Call me back.

There was also a no message.

I did not pick up any of the calls, but my yoga wasn't quite as relaxing as I had hoped.

And my new cleaning supplies? I completely forgot about them. There is always tomorrow. But is it any wonder I am on Prozac and I take meditation classes?