My Own Private Golden Girl

It's been a while since I've written, particularly considering at one not-so-distant point I was whipping out three of these a day.

Probably much to your relief the inundation has subsided for a while and will probably continue: my new temp position, in finance with Soros' Hedge Fund Management actually, has rather strict firewalls that won't allow me access to much...sigh; in addition to this fact the only other opportunity I have to post is on my roommate's computer - my roommate whom I've spoken quite openly about on this blog and therefore don't want to know about it, much less the web address to reach it without me knowing.

In a nut shell, however, my last week in big ol' NYC:

• Sadly finished one temp position with OMD, who loved me dearly but had no work I took an interest in.
• Started my new temp position at Soros' - pray this somehow leads to OSI.
• Moved in to my new apartment Sep. 1, with my Israeli roommate, who together make a total of two suitcases and a computer that initially furnished our home.
• Shopping. Lots of shopping. Heartbreaking moments of beautiful yet unaffordable items, as well as delirious moments of outrageous sales, illustrated by my recent visit to West Elm where the sales associates had to assist me to the curb with my excessive purchases and help me into a taxi home - not an easy task getting a cab driver to go to Brooklyn.
• Three glorious and pocket-emptying days at the US Open.
• One last weekend on Fire Island before the season somewhat-officially ended, which included, but not necessarily in this order: teaches of peaches and sex on the beaches.

Now in honor of the 20th anniversary of the Golden Girls and an ailing Estelle Getty, my own personal Golden Girl, Grandma Florie in Florida told me the recent funny occurrences in her life on the phone tonight.

Perhaps this won't be funny without the heavy Jersey Jew accent, but she explained how she, all 85 years of her, was at the gas station with her boyfriend Rod - yes her boyfriend Rod, who is also close to 85 and you should see the ring he bought for her and hear the shit-talking they do about the others in their retirement community...

Rod insisted on paying for the gas with his credit card, but had no idea what his zip code was, for security clearance. The man has lived in the same place for years, but I guess at his age it's feasible.

Grandma paid and transitioned the story to a friend who forgot her phone number - at this point I figured the woman had simply not wanted to give out her phone number to my often abrasive grandmother - as much as I love her, she, quite hysterically, can be a pain in the ass and this is obvious in the reactions of others.

When I visited her in Florida some years ago we went to the local retirement community theatre where we ran into one of her neighbors whom she quickly and excitedly pointed out had won the "Best Brisket" award in the latest edition of the Jewish Journal.

Once the performance of Al Matos and his traveling orchestra (I should point out that the traveling orchestra part was merely a cheap gag, because sad Mr. Matos was one of those sad little characters that more as a joke than as a talent play ten instruments strapped to different parts of his body at once. Anyway once Matos was done Grandma lingered lenghtily in the lobby to speak loudly with her also dearly deaf friends.

As the lobby cleared I heard a shrill embittered woman, younger than the others, but not by much, who had chosen a profession in dealing with all of them most likely out of masochism, yelling at Grandma to leave.

She didn't simply state Ms. Alexander, you should go now, or even endearingly call her Florence and ask her leave, instead she quite admonishingly and loudly yelled "Alexander! time to go Alexander!" like she had been forced to do this many many times before... "Not again Alexander! Out with you!"

God, so many tangents - but returning, Grandma told another woman about how her friend forgot her phone number and the woman replied, punchline here: Well I don't know my phone number, why should I, I never call myself...

I know. Not funny. But coming from an 85-year-old Jersey Jew now living in Ft. Lauderdale who spends many a night drinking cheap wine and playing canasta until midnight, just the fact the she's making an effort on a delivery and a punchline is hysterical...