By Raanan Geberer
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
BROOKLYN – Last weekend, on the way back home from somewhere at night, I decided to drop a prescription off at my local chain drugstore (which shall go nameless). I had done so a hundred times—since they opened, the pharmacy department itself has been open all night.
This time, however, when I entered the store, I saw a locked gate at the pharmacy department. And when I asked the clerk behind the counter, he directed me to a sign saying, “As of August 6, the pharmacy will be open from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. on weekdays; on weekends it will be open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.”
This may not be a big deal for the average person, but it presents a problem for someone who takes five or six prescription medications regularly. Thank God my asthma hasn’t been serious for the last 12 years, but what if it was and getting the prescription quickly was the only alternative to going to the emergency room? Or what if I had just gotten out of the hospital and needed to fill a prescription right away?
I was in both of these situations in the early 1990s when I lived in the Kings Highway area and my asthma was still serious. In the case when I was let out of the emergency room and desperately needed to get a prescription filled to make sure I didn’t have another attack, I had to spend a lot of money on a cab to the nearest all-night pharmacy, in Kings Plaza.
At the time, I remember, there were one or two others well-known all-night drugstores. I remember the Neergard Pharmacy in Park Slope and a well-known one on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (where a physician friend of mine sent me, with a prescription, when I had an attack in Manhattan). There weren’t very many others.
I understand how large drug chains might want to cut back in this economy. I also know that they are leaving some outlets open with all-night pharmacy sections. But these may not be enough.
No one wants to go back to the days when every person with a serious illness had to memorize the names and locations of those few pharmacies where one can go to in the middle of the night in case of an emergency.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Cuteness
By Raanan Geberer
Published on polseguera.com
Many years ago, when I was working in public housing management in Boston, a new co-worker came to us. Her name was Marcia. She was very short, around 5 foot 1, had curly red hair, and spoke in a tiny, high voice that endeared me to her. She dressed in clothes that seemed exotic to me – silk scarves, white blouses with ruffles, charcoal wool skirts – and this added to her charm. Years later, I realized that this wasn’t that uncommon, it was just upper-class – her father was an executive at some big public relations firm, and she herself had gone to Sarah Lawrence. She played the cello, and this, too, drew me to her, since I once played the violin. And the fact that she frequently had bags under her eyes said to me, right or wrong, that she had been crying – and made me identify with her, since I had suffered too.
Soon, I fell in love with her. With every minute, I looked across the room at her. Something told me she was looking at me too. Although when I spoke to her, her voice lowered, she stuttered and she sometimes looked away, I attributed that to shyness – that she felt the same way I did, but was afraid to show it. In my mind, I called her my little darling, my little sweetheart, my little fairy-tale princess, my little angel. I even made up a name for her: “Miss Tiny Face.” It’s no secret–my little-girl fantasy was in overdrive! At the office Christmas party, I took her hand under the table and she withdrew it, mumbling something. So much in love was I, however, that I took that as a sign that she felt the same way I did but didn’t feel this was the right time or place to show it.
By this point, I had convinced myself that I was going to marry her, that our meeting here was part of God’s plan. The mere sight of her put me into a trance. I was going crazy, wondering what I could do to be with her. If I tried something, surely everyone would know. I had an idea. My parents were having a Passover seder in a few months. I would invite her there, then, on the way home, confess my feelings toward her, and we’d begin our relationship. I congratulated myself on such a clever plan. Within a year, we’d be married.
But it never happened. Soon afterward, she began flirting with another co-worker – oddly, a rather tall guy – and seeing him after work. With him, she was open, excited, laughing, extroverted. So she was shy only where I was concerned! What a shock! I went home and cried every day. Sometimes I’d come into the office over the weekend, when no one was around, go over to her desk, talk to her as if she were there, and cry some more. I fantasized that someday I’d sing old romantic songs like “It’s Only a Paper Moon” to her, and that in a flash, she’d finally understand and fall in love with me, too.
Then came a second shock. Within a month, she apparently stopped seeing this guy as well, since not only did she no longer talk to him but just stared at him with an icy glance when he addressed her. Sometimes, she’d direct nasty, insulting and sarcastic remarks to him, then laugh. I was shocked. This wasn’t the way a little darling, a little angel, was supposed to behave! Why couldn’t she be the way I wanted her to be – sweet, shy, vulnerable?
The day after she left the job, I called her.
“Marcia, this is Joe.”
“Oh. How are you?” I could tell she was nervous.
“Marcia, I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
I was extremely proud of my bravery, my boldness, but was met only with silence.
“Marcia, I said I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
“There is nothing to discuss! I thought I made that clear by our conversation at Steve’s birthday party.” That conversation only lasted for a few seconds, and besides I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t really remember it.
“Well, I’ll GIVE you something to discuss,” I said, my voice rising. “Would you like to marry me?”
“Joe, I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“But Marcia....”
“Goodbye! Don’t call again!” I didn’t know whether to cry or to curse her out. In time, I stopped thinking about her.
* * *
It was 25 years later. My wife Ronnie and I were still grieving over the loss of Celeste, the wonderful tabby cat whom we had taken care of for 16 years. At the vet, we saw a beautiful 9-month-old female cat up for adoption named Fuzzy, another tabby, but silver. Around her head, she had the typical tabby stripes, but she also had spots on her body like a leopard. When we stuck our fingers in the cage, she came to us and sniffed them. She also let us shake her paws through the cage. “She has such sweet, spiritual eyes,” enthused Ronnie. “And she’s so beautiful!” Soon, we filled out adoption papers for her.
We had to wait for the cat rescue organization who put her there to approve us, but in the meantime, we went to the vet every spare chance we had to say hello to Fuzzy. On one occasion, they let us take her out of the cage and into an exam room – under their supervision, of course – and we both petted her.
We finally heard from the animal rescue organization, but it was not what we thought. “Your wife told me she wants a really cuddly, friendly cat,” said this woman, Kathy, “but we’re not sure that Fuzzy is right for you. She spend the first five months of her life in an outdoor cat colony and we’re not sure whether she ever lived in a home with humans before. She’s somewhat unpredictable–we’re thinking that she might need a home with other cats, or she might need to be fostered.”
Kathy sent us an e-mail with pictures of other cats, most of them older, and asked us to come to the organization’s main headquarters, where they kept most of their other cats. But the day before we were supposed to go, I visited the vet one more time. Fuzzy was still there, and when I put my finger in, she once again put her paw to it. Looking at her, I started crying. I didn’t want to give up my little baby, my sweet, fragile little thing, no matter what Kathy said! I called Ronnie and told her I wanted Fuzzy. Then I called Kathy and told her of my decision. Kathy seemed oddly non-committal. “OK,” she said, “so you’ll try Fuzzy.” Try? Why just try?
The next day, my wife went to the vet and picked up Fuzzy. Although I didn’t know it until later, as she was leaving with the cat, one of the vet’s assistants turned to her, smiling, and said, “She bites, but we like her anyway.” My wife was slightly taken aback, but she took Fuzzy home nonetheless. Later on, she told me she wished she had listened to him
For the first few days, Fuzzy hid a lot. She knew how to eat and how to use the littler box. As a matter of fact, she kept eating – and kept mewing for food. But often, when she saw us coming or even when she saw one of us make a sudden motion, she froze and hid behind the television.
After a week or so, she started coming out and even sat next to my wife on the sofa. Several times, she licked my wife’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Ronnie said. She also loved to chase the foam rubber balls we bought for her. But Fuzzy’s friendliness definitely had its limits. When we tried to pet her, more often than not, she’d bite after a few seconds. She’d turn her head, open her mouth wide, then lunge forward with her head.
At first, my wife made light of it. “It’s only been a week,” she said. “When we had Celeste only a week, she was still in the closet!”
After awhile, she improved–a little bit. Soon, she only bit about half or a third of the time we tried to pet her. Ronnie told me about one incident when Fuzzy jumped up, opened her mouth like she was going to bite her, but then, apparently changing her mind, started licking her instead.
And then, after we’d had her about two weeks, she stopped “developing.” Sometimes she gave the appearance of being friendly and my wife would start to pet her, only to have her suddenly bite. “She’s a rotten bastard!” my wife yelled once after Fuzzy suddenly lunged at her. About the same time, Fuzzy began screaming for food earlier and earlier in the morning – and whenever I went into the kitchen, she followed me and looked up, expecting to be fed. It didn’t make any difference whether she’d been fed only an hour or two ago.
She was a little more friendly with me than with Ronnie – probably because I was the one who fed her in the morning – and she let me pet her for longer periods than my wife. Sometimes, when I came out in the morning in response to her cries, she was so grateful to see me that she jumped up and grasped my hand with her paws. But even I had to keep a close eye on her, because she might decide to bite at any minute. Once, as I was singing a childlike song that I had just composed for her and shaking her paws gently, she suddenly moved her head forward and bit my hand. I burst into tears.
My wife called her an “ice princess” and said, “When I come home, I don’t look forward to seeing her. Of course I’ll take care of her, but he thought of seeing her doesn’t thrill me.” And after we had one or two more arguments about the cat, I began making calls and sending e-mails to the vet and to the adoption agency, asking about our options. The girl at the vet’s office said that we could make an appointment to discuss the cat’s behavior problems, but if it didn’t work out, we could always bring her back. ‘It’s not that unusual,” she said.
During the next two weeks, I began to read up on the web about cats with biting problems. I tried everything they recommended – walking away, hitting her gently on the nose, saying “NO!” in a loud voice – and nothing seemed to work. I even called my wife’s friend Judy, who had raised a cat that had been pretty wild and aggressive when she’d first gotten her as a kitten.
“She could change,” said Judy, “but with our cat, it took years – and there’s no guarantee.”
The next weekend, we went away for three days. We warned the neighbor whom we were paying to feed Fuzzy NOT to pet her. When we came back, twice that evening, she jumped on my wife’s leg and clawed it. “She probably wants to play,” my wife said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. So she took out the foam rubber balls and watched Fuzzy bat them around. By now, this was the only pleasure we derived from having Fuzzy.
Later, after Fuzzy had tired herself out, I went over to her and talked to her in a soft voice, half in tears. “PLEASE, be a good girl and a nice baby! We don’t want to have to return you! Be a nice little cat!” I started petting her gently, but after about the seventh pet, she turned her head and bit my finger. She didn’t get the message.
When we had first gotten Fuzzy, we decided that she would sleep in the living room, at least for awhile– we wanted to get to know her a bit before she could sleep with us, like Celeste did. But that night, when we were lying in bed, my wife suddenly screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She’s in here! She just jumped on my belly with her claws out! Look–I’m bleeding!” I searched the room for her, found her hiding under the bed, then carried into the living room. That night, we both decided that we’d bring her back to the vet first thing in the morning.
As I was dropping her off in the vet’s office, a thin, short-haired young woman saw me and introduced herself to me. It was Kathy from the rescue organization.
“Thanks for your e-mail from a few days ago,” she said. “Now we know more about Fuzzy’s behavior patterns. Instead of placing her for adoption, we’ll try to get someone to foster her. When you said you wanted Fuzzy, I thought, `Well, I really don’t know......’ She probably never was in a home before!”
Leaving the vet’s, I though about Marcia for the first time in a long time. There were some similarities between Marcia and Fuzzy, I reflected. In both cases, I made decisions based on outward appearances – Marcia’s adorable little-girl looks, Fuzzy’s beautiful silver fur. I should have paid attention to the little signs that could have told me what they were like inside.
On a deeper level, I remembered how, so many years ago, the neighbor who gave us our old cat, Celeste, told us, “If you give her love, she’ll give you love in return.” With both Marcia and Fuzzy, on the other hand, I tried to give love, but received something quite different.
Published on polseguera.com
Many years ago, when I was working in public housing management in Boston, a new co-worker came to us. Her name was Marcia. She was very short, around 5 foot 1, had curly red hair, and spoke in a tiny, high voice that endeared me to her. She dressed in clothes that seemed exotic to me – silk scarves, white blouses with ruffles, charcoal wool skirts – and this added to her charm. Years later, I realized that this wasn’t that uncommon, it was just upper-class – her father was an executive at some big public relations firm, and she herself had gone to Sarah Lawrence. She played the cello, and this, too, drew me to her, since I once played the violin. And the fact that she frequently had bags under her eyes said to me, right or wrong, that she had been crying – and made me identify with her, since I had suffered too.
Soon, I fell in love with her. With every minute, I looked across the room at her. Something told me she was looking at me too. Although when I spoke to her, her voice lowered, she stuttered and she sometimes looked away, I attributed that to shyness – that she felt the same way I did, but was afraid to show it. In my mind, I called her my little darling, my little sweetheart, my little fairy-tale princess, my little angel. I even made up a name for her: “Miss Tiny Face.” It’s no secret–my little-girl fantasy was in overdrive! At the office Christmas party, I took her hand under the table and she withdrew it, mumbling something. So much in love was I, however, that I took that as a sign that she felt the same way I did but didn’t feel this was the right time or place to show it.
By this point, I had convinced myself that I was going to marry her, that our meeting here was part of God’s plan. The mere sight of her put me into a trance. I was going crazy, wondering what I could do to be with her. If I tried something, surely everyone would know. I had an idea. My parents were having a Passover seder in a few months. I would invite her there, then, on the way home, confess my feelings toward her, and we’d begin our relationship. I congratulated myself on such a clever plan. Within a year, we’d be married.
But it never happened. Soon afterward, she began flirting with another co-worker – oddly, a rather tall guy – and seeing him after work. With him, she was open, excited, laughing, extroverted. So she was shy only where I was concerned! What a shock! I went home and cried every day. Sometimes I’d come into the office over the weekend, when no one was around, go over to her desk, talk to her as if she were there, and cry some more. I fantasized that someday I’d sing old romantic songs like “It’s Only a Paper Moon” to her, and that in a flash, she’d finally understand and fall in love with me, too.
Then came a second shock. Within a month, she apparently stopped seeing this guy as well, since not only did she no longer talk to him but just stared at him with an icy glance when he addressed her. Sometimes, she’d direct nasty, insulting and sarcastic remarks to him, then laugh. I was shocked. This wasn’t the way a little darling, a little angel, was supposed to behave! Why couldn’t she be the way I wanted her to be – sweet, shy, vulnerable?
The day after she left the job, I called her.
“Marcia, this is Joe.”
“Oh. How are you?” I could tell she was nervous.
“Marcia, I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
I was extremely proud of my bravery, my boldness, but was met only with silence.
“Marcia, I said I’d like to discuss my feelings for you.”
“There is nothing to discuss! I thought I made that clear by our conversation at Steve’s birthday party.” That conversation only lasted for a few seconds, and besides I was drunk at the time, so I didn’t really remember it.
“Well, I’ll GIVE you something to discuss,” I said, my voice rising. “Would you like to marry me?”
“Joe, I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“But Marcia....”
“Goodbye! Don’t call again!” I didn’t know whether to cry or to curse her out. In time, I stopped thinking about her.
* * *
It was 25 years later. My wife Ronnie and I were still grieving over the loss of Celeste, the wonderful tabby cat whom we had taken care of for 16 years. At the vet, we saw a beautiful 9-month-old female cat up for adoption named Fuzzy, another tabby, but silver. Around her head, she had the typical tabby stripes, but she also had spots on her body like a leopard. When we stuck our fingers in the cage, she came to us and sniffed them. She also let us shake her paws through the cage. “She has such sweet, spiritual eyes,” enthused Ronnie. “And she’s so beautiful!” Soon, we filled out adoption papers for her.
We had to wait for the cat rescue organization who put her there to approve us, but in the meantime, we went to the vet every spare chance we had to say hello to Fuzzy. On one occasion, they let us take her out of the cage and into an exam room – under their supervision, of course – and we both petted her.
We finally heard from the animal rescue organization, but it was not what we thought. “Your wife told me she wants a really cuddly, friendly cat,” said this woman, Kathy, “but we’re not sure that Fuzzy is right for you. She spend the first five months of her life in an outdoor cat colony and we’re not sure whether she ever lived in a home with humans before. She’s somewhat unpredictable–we’re thinking that she might need a home with other cats, or she might need to be fostered.”
Kathy sent us an e-mail with pictures of other cats, most of them older, and asked us to come to the organization’s main headquarters, where they kept most of their other cats. But the day before we were supposed to go, I visited the vet one more time. Fuzzy was still there, and when I put my finger in, she once again put her paw to it. Looking at her, I started crying. I didn’t want to give up my little baby, my sweet, fragile little thing, no matter what Kathy said! I called Ronnie and told her I wanted Fuzzy. Then I called Kathy and told her of my decision. Kathy seemed oddly non-committal. “OK,” she said, “so you’ll try Fuzzy.” Try? Why just try?
The next day, my wife went to the vet and picked up Fuzzy. Although I didn’t know it until later, as she was leaving with the cat, one of the vet’s assistants turned to her, smiling, and said, “She bites, but we like her anyway.” My wife was slightly taken aback, but she took Fuzzy home nonetheless. Later on, she told me she wished she had listened to him
For the first few days, Fuzzy hid a lot. She knew how to eat and how to use the littler box. As a matter of fact, she kept eating – and kept mewing for food. But often, when she saw us coming or even when she saw one of us make a sudden motion, she froze and hid behind the television.
After a week or so, she started coming out and even sat next to my wife on the sofa. Several times, she licked my wife’s face. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Ronnie said. She also loved to chase the foam rubber balls we bought for her. But Fuzzy’s friendliness definitely had its limits. When we tried to pet her, more often than not, she’d bite after a few seconds. She’d turn her head, open her mouth wide, then lunge forward with her head.
At first, my wife made light of it. “It’s only been a week,” she said. “When we had Celeste only a week, she was still in the closet!”
After awhile, she improved–a little bit. Soon, she only bit about half or a third of the time we tried to pet her. Ronnie told me about one incident when Fuzzy jumped up, opened her mouth like she was going to bite her, but then, apparently changing her mind, started licking her instead.
And then, after we’d had her about two weeks, she stopped “developing.” Sometimes she gave the appearance of being friendly and my wife would start to pet her, only to have her suddenly bite. “She’s a rotten bastard!” my wife yelled once after Fuzzy suddenly lunged at her. About the same time, Fuzzy began screaming for food earlier and earlier in the morning – and whenever I went into the kitchen, she followed me and looked up, expecting to be fed. It didn’t make any difference whether she’d been fed only an hour or two ago.
She was a little more friendly with me than with Ronnie – probably because I was the one who fed her in the morning – and she let me pet her for longer periods than my wife. Sometimes, when I came out in the morning in response to her cries, she was so grateful to see me that she jumped up and grasped my hand with her paws. But even I had to keep a close eye on her, because she might decide to bite at any minute. Once, as I was singing a childlike song that I had just composed for her and shaking her paws gently, she suddenly moved her head forward and bit my hand. I burst into tears.
My wife called her an “ice princess” and said, “When I come home, I don’t look forward to seeing her. Of course I’ll take care of her, but he thought of seeing her doesn’t thrill me.” And after we had one or two more arguments about the cat, I began making calls and sending e-mails to the vet and to the adoption agency, asking about our options. The girl at the vet’s office said that we could make an appointment to discuss the cat’s behavior problems, but if it didn’t work out, we could always bring her back. ‘It’s not that unusual,” she said.
During the next two weeks, I began to read up on the web about cats with biting problems. I tried everything they recommended – walking away, hitting her gently on the nose, saying “NO!” in a loud voice – and nothing seemed to work. I even called my wife’s friend Judy, who had raised a cat that had been pretty wild and aggressive when she’d first gotten her as a kitten.
“She could change,” said Judy, “but with our cat, it took years – and there’s no guarantee.”
The next weekend, we went away for three days. We warned the neighbor whom we were paying to feed Fuzzy NOT to pet her. When we came back, twice that evening, she jumped on my wife’s leg and clawed it. “She probably wants to play,” my wife said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. So she took out the foam rubber balls and watched Fuzzy bat them around. By now, this was the only pleasure we derived from having Fuzzy.
Later, after Fuzzy had tired herself out, I went over to her and talked to her in a soft voice, half in tears. “PLEASE, be a good girl and a nice baby! We don’t want to have to return you! Be a nice little cat!” I started petting her gently, but after about the seventh pet, she turned her head and bit my finger. She didn’t get the message.
When we had first gotten Fuzzy, we decided that she would sleep in the living room, at least for awhile– we wanted to get to know her a bit before she could sleep with us, like Celeste did. But that night, when we were lying in bed, my wife suddenly screamed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She’s in here! She just jumped on my belly with her claws out! Look–I’m bleeding!” I searched the room for her, found her hiding under the bed, then carried into the living room. That night, we both decided that we’d bring her back to the vet first thing in the morning.
As I was dropping her off in the vet’s office, a thin, short-haired young woman saw me and introduced herself to me. It was Kathy from the rescue organization.
“Thanks for your e-mail from a few days ago,” she said. “Now we know more about Fuzzy’s behavior patterns. Instead of placing her for adoption, we’ll try to get someone to foster her. When you said you wanted Fuzzy, I thought, `Well, I really don’t know......’ She probably never was in a home before!”
Leaving the vet’s, I though about Marcia for the first time in a long time. There were some similarities between Marcia and Fuzzy, I reflected. In both cases, I made decisions based on outward appearances – Marcia’s adorable little-girl looks, Fuzzy’s beautiful silver fur. I should have paid attention to the little signs that could have told me what they were like inside.
On a deeper level, I remembered how, so many years ago, the neighbor who gave us our old cat, Celeste, told us, “If you give her love, she’ll give you love in return.” With both Marcia and Fuzzy, on the other hand, I tried to give love, but received something quite different.
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