A Gas House Epiphany

 

My Nana at her piano

“For it’s down in the heart of the Gas House District in Old New York…”

 

So began a ditty my Nana used to play on her grand piano, the piano that dwarfed the rest of her Manhattan living room, the piano that gave her much of what little pleasure she had in life. Nana had made her concert debut in her teens, and could have had a career as a soloist. Instead, she taught music in NYC public schools. She was known and loved for her (very) ambitious productions of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, starring her tough city junior high students, for many of whom English was their second language. 

 

“Gas House District” was played at Nana’s cocktail parties, not in school auditoriums. Nana would trot it out after her audience had several highballs, and everyone would sing along.

 

“Where a friend is your friend and he’ll stick to the end, where good fellows they never squawk…” 

 

I always assumed the song was a product of the early 1900’s, a standard that Nana’s circle would have known from childhood. The lyrics captured the feeling of those old-time city streets, where boys in short pants and newsboy caps would play stickball, and the girls would jump rope. At that young age, the beverage of choice was sarsparilla, but eventually there would be shots and beers at Pete’s Tavern. I could picture the scene so clearly. 

 

And of course Nana put a unique spin on the next lines:

 

“If you want to meet good fellows face to face, just step around to Tom Cunningham’s place…”

 

Tom Cunningham was her husband, my grandfather, Pop. No clue what the original name in the song had been, but the substitution cemented it as the East 21^st Street Cunningham anthem. 

 

Imagine my confusion when, just this past week, I discovered the truth about the Gas House District (song and neighborhood both). Not a vintage tune at all, it was a 1950’s novelty number, very recently composed when I heard it in Nana’s living room. The surprises continued: the district was named for its huge, ugly gas tanks; it was filled with tenements, which were themselves filled with poor Irish immigrants. It even boasted its own thugs, the Gas House Gang, who would roam the streets robbing passersby (you have to wonder about the wisdom of sticking up folks who didn’t have a dime). 

 

Where was it located? Literally under my feet! In the 1940s, the slum was leveled, to make way for the sparkling new mega-development called Stuyvesant Town. That’s where I was born, and raised until age eight. So I LIVED in the Gas House District all that time and hadn’t a clue!

 

How do I feel, now that I know the real story?

 

I’m disappointed, actually. 

 

I prefer my version: the Gas House District still exists, somewhere. The song? It’s a genuine golden oldie. And for me, it will ALWAYS include an invitation to “Tom Cunningham’s place.”

 

And so we construct our own reality.

Tom Cunningham and little me in Stuyvesant Town 

Men Are From Rome, Women Are From... Death Row?

Romans! 24/7!
(photo by Giannino Nali on Pexels)

Just when I thought that internet revelations couldn’t get any weirder, I learned this tidbit: apparently men think about the Roman Empire. Often. Very often.

Here I was, assuming my beloved hubby was focused mainly on 1) sports 2) booking more children’s shows and 3) the ongoing, vital need to keep the hedges trimmed. How wrong could I be? I would have been much more cued in to Steve’s usual state of mind had I spoken Latin to him: “De gustibus non est disputandum!” (“there’s no accounting for taste!”) 

 

Surely there has to be an equivalency for women! I was positive we gals were obsessed with philosophy and poetry and trenchant analyses of world events. But I did a little sleuthing and here’s what I came up with…

 

According to an article in Time Magazine, women most often think about: 

 

Fleetwood Mac, specifically a “1997 live performance of ‘Silver Springs’ in which Stevie Nicks sings into Lindsey Buckingham’s soul.”  Of course!! Don’t we all?

 

The Titanic (the article doesn’t specify if Leo di Caprio is involved)

 

Pride and Prejudice (both book and Masterpiece Theatre versions)

 

The Romanovs of Russia and their tragedies (Nicholas and Alexandra! That rascal Rasputin!)

 

But the Number #1 thing women seem to ponder is…

 

Murder. 

Yep. Murder.

 

OK, this makes sense to me. I know how popular true crime podcasts are with my Rose, from “Serial” to “My Favorite Murder.” Women love to delve into the details (as long as they’re not TOO gory), and enjoy the intellectual exercise of studying killers’ minds (Ted Bundy’s in particular). And don’t we have a stash of “cozies” at the ready when we crave a little escapism? (for the uninitiated, “cozies” are murder mysteries, often set in England, where the actual slaying part is largely offstage, while the bucolic setting and charmingly quirky detectives are emphasized.)

 

But is there something else going on?

I wonder if our keen interest in mayhem might reflect the fact that we are STILL struggling to be seen as men’s equals. When that insufferable, incompetent guy snags the promotion WE DESERVED, or when our husband is wildly applauded by the neighbors for walking one child down the street to mail a letter, whereas we are just expected to handle everything from grocery shopping to dentist visits to running the PTA wrapping paper fundraiser, with five kids hanging on us the whole time (I might have first-hand experience of this), it makes us feel unappreciated. And angry!!! What to do with all this angry??? 

Well, committing actual murder is not an attractive option for most of us, so we do the next best thing. We think about it! It’s very cathartic, and does a fine job keeping us out of the prison system too.

 

We’ll never truly understand each other, we men and women, but we can try. I promise to devote a few seconds every day to concentrating on gladiators, if the males I know are willing to start thinking about Ted Bundy.

 

Deal?

Warning from Women: Don't Cross Us!!
(photo by David Diemer on Unsplash)

Really Dreamy

  

    12 hours to gorgeous and...go! (photo by Nolan Isaac on Unsplash)

                                        

I honestly don’t watch much TV these days. Don’t congratulate me; the tally of my lifetime viewing, thanks to a childhood spent plunked in front of our black-and-white set, is still quite high. Of the small amount I do watch, only about 1-2% is “reality television.” Never have I ever seen:

 

The Bachelor (or -ette)

Survivor

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy

Property Brothers

 

And the list goes on. Years ago, I went through a brief Real Housewives stint, but I have recovered. The television habits of the other Apel Ave. inhabitants are equally reality show-free. Or at least they were.

 

Imagine my surprise when Aiden and Peter discovered Instant Dream Home while playing at a friend’s house one day, and were totally hooked. For the uninitiated, Dream Home is a house makeover show on steroids. The entire rehab has to take pace within 12 hours, the homeowners (who are nominated by friends as deserving of help) are not told about it until it’s unveiled, and in general the pace of the proceeding is frantic. These are not small tweaks, either—decks are added, gardens are planted, kitchens are overhauled, bedrooms are enlarged. To add to the drama, something really important always either a) breaks or b) doesn’t arrive at the site on schedule. The team is amazingly chipper for the most part, led by cheerleader/actress Danielle Brooks who, when she’s not jumping around the work crew shouting encouragement, is a serious performer (Orange is the New Black).

 

Of course, even if the glass-topped table shatters, and the special imported bathroom tiles are the wrong size, everything turns out great in the end. The homeowners get back at the very last second, and the job is always perfectly completed. There are tears shed and shrieks of joy and hugs all around, and our merry band of workers packs up their tools and calls it an episode. 

 

While I am more than a bit skeptical that this could really be accomplished in a mere dozen hours, I definitely see the appeal of the show. The adrenalin rush as the work crew races against time is comparable to watching the Kentucky Derby. It’s super satisfying to watch experts pull down shabby curtains and pull up crummy old carpeting, and replace them with spanking new window and floor coverings, lickety-split. 

 

But there’s more to it, I think. We all want the broken stuff in our lives fixed, right? And we’d all prefer not to do the fixing ourselves (I’m speaking for myself here). Who among us hasn’t dreamed of getting in great shape, or mending a troubled relationship, instantly, without having to hit the gym or pick up the phone for a tough conversation?

 

It’s pure fun escapism, that show, and I have no problem with the boys enjoying it. They’ll learn soon enough that all worthwhile endeavors do take effort, and that there’ll always be something to work on. 

 

For now, though, they’re still kids, and life is but a dream (home).

Voila! The finished product!  (photo by Daniel Barnes on Unsplash)

Instacart Confessions

Photo by Maria Lin Kim on Unsplash

I was never an enthusiastic shopper (except during my Year of Mania in 2006, when I single handedly kept Bloomingdale’s shoe department afloat). But groceries were another ball game. I had my favorite store (George’s Shop N Bag in Dresher) with Diane the checker and Frank the fish counter guy—but even then, I made sure to be there as they opened the doors at 7 AM so I could race down the aisles and be finished, home and unpacked by 7:45. 

 

During the pandemic I became an Instacart shopper, and came to not only appreciate, but to rely on, the convenience. Sure, I was no longer selecting each avocado and peach, but being able to order my groceries at 4 AM, sitting up in bed, made up for that. 

 

As those of you following the news closely know, the world eventually opened back up. There was now no compelling reason to stay out of stores, and I did venture forth once again.

 

So why do I still (often!) place Instacart orders? 

 

It’s all Amazon’s fault. I have become so accustomed to speedy orders and even speedier deliveries, that skipping the drive to the supermarket in favor of online shopping is my natural inclination. I don’t even mind added the delivery charges and tipping (and I am a very generous tipper). I rationalize: I’d be spending $$ on gas, right? And this way I can peruse the offerings of several different stores, and choose the best bargains. This is why I get my yogurt from Acme, where it is a solid 60 cents cheaper than elsewhere, and my special cheese (Robiola Bosina) from Wegman’s, and my ground lamb from Giant, all without scurrying around town. 

 

I remember the Cunningham Grocery Odysseys in years gone by. Mom didn’t drive, and Dad was on the road all week, so Saturday was Food Shopping Day. Joanie, like her daughter, loved a good deal, and thought nothing of having Dad drive her from Ogletree’s to Big Apple, just to save a dime on a carton of eggs. I recall a good amount of spoiled meat, especially chicken (did they have sell-by dates on the packaging back then? Maybe not!) arriving home, only to be returned to the offending store for a refund (yet another schlep for my father). 

 

2023 Elise gets crazy-impatient even typing their routine. 

 

I wish I could tell you how much productivity I pack into the hours I am NOT in the store, how many novels written and essays submitted. But honestly? I am getting the exact same amount of work accomplished as if I were also going to the mall on the regular. 

 

It could be worse. I could be ordering from restaurants, and spending kaboodles more than I do. Patrick drives for Door Dash now and then, and can attest to the vast numbers of people expecting their burritos and cheesesteaks to magically appear on their doorsteps.

 

How lazy can you get? At least I COOK my hand-delivered food!