New York Minute: Work Smoothly, Lifetime Peace

I met three men in Central Park. They sold me peace and a bracelet for $20USD ($26.90CDN). They were nice enough and I have to commend them on how seamless they made the transaction. All I had to do was make eye contact and they did the rest: slipped the bracelet on my wrist, handed me a shiny amulet card with a message on one side and the likeness of Guanyin on the other and presented me with a scroll that had the names of previous donors and the amounts they donated – philanthropic peer pressure at its finest, ah, classic Fake Monks.

I had read about the so-called Fake Monks of New York City while I was planning my trip. They should quit the park and go straight to Bravo, that’s where the real money is — modelled along the lines of the real housewives franchise – New York, San Francisco, Toronto – the sky’s the limit for these peddlers of peace (seriously Andy Cohen, I’m looking at you!). To encounter them first hand during my walk in the park, before they become famous, I can officially say I knew them when.

I had read a New York Times article that documented the rise of pan handlers dressed as monks and the negative experiences tourists had with these wily men. The article commented that on average the time an individual spends with one of the robed men is a fairly strong indicator of how far they live from New York City. Any true New Yorker, per the article, wouldn’t give the men a second look let alone money. Having watched a few of their failed attempts prior to being approached, the article was probably not far off.

There is a Facebook page dedicated to encounters with fake monks and warnings to travelers. I’m not sure why I was surprised, there are Facebook pages for everything these days. My neighbourhood has a Facebook page and being a member of that group has reinforced my perspective that people will complain about anything, and everything, just provide them a platform and an audience.

While the interactions certainly seem to be on the rise, I couldn’t help but wonder if it is actually an increase, statically speaking, or simply the visibility to the issue created by the rise of social media, a vehicle for the complaints of people who may have figured out too late that you can’t actually buy peace for twenty dollars – peace costs at least ten times that amount.

Both social media and the traditional media chronicle the seemingly aggressive tendencies of these men, something I hadn’t experienced first hand, thankfully. During my interaction with them I never felt unsafe, I did however feel like they would take any and all of my money if I let them – not dissimilar to how I feel when I’m interacting with the sales folks at Nordstrom.

I made them take this photo with me so I could send it to Heath.

I got the sense that they weren’t keen on me documenting our interaction, however I set it into motion before they knew what was happening. It was like I slipped metaphorical bracelets on their wrists, committing them to what was about to take place. A lovely British couple who I had taken a photo for earlier happily returned the favour, capturing this moment.

After the photo was taken the one wearing the necklace removed it from his head and held it in the air motioning that he was going to slip it over my head. I held up my hand to indicate I was not interested, “I have enough peace already and no money left, thanks.” I wouldn’t say I was too aggressive rather I was just aggressive enough. With a nod I concluded our interaction with “work smoothly, gentlemen, lifetime peace.”

 Stay great!

Kate

 

 

Won’t Get Fooled Again

“I’m calling because I may be aware of a crime that has been committed, however I am not certain a crime has been committed. At minimum, you may need to send some officers over do a welfare check.”

Moments earlier I was sitting on the couch finishing up some reporting for work when I became digitally distracted. As I scrolled through my Facebook feed I happened across a post from Mike B, a guy I used to work with a really long time ago. Mike B is not his real name.

I remember thinking about how back then Mike had this way of making himself look busy. I used to watch him as he would run to and from the mail room with his bluetooth headset on, he reminded me of Jerry McGuire, always closing.

My relationship with Mike could be best summarized as a wave every now and then, or a ‘how’s it going’ when our paths would cross in the lunch room.

“Jello again?” he’d ask.

“You know it”, I’d reply as I walked past him and back to my office. Somewhere along the line Mike sent me a friend request through Facebook. I accepted. He had 38 friends online but I suspect that number was fewer in real life. I used to like to think that he had a good heart, that maybe he was misunderstood because he was outspoken and often expressed unpopular perspectives on politics and religion.

Every so often if he posted a picture of his dog or something equally benign I’d throw him a bone and click ‘like’, a virtual wave of sorts acknowledging his existence.  His posts on Facebook were often cryptic and bizarre and he’d usually take them down shortly after posting them. There was one post of his that caught my eye that night as I scrolled through my feed.

“My soul regrets the things I’ve done and in the next two days I will do the most sinful thing I’ve ever done. When our Lord creator meets us all, we shall feel humbled.”

I had to reread the post a couple of times to try and understand what he was trying to say. It was full of typos and looked like it had been scribed in haste. I immediately sent him a private message.

“You ok, Mike?” I wrote. More words than I had said to him in nearly ten years.

He replied to my message telling me that his father had an advanced stage of Alzheimers and it had taken everything from him.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Mike. Your post had me concerned. I wanted to reach out to make sure you know that folks are here for you. You can send me a note any time.” Phew! My job here is done.

But it wasn’t. Mike told me that he had given his dad a cocktail of medications and expected to be arrested in the morning. “I think what I did was right,” he added. “Kate, delete me and have no connection to me.”

My stomach dropped. I sat crossed legged on the couch. Usually I know what to do, but I didn’t. My thoughts were moving a mile a minute actively trying to evaluate the situation and the implications of what he just told me, in writing, on a web-based application. I’ve watched enough episodes of Dateline to know that if in fact he had done what he claimed our conversation would become part of the public record.

I chose my words carefully:

“I am not sure how to respond to that Mike. I am not in a position to provide you with any advice on this matter concerning what is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. However, if you have committed what would be considered a crime you should seek legal counsel.”

How could he do this to me. The guy thanked me for my kindness and suggested that I delete him from Facebook. Yeah, good call Mike, because the police couldn’t possibly reconstruct your deleted social media history on the night you killed your father.

At 11:30 I called the police two time zones over, 1:30 in the morning their time. I walked the officer through what I knew, emailed him screenshots of the conversation and then I went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. I was still running through all of the plausible scenarios in my head.

The worst that could happen to me at that point was that I would be called as a witness at his murder trial. I’d probably wear my navy jumpsuit with a blazer. Navy is a trustworthy colour. I would not opine on his mental state on the night in question. I would not crack upon cross examination. I would stick to the facts, just the fucking facts.

Thankfully it never came to that. I monitored the local newspapers and Mike’s Facebook for the next couple of weeks. He resurfaced and posted something about his father, who it seemed was still very much alive.

I have since blocked him on Facebook — fool me once, as they say. Well Mike, I won’t get fooled again.

Stay great!

Kate

 

 

 

Fitness Goals

This is Chiitan.

Chiitan has some pretty serious fitness goals.

Me too, Chiitan. I’ve decided that in 2020 I am going to complete 20 races – 5Ks, 10Ks, 1/2 marathons, obstacle course races and heck, maybe even some sort of triathlon-type race. Yikes! It is in writing now.

Here. We. Go.

Stay great!

Kate

 

Sometimes I Forget Things

A woman on my flight asked me who was right, the man who wouldn’t store his small bag under the seat because he preferred the overhead bin and was on-board first; or the woman with a large duffle bag that wouldn’t fit under the seat, so she needed the overhead bin space – she should have checked her oversized bag.

“I don’t know.” I replied, my gesture mimicking the emoji who wears a purple shirt with her hands in the air. ‘I don’t care’ would have been a more honest response.

This happens to me a lot. Complete strangers bring me into their world and for some reason see in me a sympathetic ear to vent to and receive moral support from. They tell me about their problems. I don’t mind, because I learn a lot without having to dig for much information. I often think to myself, I’d better text this to my friend Julie so that I have a record of it. I’ve been noticing a general trend of forgetfulness lately, so the texts are more frequent and increasingly more detailed.

I was the only one to make eye contact with the mother who was five minutes late for swimming lessons – the other three parents couldn’t be bothered to look up from their phones when the woman asked where the change room was.

“There are two single change rooms here, that are full, but if you walk past the front desk and to the right the women’s change room is there.” I answered.

“Thank-you.” She replied as she scurried by me to get her daughter changed. She took the teeniest, tiniest shuffle steps, a seemingly inefficient use of her energy, but she was quick.

A couple of minutes later she was back and took a seat next to me on the bench where we sit to watch our kids in the pool.

“My husband signs my daughter up for so many activities and doesn’t factor in travel time. After this I have to take the child to Chinese school on the other side of the city so she can learn Mandarin. She is three. She can’t even hold a pencil properly yet and he thinks she is going to be able to write. I don’t think so. I hate Chinese school. I can say that because I’m Chinese.”

“I hear ya.” What does that even mean I thought after I said it. I can in no way relate to what she just said. I guess I was going for supportive, she appreciated my reply with a smile. “Are you from China?” I asked.

“Yes, but moved to Canada by way of Hong Kong five years ago. I lived in Hong Kong  for ten years. Can I ask you a question?” she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head forward looking at me overtop of her glasses that had slipped down her nose.

“Yes.” I answered.

“Do I have to re-teach my daughter all of the lessons she learns in school each day?” I could tell from her tone that she was fishing for a certain response.

“I wouldn’t. Seems like a waste of your time to me. If she has homework you could help her I guess, but no, don’t re-teach everything.”

“That’s what I thought. The education system is different in Canada. My husband said I have to re-teach everything.” She said as she removed her winter jacket.

“Well, I went through the Canadian education system and I ended up ok. Maybe your husband should relax.” I replied.

“Yes, he should, but won’t. I don’t think he wants me to have friends so he keeps me occupied with the child.”

“How does that make you feel?” I am such a psychologist, of the arm chair variety. I have absolutely zero qualifications but I am acutely interested in the lives of others. My mother thinks I’m nosey. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, Kate’ she would often say. To which I’d reply, ‘and yet it spared George.’ That monkey is a liability.

“I pretend to like the activities so that the child does not get discouraged but I actually hate the activities, especially Chinese school. Swimming is ok.” She pulled out her phone, I glanced at the screen and she had an incoming call from ‘The Man.’ I assume that is her husband. She has her husband in her phone as ‘The Man’

I nodded before looking at the clock, stood up, grabbed a towel and walked out to the pool deck to collect the child named Olivia following her lesson – I can’t call her the child with a straight face or without thinking about how the woman’s daughter is ‘the child’, her husband ‘the man’ and I never got the opportunity to ask her what she is called. Probably ‘the mother’ or ‘the wife’. She hasn’t been back to swimming lessons since and owes me $125 for our half-hour session.

“Do you think I have pre-early-onset Alzheimers?” I asked Heath, worried.

“That’s not a thing. You’re ridiculous.” He said as he folded our socks.

I raised it with my doctor because while Heath is a lot of things, he is not medically trained. As I described to my doctor what has being going on I dismissed it with some of Heath’s key messages: I don’t get enough sleep, work is busy and then there are the hormonal shifts associated with building humans. Instead of reassuring me that I was fine and Heath’s inferences were correct she raised her eyebrows and simply said, “hmmm” in a tone that was sufficiently alarming and fueled a series of late night Google searches. Based on my self-diagnosis I should be dead right now. I’m a medical marvel, truly.

Heath was watching the pre-coverage of the NBA All-star Game one night while I was sitting next to him on the couch responding to work email on my phone. I looked up momentarily and noticed Shaquille O’Neil, “How tall do you think Shaq is?” I asked.

“7’1 I think.” I later Googled this and he was right. Heath underestimates his ability to recall sports facts. If you want to know who won the second set in the men’s Wimbeldom finals in 2004 or what NFL team has lost the most Superbowls, Heath can tell you without spending much time thinking about it. The guy is unconscious when it comes to these things.

“Oh, ok thanks.” I looked back down at my phone. A few minutes later I once again looked up at the screen and commented:

“Hun, how tall do you think Shaq is?”

Heath looked at me in disbelief: “Are you serious? You just asked me that question.”

“No I didn’t, I would remember that.” I replied.

“Yes you did and I told you he is 7’1.” Heath was visibly annoyed. This example just further supported his assertion that I don’t listen when he tells me things. I realized later he was right but at that point the ship had sailed, to circle back would do no one, especially me, any good so I let that one lie.

Stay great!

Kate

 

Fiiiiine Dining

Male Earl’s restaurant host: “what kind of table are you craving tonight?”

Me: “A clean one. Enough room for four adult-sized people, I guess.” 🤷‍♀️

My friend, Amie: “Sexy. We want a sexy table.”

Male Earl’s host: “That’s what I thought you wanted, right this way.”

Me: 🤮

(The diners: Heath, me, Mac and Amie)

Stay great!