Sometimes, on days like today, when there are weird body smells on the subway, I wonder how much longer I will live here in good ol’ NYC and why on earth I got my folks to move here. For example, a girl puked into her sandwich bag and lap on the F to MOMA today, which inspired Mom to tell me a series of commuting stories, like how she sat next to a woman who had actually peed. Or the time she sat next to a homeless man without realizing it until a particular odor reached her nose, but by then, she didn’t want to leave for fear of hurting his feelings. And this is just way up there in guilt-daughter moments, topped only by the day I found out their building is owned by the Mob (don’t mention it around them. They don’t know.)
But enough about regret. Let’s put all those malodorous memories aside — I still like having easy access to the old people, b/c they make me laugh. Dad emerged from his apartment with ski hat, sunglasses, backpack on, to the sound of Clint Eastwood’s “Pale Rider” theme song from his computer and told me flatly he was not interested in museum hopping.
At MOMA, Mom and I braved the crowds of Europeans to check out the art. They have those freebie self-guided audio tours that you just place against your ear in front of corresponding art work. We wandered through Lucian Freud and got to etchings of his daughter “Bella,” Mom leaned over as if to whisper and shouted “she’s so ugly”…which caused me to convulse since everyone else was library-quiet. I made her go into the contemporary art gallery with me, which she said looked like bed sheets (it was kinda dull).
So that’s all. Over xmas, my husband and I observed that the parents are getting older and quirkier, and that still seems to be true.