Kvetch: an ancient Greek term meaning “to complain incessantly, but not to the level of bitching.”
|A rainy day in Manhattan's Kips Bay|
I don’t need a doctor to tell me why that is. It’s the residual effect of my Sunday night/Monday morning air odyssey into New York City. The same one I first complained about Monday on Leighton’s blog. Did you miss it? Too bad, here are a few choice bits leading up to this kvetch:
“It was a dark and stormy night. Yes, last night surely was. And as I sat into the second hour on an otherwise deserted eastern Pennsylvania runway with 200 pilgrims from Minneapolis diverted by prudent flying (and wind shear) from reaching New York City, all seemed lost. We were in Allentown. Billy Joel lyrics kept running through my mind.”
But it didn’t end there. We finally reached NYC’s LaGuardia airport at two in the morning. So did hundreds from other flights, all of them waiting in the rain in a line for taxis. Godot would arrive sooner than my cab. I’d been up since 4 AM Sunday and had to be up again in time for an 8 AM meeting, then another at eleven, and the rest of the day spent among lawyers, my former breed.
By the time I made it home from LaGuardia I had barely enough time to catch a few hours sleep before the meetings. But I made it through them all without dozing off (too often) and was back in bed by eight…falling off to sleep, perchance to…
I never should have answered the phone. “Jeffrey, where are you, we’ve been waiting since seven!”
OH, NO. I’d completely forgotten dinner plans I could not miss. It was with friends who’d shared extraordinary insights for my just completed novel, and were offering even more for the next. So, forty minutes later I’m sitting on a barstool, and remained there for three hours talking, eating, and drinking.
Next morning my back said, “And just where do you think you’re going?” For most of the day we negotiated over the subject of my being able to walk, but finally reached an agreement that allowed me to make my NYC book signing that evening at Greenwich Village’s Partners & Crime, provided I wore a corset-like contraption and popped ibuprofen like jellybeans.
The plan was a simple in and out and back to bed. But, I should have known better, for no event involving Greeks, food, and wine ever ends predictably. This one went on until nearly midnight, shifting venues along the way.
Today, I’m paying the price for dissolute ways. My back’s out, I’m scratching like a dog with fleas, and wondering what in the world to write for my blog. I feel as if a Kathy Bates Misery moment would be an improvement. BLAA, BLAA.
Whoops, got to run, time to see the doctor. I’ll let you know what happens.
Ahh, relief. It’s just poison ivy, contact dermatitis to be precise. But how, you may ask, did I contract poisoned ivy in the middle of a winter book tour? Perhaps touching up against some contagious sort of material in a book aisle? Possibly, but I doubt it. More likely it’s tied into a two-day break I took clearing brush at my farm. Maybe I should consider this a warning to stick to writing and leave the chainsaw work to critics?
|Office of the world's greatest dermatologist|
How little it takes to cure a writer of kvetching.
Jeff — Saturday