It's the Ides of March
Today is the Ides of March, which, in case you're interested, is the anniversary of Julius Caesar's assassination. I always remember and acknowledge esoteric and fundamentally useless dates, like the anniversary of Paul Revere's ride (April 18), Beethoven's birthday (December 16), Bastille Day (July 14), Mardi Gras (usually in February but I always have to look it up), Bill Clinton's birthday (the day my first dog was born, August 19), Princess Diana's birthday (July 1, also Canada Day), and day of death (August 31, my brother's birthday), Pearl Harbor Day (December 7), and All Saints Day (November 1; yes, I'm Jewish, but it's my birthday).
As I am the repository of all this essential information (let me assure you, I get endless phone calls from friends and strangers who desperately need to be reminded of Beethoven's birthday so they can plan their parties), I have little space in my head for more mundane facts like Monday holidays or when tax estimates are due. Every Memorial Day, MLK Day and Veteran's Day I fretfully check the mailbox several times; for tax days I leave myself notes and alarms, and my sister and I call to remind each other. After a few years of chafing over our fiscal incompetence our father gave up and began calling and emailing reminders to both of us. There's no doubt she and I are related; if we didn't look like our dad I think he'd have his doubts we were related to him.
A few years ago, BC (that's before Cleo), Robey and I had just returned to town on New Year's Eve after a week away. The next morning I called a grocery store to find out when they opened. No answer. 8am, 8.30 am, 9 am, still no answer. Around 9.30 I began to suspect maybe they might not be open on New Year's Day. What to do? What to do?
I called the Ritz hotel, figuring hotels are open every day, and the operator confirmed that all grocery stores were closed. This presented quite a dilemma, since not only did we have no food in the house, but a major blizzard was on its way and we very likely would be socked in and have to resort to eating tree bark and dog chow, and maybe even the dogs eventually, and since they were mostly hair we'd probably starve to death anyway. The very helpful operator suggested that 7-11 was probably open, so I called a 7-11 and they said they had one carton of milk left but they wouldn't hold it for me. Robey and I threw sweatshirts over our pajamas and raced out the door; on the way I realized I had no idea where to find the 7-11, so we stopped at Walgreens instead, bought their last milk, eggs and canned peaches, then ran to the deli across the street where we waited 45 minutes to buy cold cuts, trying very hard not to be recognized by the many people there that we knew since neither of us had even brushed our teeth that morning.
As the snow was beginning to fall we stopped at one of the hospitals near our house, figuring people are sick and babies are born every day. There we picked up wilted lettuce, cottage cheese and nearly-expired yogurt from their salad bar.
And that's what we ate for four days until the driveway was cleared. The dogs were relieved.
As I am the repository of all this essential information (let me assure you, I get endless phone calls from friends and strangers who desperately need to be reminded of Beethoven's birthday so they can plan their parties), I have little space in my head for more mundane facts like Monday holidays or when tax estimates are due. Every Memorial Day, MLK Day and Veteran's Day I fretfully check the mailbox several times; for tax days I leave myself notes and alarms, and my sister and I call to remind each other. After a few years of chafing over our fiscal incompetence our father gave up and began calling and emailing reminders to both of us. There's no doubt she and I are related; if we didn't look like our dad I think he'd have his doubts we were related to him.
A few years ago, BC (that's before Cleo), Robey and I had just returned to town on New Year's Eve after a week away. The next morning I called a grocery store to find out when they opened. No answer. 8am, 8.30 am, 9 am, still no answer. Around 9.30 I began to suspect maybe they might not be open on New Year's Day. What to do? What to do?
I called the Ritz hotel, figuring hotels are open every day, and the operator confirmed that all grocery stores were closed. This presented quite a dilemma, since not only did we have no food in the house, but a major blizzard was on its way and we very likely would be socked in and have to resort to eating tree bark and dog chow, and maybe even the dogs eventually, and since they were mostly hair we'd probably starve to death anyway. The very helpful operator suggested that 7-11 was probably open, so I called a 7-11 and they said they had one carton of milk left but they wouldn't hold it for me. Robey and I threw sweatshirts over our pajamas and raced out the door; on the way I realized I had no idea where to find the 7-11, so we stopped at Walgreens instead, bought their last milk, eggs and canned peaches, then ran to the deli across the street where we waited 45 minutes to buy cold cuts, trying very hard not to be recognized by the many people there that we knew since neither of us had even brushed our teeth that morning.
As the snow was beginning to fall we stopped at one of the hospitals near our house, figuring people are sick and babies are born every day. There we picked up wilted lettuce, cottage cheese and nearly-expired yogurt from their salad bar.
And that's what we ate for four days until the driveway was cleared. The dogs were relieved.
