A Short but Pithy Botany Lesson for Dummies

This is a plant.  It is a living thing meaning that is very different from a stapler or hat rack. It needs watering.  If it doesn’t get enough water, it will likely wither and start to droop. This will make you feel guilty especially when you come home from vacation in Maine where you were lounging about for 10 days and realize that you didn’t water it or ask your neighbors to water it, which is a really easy thing to do if you are open to having a conversation with your neighbors*.  Very often if you water it, it can be revived.  This is an amazing process to witness so pay attention.  Within several hours, the withering leaves which you might mistake for complete plant death will  begin to perk up and the plant will live again.  If you actually stand there and watch it, you may be able to detect a slight bit of movement which will thrill you and make you feel connected to nature.  You might even coax the plant along – like touching its leaves gently.  Wow, nature is soft!  Oooh, and dusty.  This is not normal.  Plants should not be coated in dust,  This means your house may be dusty and you might want to think about tidying up a little.   And yes, you can dust your plant.  Perhaps from time to time you can move your plant around the house – try putting it in the sunlight.  Sometimes it will respond quite favorably.  Plants really enjoy sunlight.  This is because they use the energy of the sun to photosynthesize to help them create energy so they can live.  This is a natural process and is very cool to read about if you have the time.  You can also go back to your 8^th grade science project on photosynthesis to jog your memory.  Ask your mom about this. It is likely she still has it in a box in the basement somewhere labeled “Kids’ memorabilia”, (unless she is not the sentimental type, in which case, it probably was incinerated long ago.)  It is also very natural for rain to help plants grow, but it doesn’t rain in your home (unless you live outside) or have very substantial leaks so that’s why watering is important.

"The Puss": An Ode to the Greatest Cat Who Ever Lived.

He came from a line of strays on the streets of New York City, so who knows what kind of genes accompanied him into his little life.  My brother and I had only known that the “Free Kittens” sign on a lamppost in front of the neighborhood “Cat lady’s” house meant a cute furry companion for our childhood.  We had made up a song and dance routine (“We really want a kitten, yeah!”) aimed at convincing  my parents that we would be loving and responsible cat owners. Somehow, our side show worked and days later a cautious but curious kitten with a perfect black tuxedo coat and sharp willowy whiskers crept out of a box and into our lives. 

His name, “Mischief” was quickly discarded for the moniker “The Puss”, bequeathed by my dad who had been less than thrilled about this addition to the family. All of his fears about having an animal in an apartment were, in fact, realized.  The Puss peed in places where he shouldn’t have,  broke lamps, scratched furniture, vomited on rugs, got stuck in the washing machine; and there were weeks when my brother and I didn’t clean the litter box, forgot to brush his fur, and our living space was littered with hairballs and the salty scent of stale cat urine. 

Terrorized by a Cheerio

I am trapped in a small room alone with a blonde 2 year old staring at me from a polka dot stroller.  He’s the son of my patient who couldn’t find childcare this morning for our nutrition counseling appointment.

“Will you watch him for a couple minutes while I run to the bathroom?” she had asked, wiping some sort of sweet potato goop off  her sweater.  “Sure!”  I had said, “No problem”.  But it is a problem, because I have no idea what to do with a 2 year old for 2 minutes. I don’t have children, don’t want them, never have, and have mostly equated spending time with them to being on an awkward first date which I’m eager to see end.  Usually, during these  uncoordinated moments, someone else has been around to fill in the blanks, make the faces, show the magic tricks, know the latest lego’s.  Sitting here, staring back at this tot in Baby Gap’s finest, my head is a cavern of “I’ve got nothing.” .My dozen or so babysitting experiences from 25 years ago yield no brilliant ideas and I feel like an actor suddenly transported into a play whose script I don’t have.

I’m a nutritionist who works with adults battling health issues.  I listen to medical histories,  explore eating behaviors, educate on mineral deficiencies, and recommend ways to lower cholesterol, and avoid gluten.  Amidst a sea of knowledge of the latest studies on fish oil, turmeric and avocados, I realize I am completely inadequate when it comes to toddler speak.

My 2nd Toe, Emergent...

My 2^nd toe  on each foot is perpetually sticking out of my socks. It is the longest toe I have and stretches an extra centimeter or 2 beyond all the others.  My mom has said this is a sign of aristocracy.  I’m not sure what that means or if it is a good thing or a bad thing but it has always made me feel better.

How is it possible for there to be so many oddly shaped and sized feet?  There are times when I look at others’ feet and am bemused and befuddled by how different they are from mine.  Upon inspection in steam rooms or yoga classes, I see how wide, thin, buniony, dry, thick, bony and various permutations of the above others’ feet are.   I look at my feet and judge them. Sometimes they look elegant and graceful and thin and lovely.  Other times they appear to be misshapen and arthritic and veiny. I haven’t decided if I like them at all.  They seem long and gangly and look much better with nail polish on the toes.

 My ankles are the skinniest ankles I have ever seen.  I’m surprised that my ankle bone doesn’t jut out of the sock the way the 2^nd toe does, it’s so goddamned pointy! I would say I cannot stand it, but I make it my goal to not dislike any part of my body because that is just ridiculous to not like a part of what you were born with and cannot change (although a surgeon in Palm Beach would beg to differ.)  Why should you like or NOT like it?  Do dogs bemoan the length of their tails in comparison to other tails?  NO!  They simply live with their tails and life goes on and is great.  So who told me It’s NOT ok to have my goddamned 2^nd toe tower over the others?  Why shouldn’t it tower?  What’s wrong with a little towering?    They  look a little goofy in sandals, I will say that, that 2^nd toe leaning over the edge of the tip.  I will often get a hint of the people of Nazareth when all I want is to look cute and feminine. They often appear almost manly but in a dainty way.  I have skinny manly feet.

And do I replace the socks?  Well, not always,  I often wear socks with both my 2^nd toes are peeking out saying help to the world, getting a breath of fresh air.

Gosh, It's Great to See You!

It’s so great to see you! I’m really glad we’re taking time out of our busy schedules to spend quality time together over coffee. Is it possible that the last time I saw you was at Jennifer’s wedding? I still cannot get over those dresses she had us all wear. But I guess that’s what you do for old friends.  But seriously. it’s been way too long and I’d love to tell you how things are going in my life and hear about all your latest adventures. 

First, let me just get my I-phone out and put it on the table in case it buzzes or wants to ding and tell me that someone has liked my post from yesterday, which I thought was super creative.  Did you read it?  It was a quote from Maya Angelou about loving oneself and not being afraid. Something like “Our deepest fear is all about…something...” Didn’t we take a women’s studies class in college together where we dissected one of her poems for like 6 weeks? Oh wait, let me just bring it up and I can show you.  Here it is. 

Omigod, someone commented on it.  ‘You go girl!” That is so sweet!  I love Facebook.

 Oh, and my friend Laura just posted photos of her new baby! 

When I was 5 I Loved...

When I was 5 I loved:

• Bradley
• That stuffed Toto dog that grew grayer every month
• A green bikini I wore in Mexico - paraded around as I munched on mangoes
• Bienvenudo, my invisible dragon I imagined on the end of my invisible leash

When I was 10 I loved:

• Zachary
• Stickers that puffed out, glowed in the dark, whirled around on the page of my scrapbook
• Rice Krispie Treats melting in my mouth
• Pirates of Penzance, the Mikado and Annie whom I was sure I would play one day

When I was 25 I loved:

• John
• That enormous coffee table that could have fit us both inside
• Earring,s one of which always ended up going missing
• The gatherings in my home of women telling stories, making us laugh, strutting their wares

Now at 43 I love

• Keith
• Kale
• Whidbey Island
• Any sign that the world might be a better place than I think it is
• The feeling of possibility when it is finally 75 degrees and I can think

I Look Good in Plaid

I look quite good in plaid.  Red plaid, to be specific. Red plaid pants with a matching red plaid vest to be even more specific. Red plaid pants and matching red plaid vest with a pumpkin colored shirt underneath just to make the plaid really “pop” according to my mom in 1979. 

I am at my friend Eve’s 9^th birthday party. It is February and I have slept over the night before as she is my best friend and I have special 2 nights in a row privileges.   My red plaid suit is packed in my overnight bag, along with my brother’s long underwear that has been handed down to me after he outgrew it.  Until I was 19 years old, I have never had a pair of long underwear without a penis pouch in the front.  Why do men’s long underwear last for so long??  It is cold and the long underwear is necessary, according to my mom, who turns out is almost always right, especially when part of the birthday party involves going for a horse and buggy ride in central park.  Did I mention it is February?

The #2 Pencil Incident

We are fighting over Monopoly money…again.  Or, no, wait, we are making prank phone calls.  Yes, that’s it.  Calling random numbers, (which you can do before “caller ID” is introduced 10 years later) and asking the person on the end of the receiver, “Good afternoon, Ma’am. Is your refrigerator running?”. “Yes,” she says. “Then you better go catch it!” we screech in unison, slamming our mother’s beige rotary phone back down, keeling over with guffaws as we imagine the perplexed face of our victim.

It is one of those rare afternoons after school when we are getting along. We dial another number after looking up a name in the kitchen phone book: “Ron Whitehead”.  He answers.

 “Is this Mr. Blackhead?”  my brother, Chris inquires, attempting to lower  his voice an octave. 

 “No, this is Mr. Whitehead.”  Chris grins at me, eyebrows raised in a “Watch this” expression, and I am suddenly in collusion. 

 “Sorry, must have called the wrong pimple!” he blurts and presses the push button, leaving the phone dangling off the hook as we “slap each other five”.   I am not clear on what a blackhead is, but I assume it’s hilarious because my big brother has told me as much and he is laughing and so I join in.

10 THINGS I KNOW I WON'T HAVE TIME TO GET TO TODAY

  

1. Applying lipstick to my plant
2. Looking up reasons why Ryan Gosling is not as smart as he is pretty
3.  Eliminating the word “whatever” from my lexicon
4. Doing that 10 minute ab workout
5.  Confirming that my mom received my email last Tuesday
6.  Making up excuses for why i like to make up excuses
7.  Clipping coupons that have already expired
8.  Tickling myself
9. Examining my arm for areas that look different than they did yesterday.
10.  Eating an entire head of lettuce

$17.50

$17.50

By Mary Purdy

We are standing side by side at the counter when I hear her say, “It’s my birthday today.” 

I turn to her and squeal, “It’s my birthday today too!  Happy birthday!”

There isn’t  much of a response.  I think I hear a quick intake of breath, but she doesn’t look at me.  I hand over my driver’s license to the woman behind the counter.

 “You get half off your entry to the spa today,” she says and I grin in anticipation of this yearly treat I give myself.   I can hear my fellow Aquarian having the same conversation with another woman behind the counter.

 “I thought  it was free on your birthday,” she  says.

 “Oh, no, we changed that policy last year,”  the woman behind the counter responds.  As I start to sign the credit card bill for $17.50 I can see the woman next to me exiting the building.  I turn to the women behind the counter.

MY NEXT FLU

My next flu will be so much better than this one.  It will be fun and have a sense of humor and come with confetti and wind chimes.  I will have  a robot for a tea pot which I  can remotely access and turn off and on to create tea without having to get out of bed or call my husband, and by “ call”, I mean  scrounge up enough energy in my vocal cords to meekly warble “Keith” into the air.

Letter From Blitzen

Dear Prancer,

Hey  you kooky Caribou!  How goes it?  Me  and the gang sure miss you, especially at this season.  It’s just not the same without you.  Yup, it's that time of year again when we get the goddamned reigns strapped to  our haunches and have to drag about 3000 friggin tons of toys clear across the world in 12 hours.  Can you believe we are still doing this shit?  Hey, you gotta be happy for a job, especially in this economy.  Plus, I’m super grateful for the health benefits.    The herd has been in and out of Santaland Clinic a lot this year.    Dasher had a herniated disc,  Cupid got parasites  and Rudolph has gone in for 2 colonoscopies.   Turns out everyone here, including the Clauses,  is Vitamin D deficient!

Ode to the Vegan Homeless Guy Who is Allowed to Hang Out at My Office After 5pm

How marvelous is your muddled mind as you glide past my office door talking gibberish after 5pm when most patients and doctors have gone home.

How wonderful are your words of politics and veganism strung together haphazardly into non-sensical sentences and questions for which you never stick around long enough to hear the answer.

How glorious is your gaze which looks downwards, sideways or beyond mine, never meeting my eyes, or looking quickly away when I attempt to glance in your direction.

Letter to the Teller with the Green & Blue Tie at Key Bank on 45th St.

Dear Teller with the green and blue tie at Key Bank on 45^th St.  in Wallingford (name unknown),

Hi and how are things these days? You may or may not remember me, but you have been on my mind since I steamed out of the bank on October 25^th,  my deposit of $546.27 in 3 separate checks left at your station.   I was late, my fault not yours.   You said that it was only your 2nd day there, but understand, I had found myself faced with an empty carton of almond milk upon that morning, worn some especially scratchy socks,  and it was the 6th time in a row over the past month that I tried to make a deposit at one of your branches where the machine had broken down, the computer had misread  a check or someone’s human hands had punched in inaccurate numbers elongating my time at the window by at least 74 extra seconds with tellers on Brooklyn Avenue,  on 34th St, and yes, also others at your 45th St. branch, I’m afraid to say.  FYI - you are not the only employee there who has appeared mystified by the process of depositing checks. I was in a  kind of huff not to be tempered and clearly didn't have time to linger at your window.

A Letter to Tina Fey

Dear Tina Fey,

Ok,  so  this isn’t really an “Extremely Urgent letter from the IRS”.  I apologize.  I only put that on the envelope so that there might be a better chance of your opening it.  And if you are reading this, it worked!  I hope I didn’t give you too much of a scare.  I have no connection to the IRS whatsoever, thankfully, (except that I happily pay my taxes every year.)*

And yes, it’s another fan letter applauding your merits: how you’ve paved  the way for other female comedy writers, how you’ve created opportunities for funny female performers, what a page turner your book “Bossy Pants” was…  But wait, wait, wait, I sense you yawning.  Before you toss this letter aside,  allow me to get a little more personal and…surreal.

I am a Registered Dietitian in Seattle, counseling patients daily around a variety of nutrition-related medical issues.  (Don’t worry, I won’t judge you for the large amount of donuts and hotdogs that you write about consuming in Bossy Pants.)  But strangely, as I read your book,  I completely lost track of who I was and where I lived.  (My pre-Nutritionist life was that of ravenous New York City actor and writer, forever trying to catch a break in the male dominated world of comedy.)   I was suddenly living in Manhattan,  another version of myself reading the book in my Upper West Side apartment, with the Bodega on the corner, the 2/3 train a block away and the dramatic feeling of possibility.  Not only was I transported to this other dimension, but as I experienced your story, I also felt like I was back re-living my own former New York story alongside it, less successful, of course, but that didn’t matter. (I’ve come to peace with my new kale and quinoa promoting status.)  My blood was churning with excitement as I got to witness your success as a comedian which somehow felt like mine and that of all women who are sick of getting stuck in either  the “sexless mother” or “sexy hooker” roles on stage and screen. I was internally cheering and clapping for you, like a proud soccer mom, or an annoying but lovable little sister (even though I am a year older than you and do my best to be lovable but not annoying). And then I realized I wasn’t only clapping for you, but clapping for all the funny ladies out there whose voices have yet to be heard, or who are drowned out by boisterous boys who still believe that talking about their penises holds great interest for the population.  “Keep going!” I found myself thinking to you.  (I say  “think” because I didn’t actually say “keep going” aloud to you, but I did think it.) 

And, I’ll be honest, you do come across as maybe a little bit on the mean side in your book, but that’s ok!  I don’t need for you to be nice.  I don’t need for you to be warm and cuddly and complimentary of my new haircut or sorry about the fact that I lost yet another scarf. I have friends and a husband for that. (Yes, my husband actually notices when I get my hair cut!  Can you believe it?  I’m so lucky.) As you mentioned in your book, a turning point for you was embracing Amy Poehlers’ aphorism “I don’t fucking care what you think”,  so I’ll say what I think in this letter because you don’t “fucking care” and I think that is awesome.  If more women stopped “fucking caring” about what others thought, the world would have a lot more books/plays/screenplays written by women and L’oreal might be out of business.

So, I thank you. Somewhere, on another plane (I say “plane” meaning  astral plane of some kind, not that I’m sure these exist, but I’d like to think that they do) that other version of myself is still reading your book, is inspired, encouraged and  has not given up hope or lost her nerve.  And then back on this plane – the one where I am a spirulina-loving Registered Dietitian in Seattle who now writes and performs as a hobby instead of  a heartbreaking career, I say aloud “keep going!” 

Thank you for allowing two versions of me to exist at once and both be satiated.

Sincerely, Mary Purdy

P.S. can you let me know if the “Extremely Urgent letter from the IRS” bit worked?  I’d like to use that again in my letters to Amy Sedaris and Kirsten Wiig.

*I put this in there, just in case my letter was seen as “suspicious” and somehow diverted to the IRS.  Hello, IRS - I didn’t mean to dis-respect.  I know there are letters from the real IRS that are truly urgent. Thanks, IRS, for all you do!  Please disregard my p.s. to Tina.  I was just joking. 

THE BIG CHILLY

 I hate being cold.  And “hate” may not even be an accurate word.  The phrase “I hate being cold” almost sounds like the beginnings of a love poem compared to the feelings I have around the sensation of chilliness.   I mean, I absolutely DETEST being cold from the bottom of my wimpy, skinny soul.   Not only do I shiver and whine, but the inner core of every cellular structure in my body feels so assaulted and immobilized by an icy breeze, that I feel less than functional.  And the thing is, I am cold…all the time.  So why, why do I live in Seattle where damp and wintry days make up the bulk of our year, even in summer?  Well, first off, I have a steady job and own a home (which is usually freezing).  But secondly, Seattle has this way of convincing you to stay for the 9 days of the year when it’s just fucking beyond belief gorgeous.  It’s like a vicious lover who treats you poorly and doesn’t call, but when he shows up in that t-shirt, jeans and windblown hair, damn, he just looks so good, you can’t leave.  So I suffer through the fall and winter months, a heating pad tucked under the covers at night, a pair of bootie slippers at the bedside  ready for toes to be submerged into after surfacing from underneath the down comforter that I insist on despite the fact that it makes my husband, Keith a tad sneezy.  Long underwear, close fitting tees and, my latest discovery, “arm warmers” are all hidden under my outer layer of clothing making me a good inch thicker in every direction,  and all the more resentful of the sundresses and shorts gathering dust in the closet.

Standing Again for The First Time (or, "My Dad's New Feet")

My parents have lived in the same apartment in New York City for over thirty years. When they bought their home, the Upper West Side neighborhood was sketchy; I was mugged just two blocks from home on my tenth birthday. But the place is huge and it has an incredible view overlooking the Hudson River and Riverside Park.  It’s filled with relics that my parents have collected from their years of trips and residencies overseas. Naked statues from Africa and Asia sit coupled on many shelves, with genitalia that reach out and wrap around each other’s necks, Tibetan Tonkas adorn several walls, and batiks runners line every surface. For years, even the TV was covered by a batik screen in order to minimize what my parents considered to be an eyesore in the house. Beautiful dishes from my great grandparents are on permanent display—cut-glass bowls, an old silver tea set.  The apartment is elegantly homey with an ethnic flair, and my parents relish the time they spend there together.  Every morning for thirty years, they’ve sat in bed overlooking the river as they have their coffee—my dad on the right side, my mom on the left—talking about their days, their memories, their kids, and anything else that occurs to them over French Roast and steamed milk.  

The Smell of Donuts Still Makes Me Cry: A Tale of Environmentally Friendly Tears

       I am not normally prone to weeping.  I’ll sniffle occasionally at a Meryl Streep movie or an episode of Emergency Vets.  You might hear me choke up in an attempt to speak about a loved one at some ceremonious occasion.  But one does not generally find me in a crumpled ball surrounded by a flood of salty tears.  Until…I decided to buy a new car.

Inspired by my Seattle surroundings, I was seriously going green. I ate local.  I purchased recycled toilet paper, environmentally-friendly dishwashing, clothes-washing, face-cleansing, body-scrubbing, counter-cleaning products, and I started composting….everything, including the hair from my hairbrush. I flushed when necessary, forwent one shower each week on the minimal sweating days when I had no plans for any exceptionally close hugging.  Most of what I owned: clothes, furniture, electronics, had originally been, in their newness, in the hands of someone else. As I began to scan the larger contributors to my carbon footprint, I saw potential further eco-salvation in the purchase of an alternative car that relied not on Chevron but on the transformed substance from the discards of the local greasy spoon: Biodiesel.

Bud Light and I Take a Ride

And the judge bellows: “Mary Purdy, you are charged with ‘disturbing the peace’.  How do you plead?” A soft chirp is all I can muster. “Guilty”. 

Now, I have never been someone who has gotten into trouble nor did I have the desire for engaging in harmful mischievous activity in my youth.  I still suffer a twinge of guilt when reminded that, I, at 6 years old once covertly covered a large pile of dog poop with pebbles and then suggested to my afternoon playmate that jumping into the “pile of pebbles” would be a fun game for which she should definitely go first.

I was a “model student”- polite, courteous, never obsequious, but very respectful of others.  I managed to always have a bit of an angelic reputation and was voted “The nicest” in my grade.  Aside from that poop pebble aberration, I wasn’t really one to test the test the boundaries, and I soon came to realize that if I were to do something wrong, no one would ever suspect me.   I remember my freshman year, I had eaten an orange in the school library - a major no no but I was hungry.  Ms. McCormick, the fierce librarian, came scurrying around the corner, led by the obvious smell. 

“Who is eating an orange in here?”  She shrieked. (At that point, the orange was in my stomach, the rind in the trash)  She looked around at the silent students.  Then she looked at me.

 “Well, I know it wasn’t YOU, Mary.”

Disturbing the peace.  There IS no peace in Panama City Florida during Spring Break. It is its own battleground of booze, bimbos and brawn.   Nature and all things natural seem to have packed their bags and left permanently. Everyone there is half drunk, half intelligent, half naked (even in 45 degree weather) and shouting obscenities to each other from car to car on the main drag and  interrupted only by the call and response “Woo!”  “Woo!”  And music blasts and blares out of every vehicle at every hour of the night.  There is no peace in Panama City.  None.

The "Penis Man"

It was February 2^nd, 1979 and my best friend, Eve and I had just finished reading “Harriet the Spy”, a book about  a 10 year old girl who loved peeking into the lives of others and recording everything into her black and white bound notebook.  By February 9th each of us had our own black and white notebooks into which we poured the thoughts, observations, ideas and experiences that we 9 year olds felt merited codifying.  

“Angela uses her hairbrush in public! That’s weird,”  Eve wrote on one of her pages.  “I wonder if trees pee,” I wrote on one of mine.   We packed the notebook with important facts: “I got a new barrette.”  “ Eve and I both love peanut butter.”    “Today, the Ms. Pac Man game was broken at the store so we bought hot chocolate instead." And so on.  It was mostly excruciating minutia from the lives of the one-digited age group, but the knowledge that these tidbits were being set into written history was sensational.

We would sit by the window of my parents’ bedroom, in their New York City apartment and peer down at the passersby below in Riverside Park, making up stories about each person, their history, their destination, the way they walked and looked around. We honed our observation skills in order to find clues that would be integral to solving the mystery of why people go to the park. There was a guy with brown shoes and a yellow down jacket who walked his dog every day and never picked up the poop.  We watched him looking around to see if anyone noticed him sidestepping away from the steaming pile.  We jotted it down in our notebooks, eyeing each other with knowing spy glances.  He hadn’t escaped our elementary microscope, and if the feds came searching for the culprit who left the load of dog doo on that grassy patch,  we’d be more than happy to give them a read of page 26 date March 31^st, 1979. We felt in the know, guided by intuition and eager to put together puzzle pieces that would enlighten the masses about human behavior.