Saturday Night at the Big Y

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Saturday Night at the Big Y

When the lights went out in New York during the great northeast blackout of 1965,  I was browsing with a friend at Georg Jensen,  the upscale Madison Avenue silver shop.   Then all us shoppers held hands,  and in single file we groped our way out to the dark street.  (See Aunt Miriam, Diva)

And some years later I was in a movie theater when I suddenly smelled smoke.  We were told to evacuate and hurried out post-haste.

And more than once at Jane Addams High School in the Bronx where I worked for many years,  the principal ordered the building evacuated after a bomb threat .  (For more about Jane Addams see The Diary of a Young Girl,  Magazines for the Principal,  The Parking Lot Seniority List,  and Educator of the Year – Remembering Milton)

Then in 2012 when Hurricane Sandy made landfall in New York,   we were ordered to leave our apartment building after the basement was flooded knocking out the gas and electricity. (See Cooking with Gas)

And recently I was ordered to evacuate a building once again.

It was a summer weekend in the country we were expecting friends for lox and bagels Sunday brunch.  I planned to shop for what I needed on Saturday.  but the weather was glorious that day and knowing our local Big Y supermarket is open every night until 9,  I didn’t leave for the store until after 6.

All started out well – I got a parking space in the Big Y lot near the shopping cart return,  I remembered to bring my shopping list,  and even remembered my reusable bags.  (Unfortunately I did forget an umbrella.)

Once in the store I walked up and down the aisles filling my cart and crossing items off my list.  But just as I got to the checkout line,  I heard the alarm and then the announcement.

“Attention shoppers!   Leave the store immediately!  The fire alarm has sounded and although there is no smoke or evidence of fire,  according to Fire Department protocol the building must be evacuated.”

And so I abandoned my loaded shopping cart,  and with hundreds of my fellow shoppers I headed for the exits . Then once in the parking lot I found myself in a torrential rainstorm –  with no umbrella.

Very wet,  and with none of the groceries I’d gone for,  I drove home.   Later I called the Big Y to ask what had happened,  and was told fortunately it had been a false alarm,  so early the next morning I went back with my shopping list.

i must say although all my evacuations were stressful to some degree,  and certainly inconvenient,   all were carried out safely and relatively orderly.

But did the Big Y really have to evacuate me on a Saturday night when I had guests coming for Sunday brunch!

 

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Modern Primitives from the gay 90’s

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 In San Francisco in the early 90’s it seemed like everyone from lawyers to street punks was getting pierced and tattooed.   "Body Modification" was the buzzword with tattoo and piercing shops as ubiquitous as Starbucks.   Above a popular sex club sat a large school to train would be piercers.
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Waiting Rooms

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My earliest experiences with waiting rooms were rather non-existent.  That is to say, at 3, my parents rushed me to the ER when my pinky finger was tightly lodged in the fold of a folding chair.  I remember the extraordinary pain and leaving with a splint on the finger.  If I waited, I know it wasn’t long because it would, for me, have been memorable. When 4, I remember arriving on time to my pediatrician’s office, which was in his home, and was immediately ushered into the exam room.  Later, at 8 or 9, while visiting cousins in Toledo, my stomach erupted in fierce pain and so was taken to the ER.  If I had to wait while in extraordinary pain, I know I would have remembered.  What I recall is being taken in immediately and leaving promptly, and thankfully, in good health.

Fast forward to now. Waiting is the epitome (or embodiment) of passivity.  Who’s to say the venerable Triage nurse has aptly assigned patients according to their need, or correct appointment time?  People, let’s take back our power.  How about converting the waiting room into a game of musical chairs. Someone starts a tune on their smart phone and all the waiters rush to sit in a chair before the tune stops.  Inevitably, someone will be left standing. Let the loser be the winner and he or she gets to go in first.

The world’s gone crazy, why shouldn’t the waiting room follow suit?

Waiting Rooms: Tales of Torture and Triumph

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Ah, waiting rooms. Those fluorescent-lit purgatories where childhood dreams went to die a slow, magazine-fueled death. Remember those giant, uncomfortable chairs swallowing you whole like a bad couch on “Laugh-In”? The only escape? Dog-eared copies of National Geographic filled with pictures of naked butts and confusing maps of exotic lands (where, presumably, dentists/ doctors were offices were much nicer).

Today’s waiting rooms are a different breed entirely. Gone are the overflowing ashtrays and stale coffee (replaced by dubious “healthy” snacks that taste like cardboard). Now, we’re bombarded with flat-screen TVs showcasing endless loops of colonoscopies and happy families getting their wisdom teeth yanked. Who needs National Geographic when you can watch actual medical procedures in glorious high definition?

But the anxiety? That, my friends, is timeless. Back then, it was the fear of the unknown – what monstrous instrument lurked behind that closed door? Today, it’s the fear of the bill. Will this visit wipe out my entire retirement fund? Are they secretly filming us for a new season of “Grey’s Anatomy”?

Still, there’s a certain camaraderie in the waiting room. A shared understanding that we’re all just pawns in the grand game of healthcare. You strike up conversations with strangers about their bunions and their grandchildren, united by the universal desire to get the heck out of there. Back when, it was comparing Pokemon cards and wondering if the fish tank actually contained live fish (spoiler alert: it too often did not).

So, the next time you find yourself trapped in a waiting room, take a deep breath, Boomers. Remember, it’s not just you. We’re all in this crazy, sometimes uncomfortable big blue boat together. Just try not to stare at the person next to you who keeps practicing their golf swing with a rolled-up magazine.

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