Author Archives: 40andover

China

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Why do we refer to that vast expanse and culturally diverse land simply as “China”? Each region is so distinct, with its cultural, tribal and religious nuances and, as we see in the news, bloody clashes. I know nothing about China, but it seems that describing China without at least specifying a region is a little like trying to describe all of the Americas in one thought. And we know that there is no unifying generality that applies to all of the Americas.

We need to understand China, because in this world it is hard to be so ignorant of 1 billion people.

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Being the other mother

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I am not my son’s biological mother. My partner is. There are distinct advantages to being genetically irrelevant: no worries that the less-than-stellar genes I carry (recessive, of course) will transfer to my son. I can say that he is adorable and that he is smart, because I have nothing to do with those. The down side is that I don’t see my mother in him and she was such a positive life force.

I live the nature/nurture debate. I think humans are born hard-wired and nurture doesn’t change that. Nurture can create a safe, loving, encouraging environment so that a child’s better impulses, desires and dreams can flourish. That’s my job. It is hard sometimes because there is something about the biological connection that is primitive and similarly hard-wired.

I worry about my place in my son’s life. I have a piece of paper — court ordered adoption. I am legally and financially as responsible for him as is any biological parent. But that is no bright line upon which to stake my parental claim. Certainly if family were decided based on “blood” relations, I would lose. Court order sounds strong but it is paper and in “rock, paper, scissors,” I would lose to the scissors. So, it can’t be that strong.

I know I love him and he loves me. That’s the tie that binds. The rest shouldn’t matter. But until love is the litmus test for family, I am glad I have the piece of paper.

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Losing my mother — 6.5 years later

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Dear Mom:

Tomorrow is your grandson’s 7th birthday.  You died one day shy of his being six months old.  That means today is 6 and 1/2 years since you died.  I can’t believe it. There is no “moving on” after your death; there is only “moving with” your memory and wishing you were here. Next to the computer is a picture of you holding him after his bris and I am sitting with you on your left. The person on your right (unseen in the photo) said something tremendously stupid because I can see it in your eyes. But I know that look — you were measuring your response to an inane statement. In fact, I have that same look on my face in the picture. Genes are amazing things, except you would have responded with something perfectly diplomatic but to the point. I would have responded like Larry King did when he interviewed Jean Harris (who killed the Scarsdale diet doctor), “so, you’re a murderer”.

You live in me and as I age I look more and more like you. This comforts me. But I need for your grandson to know you or know about you, so he can appreciate the remarkable person who was his grandmother.

I tell him about you all the time.  I use those Yiddish phrases that you used with us when you cupped our punims adoringly.  Sometimes, I tell him what Grandma would have said if she were alive because I want him to have a sense of you. So if he does something funny or wonderful or if he needs comforting, I tell him what you would have said to him if you were alive.

A few months ago, we were all in a cab after visiting Dad.  I buckled up and put your grandson on my lap and “strapped him in” with my arms forming the “Grandma grip” (which he knows comes from your legendary strong grip on your children’s arms when crossing streets).  The cab stopped short and everyone else went flying (though, thank G-d, no one was hurt).  Your grandson was safe in the Grandma grip.  That is the image of you I want him to carry with him — the strong, protective love that endures even though you are in Heaven.

I wonder if you would like my blog and would send the link to all of your friends. I wonder if you would comment. You would probably send me direct tweets that said, “be nice” in that slightly chastising way you have. You would worry about Sarah Palin’s daughter being so young to have had a child and tell me to be gentle about that. But, you needn’t worry. I, too, feel that the world is too much upon her. It is her mother who makes me crazy(ier).

Mom, this is not getting easier. And I know you would say to me, “my poor little tsatskele, if I could have this sadness for you, I would.” And that’s the catch: so much more to mourn.

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Another bus experience

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I’m on the M5. So far nothing totally gross to report. But then again we’re only at 59th Street. Ooh, some prospects for the freak show just got on. We’re waiting, we’re waiting . . . . A whole block and nothing. What gives? No one is on the phone uttering the immortal line, “Yeah, I’m like on the bus” or “I went to my gynecologist and . . .”. Is this NY? Is this public transportation?

Ah, a woman on her cell phone. Phew. I thought I was transported to Oz (or worse, Kansas). The previously reported contestants for the freak show disembarked without incident.  Oh no, how will I handle near-gentility in a New York bus?

Ok, a man got on who could have been Bachelor No. 3 on the Dating Game or a swinging guy in a 1970s moving about a singles building complex starring Julie Newmar. Leisure suits, over-sized glasses brushed-back hair. Maybe “Love, American Style” (ok, you need to be in your 50s to remember that). Not a natural fiber on him. Phew, New York has not failed me.

Ok, Grace is raining down on me. A man who is eating salt water taffy is trying to get it out of the crevices of his teeth without using his fingers. The facial contortions are remarkable.

Ah, now more action — homeys with some neck action and attitude being bothered by everything. I best not be in their sphere of space although it always extends as far as the next person so somehow it can be inconvenient. That neck movement coupled with the facial contortions of taffy man has really made this trip interesting. “That’s right” plus a lip-smacking sound implying disgust plus a neck jerk and an eye roll.

Other important questions raised on this ride: Why do grey haired white men think they can get away without shaving for a day or two? How do women with scary nails take their metro cards out of their wallets without scratching the operative strip? How do they wipe their tooshies without creating scar tissue?

My stop. More another time.

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Being the accidental audience

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Ok, forget what I said about subdued subway rides. A guy starts a story, in a booming voice, with, “hey, I’m not an asshole, but . . .” so I know that I don’t want to hear this. I am the accidental audience again. After only one station stop, it is clear that he is wrong. He IS an asshole. Big time. (In the interests of proper attribution, in those last two sentences, I am paraphrasing a conversation between the former president and vice president, Messrs. Bush and Cheney.)

I switched to the express train. No one has boundaries. Everything must be said in the loudest possible voice. Did I miss a revision to the basic rules of civilized society? I don’t need to hear about a child in jail or the trials and tribulations of a 20-something as she readied for a weekend in the Hamptons.

I catch a look of me in the reflection of the glass of the subway doors. I am not such a pretty picture this Friday morning. Hair didn’t dry quite right and I need to lose a few pounds to wear this outfit. So I guess I fit well into the subway scene. Hey, at least I am quiet.

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More transportation experiences — you gotta read this

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Now with the economic downturn, I don’t travel so much (if you discount the epic sojourns below Manhattan everyday).

Recently, I was travelling and stayed in a ni-i-i-i-ice hotel  (as in ahhhhh, this is like 2006).

Coming home was a hassle. Because of weather and work I had to change my flight constantly (actually, my assistant who has the patience of the Muslim equivalent of a saint changed the flights constantly).

I was tagged by Homeland Security precisely because I changed flights so many times in a short time period. I was put into one of those orgasmatrons (for those of you who saw the movie, Sleeper) that works like a fully body glaucoma test (spirts of air all over) and then all of my belongings were tested for trace explosives.  A woman with gloves literally aired my dirty laundry as she looked for trace evidence. The episode reminded me of the time I was maybe 7 years old and my great aunt Fanny held up “panties” (that word makes me shudder to this day) that she bought me as a GIFT. A gift of panties from your great aunt Fanny is not something from which one recovers. Ever.  I wondered whether there was a stress counselor on premises. For me, it is a worse horror show than Wife of Chucky.  But I digress. So everyone around saw what I wore on my trip. No fancy lingerie so it was not THAT kind of trip. Yet, I am not sure if I am ok with everyone’s so quickly getting bored with the display and moving on with their lives. No garter, no crowd, I guess is the lesson I learned.

There was a woman who refused to take off her bangle-like serpentine
bracelet. She was in the middle-aged, over-tanned white woman demographic.
Her answer was that she travels so much, if she kept taking it off, she
would have to bend it to the point of breaking. When the security officer asked if she would take it off for $1,000,000 she said that she had had a gold version and she took it off because she had a gun pointed to her head and that now she downgraded to silver. Ok too much information and totally non-responsive. She saw my stunned look and mistook it for the horror of what happened rather than the horror of having to know so much about her life. So, she started to go into detail and so I had to say that I had all the information I ever wanted about her bracelets.

Eventually, I passed the checkpoint with those stellarly trained TSA personnel. Same people who, in 2002, made my then 74 year-old mother with metastatic breast cancer (and looked it) take off her wig. Because a dirty bomb would have been under her wig.

Finally I was able to proceed to the departure lounge (a misnomer, but for another blog entry). Ok, there is a guy openly, unashamedly and unabashedly reading a girlie magazine. Not Penthouse or Playboy, but cleavage is wildly evident on the cover.  But wait, it’s a woman!  It is San Francisco after all. This is not a gay/straight issue (it can’t be because I am gay). This is a generational issue.  This is an I remember Stonewall and life in the closet and you don’t generation gap issue.  I do know (because I hold on to some pretense of hipness) I am not supposed to use a pronoun which presumes a gender designation but, REALLY, if you want people to get it right then wear a gender tag. Like, “Hi, my gender is ________.”  Oy, another digression. The good news was that at least I didn’t have to worry about guys doing guy things when they see scantily clad women. I’ll leave it there. And yes, I have seen that on planes, airports and even sitting on the sidewalk in Manhattan, so don’t get me started.

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Mundo Bizarro

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I went to a women’s shoe store opening. My friend is a banker and his fiancee wanted to open a shoe store. This is his banking exit strategy (this is the guy who asked me what my law practice exit strategy was and I said “death?”). Maybe I’ll get a few deals from him before he exits so I don’t have to die at my desk. Anyway, the shoes are way too cutesy for me. His fiancee looks like Catherine Zeta Jones and wear high heeled mules to run errands on Saturdays. It was a bizarre moment when my friend who is a guy’s guy turned to me and said, “I think we only have two styles that work for you. Let me show them to you. You’re an 8?” I was afraid mightily and had to leave.

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Thought for the day, July 9, 2009

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Obama is back on the hot seat now that Jacko is dead, Sarah Palin is the Political Undead and Gov. Sanford got a “get out of jail free” card.  Now the pundits are focused on the economy and why Obama hasn’t produced miracles yet. 

If I were Obama, I would hope that another pop icon or political enigma hogs the airwaves for at least 6 months.

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