The Downside of being POB

Posted on July 4, 2013 by 40andover

POB has never really embraced this blog.

She has grown accustomed to it, as one does a dull pain in the neck. Sometimes, she is afraid of what I will write; I seem to have a more inclusive sense of what is an appropriately bloggable moment. It is a boundary thing: I have few (for better or for worse) and POB has a few more (for better or for worse).

SIDEBAR: Even I have boundaries. Some of the Soeurs were shocked to hear that there is such a thing as an unbloggable moment. Yes, there are life moments too intimate, too painful, too sad, to share. And there are moments that can’t be shared yet.

I think what really got to POB this week was that at each event she attended — lunch, coffee, gathering — she started to tell a story and someone would say, “Oh, yeah, I read about that on the blog!!” She has her own way of telling a story and her own viewpoint. “Why can’t I tell stories my own way, without worrying that you blogged about it first?!”

Why? Well, dear POB, for the simple reason that I may not be there to correct you.

If you write it, it is real.

The week that was

Posted on June 30, 2013 by 40andover

Whoa! What a week. From the minute to the momentous. From everyday slights to the evisceration of things we hold dear. From personal triumphs to the deathbed of a world hero.

What a difference a week makes.

The Supreme Court taketh away and the Supreme Court giveth (with caveats). But before all the epic decisions, the Supreme Court punteth the ball. Yep, punt on affirmative action, gut the Voting Rights Act, and hold that the Federal government cannot demean or injure what a state seeks to protect, in matters within a state’s purview.

So if you are a gay, non-white Democrat in a Red State, you can’t get married to your partner, you may not be able to vote and you certainly cannot have the totality of your identity and your life story considered in any application to higher education.

If, however, you are gay, white, Democrat in a Blue State, you probably get to claim an iPad as a winning contestant in the Supreme Court sweepstakes.

How’s that for “equal protection under the laws”?

I am thrilled that Edie Windsor, who in her own words, was “just an out lesbian suing the United States of America,” prevailed and DOMA is DEAD. It was a thrill and an honor to go to Sabbath Services on Gay Pride Weekend to hear Edie, who talked about her spouse, Thea (of blessed memory), just a little before Edie started to cry, and then have hundreds of people standing up to cheer her.

Get the documentary on them. It is beautiful and sad and just simply a true (non-Hollywood) love story.

People sometimes ask, “why gay PRIDE?” Because if you have felt marginalized, shamed, invisible, unwanted, a veritable punching bad for angry people and all of society’s ills, then you need to own your identity and say that you are proud and not ashamed. It is important for those still in the closet — of any kind — and our children.

I suspect that Mandela is hovering between life and death only through the curse of modern medicine, while politicians figure out the best time to announce his death. Call me cynical. The world will be different on the day that the man who presided over immense change in Africa and, indeed, the whole world, is declared dead. One person can make a difference, but there are only too few in any generation who are truly capable. We will have lost (or did we already lose) a hero.

SOS went off to sleep away camp for seven weeks. Both POB and I were happy, sad, scared and proud that he hopped on the bus with someone he met previously who was also going to the same camp. Hugs, but no tears. A watershed moment in our baby’s growth.

I stopped a client in the hallway of our firm and greeted him. He was momentarily caught off-guard and then said, “[Blogger], you look great; I would never have recognized you!!!” And then he dug himself deeper to a point at which I had to say, “Don’t worry, a little hair color and make-up can really make ALL the difference . . . ” I expect that from Dad’s mother (“You look so gut, I vouldn’t recognize you, dahlink.”) but not anyone born after World War II.

Fom petty slights to soaring heights. From a widow’s indignation to liberation for so many. From tiny family triumphs (and the funny slights) to a loss for all humanity. From the mundane to the immortal. From the set-backs to the steps forward and then reluctance to decide. The juxtaposition of all of these make the important events stand apart, in stark relief — some to be celebrated, some to be worried over, one to be mourned.

What a week it was. Good thing I fastened my seat belt.

Surviving Father’s Day — CHECK!

Posted on June 18, 2013 by 40andover

So, on Saturday morning, I had a talk with SOS, who is dad-less and mom-ful. We talked about how he felt about this dumb Hallmark holiday (ok, I didn’t say that) and whether there were men in his life whom he wanted to celebrate.

“No, I think that I just want to help you both celebrate your dads.”

Whoa. Pretty amazing for an almost 11-year old.

Then, on Sunday, at Father’s Day dinner, I was doing the customary toasts and I started with:

“First, a toast to my son, who is here celebrating fathers even though he doesn’t have one and, worse yet, he has two moms. And, boy, is that a tall order!!”

[Everyone applauded SOS]

“And then, to all of us who have fathers wherever they may be, let’s toast them. Let’s eat!”

SOS was very happy that I toasted him. “Father’s Day is ok, Emom. Really.”

No, my little baby, you are just fabulous.

Surviving Father’s Day

Posted on June 10, 2013 by 40andover

As is family tradition, we have the extended family over for Father’s Day. We have made an extra special deal about it for Dad, FOPOB and ULOB because of their enfeebled states. I think we are over-compensating for our anxiety about losing them, no matter how nuts they make us.

In the midst of a conversation with Dad and SOB about Father’s Day, I overheard SOS say to POB, “but I don’t have a father.”

[Yes that gag you heard breaching the silence was my heart leaping into my throat and cutting off my breathing.]

I forget that we are not like every other family. But SOS doesn’t forget. He has two moms, and not a mom and a dad. I know he misses not having a dad because we have talked about it.

HOSOB, Cousin Gentle, CB, ULOB, Dad and FOPOB will be around the table next Sunday. All have been role models (after a fashion) for SOS. But no one is “dad”.

He knows that POB was never going to settle down with a man and have children. He knows that I am not replacing anyone because either he would have two moms or he wouldn’t exist.

But he is a pre-adolescent boy and this isn’t about societal norms, social/sexual movements or equality. He is starting to experience that his family is different in ways that sometimes matter.

SOS sees what is around him and he sees the differences. I understand how hard it is to be different but, when I was a pre-adolescent/adolescent, no one knew that I wasn’t straight (except me). My son can’t hide us, and he has to deal with it everyday. I know he loves us and our family. But still . . .

It was POB’s and my decision as adults to have him and it is now his reality to carry into adolescence.

But most devastating is that I forgot his feelings in my fixation on giving the elders, especially Dad, events to look forward to. I am his mom and I didn’t have his back.

And, really, I should have been thinking about a boy — my boy — and his feelings on Father’s Day.

Because this is really about a boy — my boy.

I am sorry, buddy. I can’t change things — I will never be your dad — but we will talk about it and I will try not to cry.

The Challenge, Part 2

Posted on June 8, 2013 by 40andover

I decided that I am wearing the same clothes each time I go to the Rings (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5182) so that no one can look at pictures and remember a time when I totally sucked at this. The good news is that I go to the rings once a week (and laundry is done in between) so I won’t smell.

So, without Wendy, my trainer, I dutifully headed out to the Rings to practice. There is a group that generally forms around the Rings at 10am on a Saturday. Fencers (who practice a little away from the Rings), acrobats and others who want a hard work-out.

A handsome, handsome, guy with dredlocks was hanging out, breathing heavily from a go at the adult Rings. (Since I am short with a limited wing span, I need to swing on the kiddie Rings.)

SIDEBAR: While my orientation may be toward women, beauty is beauty, Rasta Man is so striking, that he turned my head. Back to the blog.

I was having a bad time getting my rhythm on the Rings. I almost gave up 5 times. But I watched Rasta Man. He inspired me. And he came over when I looked defeated. He gave me pointers on getting momentum to move “effortlessly” from Ring to Ring. So, I tried to do what he said.

Then a couple came along. A perfectly normal woman, with a total dweeby boyfriend — maybe, to give her credit, a blind date. They were at the other side of the rings. The DWEEB, with black sneakers, black socks up above his calves and black polo shirt and shorts, beckoned me to go first, in an impatient sort of way.

I shout: “Don’t worry, I won’t make it to the second Ring!! So, I will be clear of the Rings when you make it over here!!”

The DWEEB grabbed two Rings and tried to lift himself up.

Count with me: One mississippi, two mississ —-

ON THE GROUND.

“This is hard!”

I couldn’t hold back: “No SHIT, Sherlock.”

Notwithstanding my harsh comment directed squarely at the Dweeb in the sand, his date/girlfriend came over to me and gave me more pointers.

Then, she swung from Ring to Ring with the ease and grace of Tarzana. MY HERO.

Except for the DWEEB.

DUMP THE CHUMP.

Ah, if not Lord of the Rings, at least the Fellowship of the Rings.

The Challenge

Posted on June 1, 2013 by 40andover

We live close to the “rings” in Riverside Park, where would-be acrobats often practice, and maintain their conditioning.

For years, I have watched people swing on them as naturally as breathing. Every time I jumped up to grab a ring, I couldn’t hold on. Too much upper body strength required.

I am pretty fit for being 49 and, this year, I decided that I needed to learn how to swing from ring to ring. Like Tarzana, Queen of the Jungle. Some people want to save the world. Me, I just want to swing from ring to ring. Probably no coincidence that there are the same number of rings as there are Dante’s rungs of hell.

So, I convinced Wendy, my trainer, to teach me how to do this.

“In the scorching sun?”

“Yep.”

Of course, I was trying to make it epic, like the Inferno. But she didn’t know that. She thought I was just plain crazy.

IT IS HARD TO DO!!!

First, you have to start your own momentum. No running starts (at least when you are short like me). It is like swinging on a swing but sideways, with your arms threatening to come out of their sockets.

So this is how pathetic I looked today. Unable to get the momentum to move to the next rung.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YbzTCOYavU&feature=youtube_gdata_player

And now, for what, Wendy promises me, I can do by the end of the month:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYEgcSEuKT4&feature=youtube_gdata_player

The challenge is on!!!!

Family Camp

Posted on May 29, 2013 by 40andover

Like any other family road trip, this had to start with an invasive procedure because SOB needed to make sure that I was healthy enough to drive 8 hours to Cape Cod for family orientation weekend at camp. (SOS is going this summer; I am not, although in my mind, I am at Wingate, 1972-81.)

Of course, SOB had to take a picture of the ENT doctor’s putting the scope up my nose and down my throat. The doctor waited about a second after he injected a numbing agent to start the scope. Needless to say, I felt everything.

After the scope, SOB declared me fit for travel.

“I feel so much better now that we had this procedure done.”

“Who ‘we’, [SOB]? I was the one with that camera up my nose and down my throat!!”

“Details,” concluded SOB in a most satisfied manner.

*******************************************************************************************

It was an epic schlep to cold and rainy Yarmouth. I forgot that camp is outdoors. Even when we were in the bunks, we were not that much removed from nature and all those creepy, crawly things. And, certainly, not the cold and wet weather.

SIDEBAR: I was (must have been) far more rugged as a child. Now, I merely whimper in the drizzle.

There was no heat in the bunk where we stayed. ACTUALLY, the camp owners FORGOT to tell us about the heat, so we just froze unnecessarily. Well, at least SOS was comfy in his super-duper-good-for-the-tundra sleeping bag. POB and I were not so fortunate. Will (you know who you are), I am deducting from camp tuition any co-pays on any cold meds POB and I need to purchase this week. And we are expensive patients. Just sayin’.

I tried to give SOS a wide berth so he could feel independent and get to know the camp and its lay-out on his own. But, there were some activities that I had to watch. It was Mom who made me watch when my little baby was in harm’s way with only one life preserver (not discernible in the photo).

Mom wanted me to feel her anxiety, and more importantly, continue her tradition of writing psychotic letters about real and imagined horrors of sleep-away camp. To channel Mom, I need a mental (and actual) picture on which to concentrate all my anxiety while he spends SEVEN weeks away from his loving (read: over-protective) mother, doing any number of life-ending activities.

And I didn’t even show the picture of archery WITH REAL ARROWS.

SIDEBAR: Ok, Will (you know who you are), I am deducting sedatives from the camp tuition.

SECOND SIDEBAR: Pearl (you know who you are), you are so lucky that Mom didn’t do the same. Just sayin’.

Put one of those arrows in my heart and get it over. Mom, if you are listening from Heaven, WALK AWAY FROM THE PHONE. No grandchild of yours is playing with bows and arrows. Did I mention that each arrow is doused with curare? OOOOOooops, but Heaven is not listening, thank G-d.

Because of the rain, campfire was indoors. (no, Mom, they have sense enough not to start a REAL fire indoors.) The current owners invited those of us who had been campers in decades past to light the fire (figuratively). It was moving.

It was also a passing of the torch from one generation to another.

The place had echos of the camp of my youth, but it is a different camp. A camp that SOB, BOB, and POB can share with SOS, but different enough that it will be his special experience alone. And that, for all my nostalgia, is what matters.

SOS had a great time, in the rain. Which means, he will have an extraordinary time in the sunshine this summer.

The question is: will I survive his summer away?

Seinfeld and the Gang — Part 3: The Love Hangover

Posted on May 21, 2013 by 40andover

Every generation has its sci-fi flick about hell having no fury like an artificially intelligent computer scorned.

And, because I am partial to women, my own personal horror flick would probably have a robot/computer who looks like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction (www.imdb.com/title/tt0093010/‎).

NOTE TO ALL: I really do not spend much time thinking about this. Really. No, really!!

All I can say is welcome to our new family relationship with mini storage. On Saturday, both my cousin and I engaged (grudgingly) in the ceremonial coma-signing of more paper than anyone could imagine for less than 100 square feet of real estate (even in New York). On Tuesday (today), we were both sent TWO questionnaires about the quality of service and attention and our overall experience when renting the storage space. I guess the computer really wants to feel the love. Whoa.

SIBEBAR: Maybe, my cousin, who is straight, would agree on my choice of Glenn Close. Note to self: ask cousin about his ideal pyscho stalker. P.S.: try not to freak him out by the question.

We exchanged ooked-out emails about the incredible attention paid to our mere rental, albeit on the NEW 9th floor of the facility.

SIDEBAR: I am thinking about the movie adaptation: trapped with the devil on a non-existent floor of an apartment building . . . maybe a twist on Rosemary’s Baby? Paging Mia Farrow (even if you looked like a pre-adolescent boy in that movie and really DID marry Woody Allen).

I told my cousin that maybe he should have thought to send flowers and candy, because they know where we live. He did not respond to that email.

SIDEBAR: I am thinking that I don’t have to worry about whether or not I will freak him out. I already have.

But, hey, I am still not as scary as a computer in need of love and affection.

Seinfeld Gang and me, Part II

Posted on May 21, 2013 by 40andover

Picking up from the prior blog entry:

SOB and I park the car and go to AROB’s house. Our cousin and his wife are already packing things up. This is a hoarder’s home. Don’t look too closely.

We box up anything and everything of value — sentimental or otherwise. We load into the BIG F’ING rental car and we all drive down to the storage place.

SIDEBAR: Did we ever determine whether I needed a trucker’s license and a tattoo?

We arrive at the storage place. I had two emails from Alan Dumpit, my reservation number and the memories of two inane conversations to poison my mood as soon as the guy behind the counter welcomed us, and wanted to understand our storage needs.

“I told this all to Alan Dumpit!”

“Why are you not smiling at me? [I was not!!] This is all good. Alan isn’t here and I want to welcome you and make sure you are getting what you want.”

“I want a storage room big enough to store a one bedroom apartment equivalent of stuff.” [Of course, if we were talking about all the stuff crammed into that apartment, then I would need a McMansion sized locker.]

“Who is renting the storage space?”

OMG. SOB [sister of blogger] doesn’t understand why I am foaming at the mouth. She doesn’t know the whole back story. [Until she read it last night in the last blog entry.]

“I am, but it will be under my cousin’s name.”

“So, I should be talking to your cousin,” and, as he turns, I realize my poor cousin is a sitting duck, “Let’s discuss what your needs are . . . .”

After I watch my cousin endure the “creation of the storage relationship” phase for 30 minutes, I take pity and I interpose my credit card between the men and offer to move on to the paying ceremony.

Oh no no no no. We had not begun the ceremonial paper signing phase of the new relationship. That required two storage consultants to get the papers and involved initialing obscure provisions everywhere in the documents. My cousin and I were not exactly robo-signing; I think we were more probably coma-signing. I was waiting for incense, holy water and Aaron’s priestly blessing.

And, of course it was a very, very special day because, we were told, it was the grand opening of the 9th floor of the building. Still, no discount; instead, overpoweringly toxic paint smells and near-deafening drilling noise.

Finally, we were all initiated into the storage community, complete with the ceremonial handing over of the dead bolt. I was, in fact, a little disappointed about the absence of incense, holy water and Aaron’s priestly blessing (especially since the latter is in this week’s Torah portion).

We ran to claim the dollies to haul the stuff. Or, rather, we ran FROM the storage consultants. We unloaded the behemoth of a car and did a quite respectful send-up to Four Stooges and The Marx Brothers, as we dropped boxes, scraped the newly painted walls and drew a little blood from each of us. The race to the elevators from different aisles was kind of fun, too.

Finally, we, the FAB FOUR put AROB’s [Aunt R’s] valuables and effects in a safe (if toxic) place and closed that dead bolt, baby. (SOB, photographer.)Relief and laughter broke out as we got back into the BIG CAR, and I asked, “any other justice need dispensing? We have the car until tomorrow!”

To review:

AROB was buried by two cornerstones of family (her chosen family and her family of origin) in a plot that will have her headstone. CHECK
ULOB’s rights, etc., are resolved. CHECK
AROB’s sister is being looked after and my cousin and his wife are rehabilitating the souls of a generation who neglected her. CHECK
Apartment to be given back to Landlord. HALF CHECK (some things need to happen).

SIDEBAR: But first, after this day, we needed some wine and hors d’oeuvres.

And I think for SOB and me, through this excruciating process, we have accepted that AROB had flaws that recalibrate our views of her present but don’t tarnish our visions of her as a hero of our youth. I know I have gone from harshly judgmental to willing to allow that there may facts I will never know that may be kinder to her choices.

The Seinfeld Gang and me, PART 1

Posted on May 20, 2013 by 40andover

SOB (Sister of blogger) and I believe in sharing every heart-wrenching or morbidly humorous moment (sometimes all in one) of taking care of our elders. If one of us has to handle an elder matter alone, it is recounted with every excruciating detail, so that the other commits the event to the collective memory. Invariably, at some point in every vignette, SOB turns to me and says, “this was on Seinfeld.”

SIDEBAR: I was never a fan of Seinfeld. Now I know why. I live it.

So, join us, won’t you on our excruciating journey on Saturday. But first we need to start with a little back story.

BACK BACK STORY: AROB (Aunt R.) is buried. Her undead sister Shirley has been found, and our newly-found cousin and his wife, by their sheer gentle souls, have gotten the sister to speak after decades of silence.

The apartment is still a hoarder disaster. The landlord is starting eviction proceedings. My cousin needs SOB and me to pull him out of the abyss, because it is dragging him down, and he is overwhelmed.

“Cousin, on Saturday, we are taking the valuables to storage in the name of the estate and then you can give up the apartment. SOB and I will cover the costs.”

“I can’t let you do that —-“

“Cousin, SOB and I are committed to put all of AROB’s affairs in order. You enabled us to bury her with dignity, you have looked out for ULOB’s (Uncle L’s) interests, and you have rehabilitated the souls of that entire generation by visiting Shirley because, at long last, someone claimed her as family. So, let me get the storage. Really, this is the least we can do for you and AROB.”

MORE RECENT BACK STORY: I go online and reserve mini-storage locker big enough for the valuables. I receive a confirming email from “Alan Dumpit”. You cannot make up his name. Then Alan calls me to discuss storage conceptually and what I was hoping to gain from my storage experience. No joke. Because there can be no joking with a “storage consultant” named Dumpit. It wouldn’t even be funny if his name were Storeit. We went over everything I did on the website. I thought that is why I chose the impersonal route of using a computer so that I could keep this a non-relationship. No strings. I never wanted anonymity so much as in that conversation with Mr. Dumpit.

Then, he offered me something and, I hesitated, thinking this would cost something, but I realized that if I could throw a few more dollars at this conversation to end it, it was soooo worth it.

So, I get a second email confirmation from Al the Dumpster (we are close now). Friday, I get a call from A the D just to make sure I was coming, as if maybe he would be waiting with flowers. I expect this stuff from people at funeral homes, but mini-storage?

I was freaked out, but AROB’s apartment freaks me out more (you will see) so I resolved to have sedatives at hand on Saturday.

THE BIG DAY ARRIVES. (subtitled: SOB and Blogger dispense some justice, resolve some issues, all without delaying cocktail hour)

SOB and I meet at the Hertz Rent-a-Car near our apartments. I have reserved a big SUV to haul the stuff to storage.

“I am sorry, we have no cars. We were all out of cars by 9am. That train wreck [MetroNorth tragedy] really messed up our inventory! It’ll be 20 minutes. Will a compact do?”

Waitwaitwaitwait. I reserved a car. A BIG car. I am a Gold member (obviously a waste of money). My reservation was backed by a credit card. And my “customer service representative” gave away my car. No apologies. Nothing.

“Um, actually, I need a big car. That is why I reserved an SUV. Why did you give away my car?”

“I can’t really answer that, but allow me to provide you with excellent customer service in getting you another car.”

So many thoughts, some criminal, were playing bumper cars in my head. I was speechless. I hear Quay (my alleged customer service representative) on the phone to another Hertz outlet, saying:

“The customer would like a big car. Do you have one at your location? Yes, she would like an upgrade.”

WAITWAITWAITWAIT. Noooo, I don’t want an upgrade. I want the car I reserved magically to appear before my eyes.

“We have a car for you at 40th Street and Second Avenue. There will be a $75 upgrade fee. But we will pay for your cab [later, I learned that doesn’t include the tip] to that location.”

“I don’t want to pay for an upgrade. I have a reservation —–”

She interrupts, “Shall I add that amount to your bill and reserve the car for you?”

I had an epiphany. Hertz employs genetically engineered pod people to act like flight attendants in economy class. I snap. But SOB takes control of the situation and calms me down (threatening in-patient treatment at the psychiatric ward of a local hospital) and redirects the conversation to a more fruitful, if more costly, conclusion.

We did get a BIG F’ING CAR. We city dwellers do not drive these behemoths. I wasn’t sure whether I needed a trucker’s license and a tattoo. If I were in a highway rest stop, would I go in the car lot or the truck lot?

SOB and me. I’m driving wild and crazy and she is riding shot gun. We drive past where HOSOB is having lunch with Dad. I cross several lanes of traffic so SOB could take a picture of them through the window of the coffee shop and send it to everyone’s smart phones. We are the law. The city was never sooooo dangerous.

TO BE CONTINUED

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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