Author Archives: 40andover

The Wedding Dress Part II

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Dear Mom:

First, I never thought I would get married.  Second, I never thought that if I ever did get married, it would be without you.  I will be 48 (52 if you’ve read my other blog entries) at the wedding, so what did I expect? You ask.  You’re right.  But I am your last born, the baby of the family.  I expected that you would live until, I don’t know, forever.

I know you are hovering in Heaven, but, right now, that is not good enough.  And I am a conscientious objector when it comes to G-d but, because your soul cannot have dissipated into nothingness and because POB (partner of blogger) and I found each other, I hold out some specter of belief in some divinity in a world that is otherwise in decline.  So, it is big that I believe, and this belief thing is, how they say these days, “on you”.

As an aside, does this Jewish guilt work on the other side?  Am I wasting my time here?  Drop a lightening bolt if guilt doesn’t matter in the hereafter.  I won’t tell anyone.  I promise.

So, I couldn’t call you when POB and I found the dresses.  (Did you register any guilt feeling? Ok, I drop the question.)  You would have been so excited about it (and relieved that we didn’t make you schlep to SoHo).  You would ask about the wedding plans and then let your preferences be known in a velvet fist way that sounded soothing yet non-negotiable.  Confrontational and gentle all at the same time.  You should have been Secretary of State.

Thank G-d DOB (Dad of blogger)is healthy (for a 91 year-old) and seems like he will be there, G-d willing.  (There I go again, with the G-d thing.  I might lose my objector status, if this keeps up, so really let me know if guilt works up there.)

Speaking of DOB, I spent Sunday morning trying, in vain, to reconnect him to his email and the internet.  SOS (our son, source of sanity) came with me on this mission of uselessness.  I got DOB all reconnected and did a learning-by-doing tutorial that I custom-tailored for him.  I did that tutorial more times than I can to tell.  Nothing.  NADA.  He can play Free Cell and access his list of  of charitable contributions without assistance.  But, when it comes to the Internet, he can’t really type, he can’t really see the screen and he can’t really understand how to read and send emails.  Still, he is righteously indignant that he doesn’t have much personal email in his inbox.  SOS tried really hard to understand why DOB didn’t really understand computers, the internet or, quite frankly, the 21st century.  Imagine if I listened to BOB (brother of blogger) and tried to get DOB on Facebook.  Neither DOB or I would have survived the attempt.

But I digress.  Back to me. I mean you.  I really mean you and me.

It is crazy how something as anti-feminist as parents walking their child down the aisle seems so quaint and wonderful now.  If only we could hold hands as you walked me down the aisle.  Yes, life has dulled some of my sharp edges and quieted my doctrinaire ways.  Because life, love and loss are complicated and our responses to them are idiosyncratic.

But what is simple is that I wish you were here to celebrate with us.

Really, come visit in my dreams and tell me about guilt in Heaven.  It is the least you could do after having left us almost 9 years ago.  (Did that rate on the Heavenly Guilt-o-Meter? Just asking.  No offense intended.)

Love,

Blogger

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Epic and Less-Epic

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Saturday, POB (partner of blogger) and I had an appointment at a bridal salon.  We arrived fashionably late at the SoHo boutique.

We were greeted by a girl who looked too young to drink or smoke legally. She is our WDE, wedding dress expert.  I wondered, “Expert? Expert? Do you get a diploma in this?”  I started humming “Beauty School Dropout” (how else does someone become a WDE?) but stopped in a great show of restraint and good manners.

We were ushered into this large room with a rack of sample WHITE and off WHITE dresses on either side.  WDE says in a half question/half statement, “There are two brides?”  Yes, I said, motioning to POB and me.  She looked surprised momentarily, but recovered surprisingly gracefully.  Nevertheless, I immediately started rethinking my haircut next week.

She offered water and wine.  I asked for red wine.  Pause.  Now she had the upper hand — what kind of idiot asks for red wine in a room with white dresses?  Ooooops.

The dresses looked so, so, so, soooooo bridal.  I know, I know, what did I expect?  But, but, but, after 12 years and a child, I just didn’t see us, in this room, with a WDE of the tender age of 23 (I asked; ok, she is marginally beyond the legal drinking and smoking threshold).

We decided to take turns trying on the same sample dresses (some were a little worn out and in need of a good cleaning or retirement).  POB put on a dress that was spectacular.  I tried it on and we all scrunched our noses.  POB tried on another dress — half tried it on, because she knew she hated it even while she was putting it on.  I, however, loved the dress.  And so it went.

We settled on a different dress for each of us (so no match-y-match-y ookiness), but we wanted to put a hold on them until January.

Why? Because we had appointments at Kleinfeld’s, the wedding mecca for Jews.  We thought we should experience this rite of passage even for our non-traditional wedding.  At Kleinfeld’s, each bride is limited to five guests at the appointment.  Really?  I was surprised.  I was told that I need to watch, Say Yes to the Dress,” and then I would understand the limit.  But I didn’t understand why I would bring anyone.  Another reason to go — I obviously need a lesson in my heritage.

WDE, who is young but still good at the hard sell, convinced us that we were losing the opportunity to have these limited edition dresses and we might not be able to purchase them in January and then there wouldn’t be enough time, and then what would we wear . . . (I was thinking, we would wear a dress of all the money we saved by NOT finding dresses) . . . .

Then I had a vision of one month before the wedding, my combing through the Lands End catalog for dresses, with free shipping and complimentary flannel nightgowns.  I started to feel a little sweaty  — panic or hot flash?  Oh, damn this wedding craziness!!!

POB and I looked at each other.  This WAS in fact the least we could to find dresses.  And we always do the very least we can do.

I handed my credit card to our young, yet sly WDE.  I emailed SOB (sister of blogger/bride) and my college friends (the Soeurs) — so, no turning back.  POB and I don’t have our mothers (on this earth) but we have our 10 sisters:  SOB, SOPOB (sister of POB) and the Soeurs. Now that I think of it, we would have just made the Kleinfeld’s limit, without a seat to spare.  Pheeeewwwww.

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Just another Saturday

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Every other Saturday, SOS (our son, who is (mostly) our source of sanity) has Hebrew School.

POB (partner of blogger), G-d bless her, takes him, while I have a trainer session at the gym.  I meet POB and SOS at the synagogue afterwards.  Usually, I get there for the lunch and kids playing.  We eat, we schmooze and I desecrate the Sabbath with loshen hora (gossip).  Just the kind of religious experience I like: light on G-d; heavy on bagels and lox.

This week there was also a parenting discussion.  In the past, there has been a know-it-all couple who dominated the discussions and I long ago decided that I would rather hang by my toenails and sway in the wind than sit through one of these roundtables. This family moved away, so there is a possibility, however scant, that I would come off the clothesline and in from the cold.

Last month, the parenting discussion was led by our male queer-identified social justice rabbinical intern who is married to a woman and they have a young girl whom they gave a traditionally male name.  I needed to hear about parenting from Rabbi Gender Bender?  We are just a lesbian couple raising an emphatically heterosexual boy in a Jewish home and we are trying to navigate the issues that come up socially and emotionally — both the mundane and those created by our non-traditional family — so that he grows up to be a mensch.  Rabbi Gender Bender’s additional parenting issues made me tired just thinking about them.  So, I took a nap in one of the side rooms, while POB was at the discussion and SOS was playing with the other children.

This week, after my trainer session, I really didn’t want to schlep down to the West Village for gluten-free bagels and soy cream cheese (new rules in the shul intended to put us at the forefront of the digestively hip).  And the parenting roundtable was about how to deal with Christmas.  POB and I decided that the best way to respect other’s traditions is by not co-opting them.  What else is there to know?  And “No” is a complete answer to following requests: mega-sized, expensive presents for the 8 days of Hanukkah and trees in the house.  There, discussion over.  Let’s also collect our kids and have a Saturday afternoon nap.

Still, my family was expecting me and what if POB or SOS fell ill?  What if I needed to save them from tasteless, though hip, food?  I had to go.  On the way down I saw mini-Santa flash mobs on the streets and in the subway.

(This was taken by my dear NYCFOB from another part of town, but it gives you the idea.)

It made me rethink going to the parenting discussion (but only for a New York minute).

I arrived after lunch (people were benching the blessings after the meal).  SOS was having too much fun with his friends to want to kiss me hello.  As a parent, I took this as a great sign.  As a Jewish mother, I see it as something I will hold over his head for a lifetime.  Win-win situation, I think.

POB had had a very hectic morning. Two people sign up for each week’s set up and clean up.  Apparently, my ex signed up with POB for this week (my ex has a daughter who is in SOS’s class).  My ex didn’t show up (don’t know if I should read anything into that).  That meant there were no bagels.  So, POB had to run around the West Village where you can get any type of fancy, schmancy bread from anywhere in the world, but a bagel, a BAGEL, is too low brow to carry in any quantity.  REALLY?  REALLY?  This is New York, for Goodness Sakes.

POB is one fierce and determined woman, and saved the day.  Unfortunately, the shul was not digestively hip this morning.  Necessity must prevail.

POB recovered, SOS was having a blast, and I was tired.  I kissed my family and friends and went back to the Upper Upper West Side and had such a wonderfully long and luxurious snooze.

I could really get into this religious thing, in blogger-size, small quantities.

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Time Again for the Stupid, Stinking, Painted Ponies (with apologies to Joni Mitchell)

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Dear Mom:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I had dinner tonight.  FILSOB’s (father-in-law of SOB’s) death has startled us anew about the fragility of life and the incomprehensible temporal divide between life and death.

FILSOB’s death also made us think of you, even though it is a week early for the “dark days” — the time, 9 years ago, when you started your month-long goodbye — December 13 to January 10.  In truth, the “dark days” of 2002-2003 were not all sad; some, in fact, were the most honest, most hilarious and most screwball-comedic of our lives.  The others were, well, depth-defying in their crushing pain.

You died before your peers.  They were there to mourn you and comfort us. What will happen when Dad, MILSOB (mother-in-law of SOB) or FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) — each should live to 120 like Moses — dies?  Who will still be alive, other than us (G-d willing), to mourn them?

Marty Hertz from the synagogue died and his funeral was today.  SOB saw it in the paper and told Dad.  He was grateful to SOB for telling him and glad he went to pay his respects.  He heard that most people get these announcements on email and so he wants us to fix his email so he can have access.  But we have tried dozens of times, and then we get calls from Dad saying, “somehow I can’t get on”, as if it has nothing to do with his pressing buttons in an arbitrary and explosive fashion.  The definition of crazy is to keep trying day after day, month after month, to teach Dad how to use the Internet.  So, since you’ve been gone, your daughters have become certifiable lunatics.

(As an aside, BOB (brother of blogger) wanted us to sign Dad on to Facebook.  What a nightmare that would be.  I told BOB not to have a thought about Dad unless he cleared it with SOB or me first.  Talking Dad down from the Facebook ledge took some serious cajoling.  “Are you telling me I CAN’T be on Facebook?” Dad asked defiantly.  “Yes, yes, I am, Dad — not because we don’t want you to be on Facebook, but because you can’t master email yet.”)

What to do about the email Bulletin of Death from the synagogue?  SOB and I decided that we will ask the synagogue to put us on the recipient list.  Then we can call Dad every day for his Day in Death minute and recap the day’s sad events.  That way, he’ll get the news and we will keep what is left of our sanity.

SOB and I can’t linger on the negatives for more than an hour or so.  We also talked about all of the fabulous life experiences you and Dad gave us.  You had no role models for parenting.  You both grew up poor and in dysfunctional homes.  And yet, you gave us things you never had and were loving and wonderful parents.  And your loving relationship has been a model for your children.

We, your children, are the culmination of generations of strengths, weaknesses, aspirations, stubbornness, love and combativeness.  Who will remember you, your parents and grandparents when SOB, BOB and I are gone?

Maybe, by remembering us, our children will remember the part of you that is in us.  Because your time on this earth cannot be forgotten.

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

 

 

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A night out on the town

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POB (partner of blogger) and I went out to dinner with the parents of SOS’s (our son, source of sanity’s) betrothed.  As a couple, they are our MT (machertunim, a Yiddish term for the relationship between the parents of the married couple).  For the record, HMT (husband MT) finally went to WMT’s (wife MT’s) hairstylist, and he looks younger and fabulous (said with that sing-song falsetto).  Why didn’t he go sooner, you ask?  WMT wants to know, too.  But I digress. . . .

We met at an Indian restaurants in the west 20’s.  It used to be a club/late night lounge.  You can just tell by the layout, and by the incongruous clubby music playing ever so quietly in the large entryway and bar and lounge area.  In the restaurant, it was more traditional.  It was definitely a “fusion” of some sort.

It was an odd place.

The sommeliere brought out the bottle, tasted it first, then poured more in her glass and took a second swig (hey, she may need that extra swig just to get through the pomp and ceremony in front of us, the philistines).  The rest was more traditional — she poured more in the glass and proceeded to coat each glass and the decanter.  Then she poured for HMT to approve.  If, after all of that, HMT sent back the wine, she would have spit in the next bottle. I was tempted to test my theory, but the place was already a little disorienting.  Also, the sommeliere spoke heavily Japanese-accented English, in an otherwise heavily Indian-accented environment AND we were drinking Spanish wine.  No wonder my stomach felt like a UN general assembly meeting.

Anyway, it was fancy and expensive enough to have microscopic portions, so as POB and WMT talked, HMT and I kept grabbing at any extra morsel.  I leaned over at one point, and said, “you eatin’ that?” while pointing to something already on his fork. You understand why POB and I don’t go out much.

Before we ordered dinner WMT excused herself to the women’s room.  When she returned, she said, “[Blogger], there is a comfy couch outside the restrooms that looks perfect for you!!” (She knows that, on the weekends, I will nap on her granite counter if that is my only opportunity for a little extra snoooooze time.)

POB visited the women’s room and upon her return, noted that a couple was chatting on the couch. 

MY couch?  The one that was going to host my pre-dessert power nap?  Whaaaaat?

I needed to go investigate.  Everyone at the table made me promise I wouldn’t ask them to stand so I could test out the couch.  We made eye contact and smiled.  They didn’t look so happy or so into each other.  And she was sitting uncomfortably (maybe it was the hue of her red dress?) as the man (who could have been better dressed) slouched somewhat dejectedly.  Still he has time to check his smartphone incessantly.

Since we are all in our forties, even HMT could not last without a trip to the men’s room before dessert.  Upon his return, he confirmed that they were still there.  We ordered and ate two courses and the wine ceremony and they were still there!!

HMT recognized the couple as having been seated when we arrived.  The young man gave the young woman a necklace.   I confirmed that the woman definitely wasn’t wearing a necklace around her plunging neckline.  Were they breaking up?  Did the necklace just not fit?  Why were they hanging out in the lounge in front of the restrooms in an Indian restaurant in the West 20s, after they have already paid and their table was re-set?

So many questions and I needed answers; too many people (POB, HMT and WMT)  restraining me as they escorted me out of the restaurant.

ODD (and I am not just talking about me).

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Strawberry Letter 23

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“Hello, my love, I heard a kiss from you.  Red magic satin playin’ near, too.  All through morning, I gaze . . . rainbows and waterfalls run through my mind. . . .”  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Hl0KhJuUEc  I don’t understand any of the lyrics, but the Brothers Johnson remind me of summer at camp in the earl 1970s and singing into my hairbrush along with my bunk mates.

I also just listened to “The Best of My Love” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPefERS7EZs which, years later, made Karen Clarke jump up during rest hour, defying the rules, and start dancing while singing into her hairbrush.  The rest of the bunk followed suit and our version of civil disobedience, circa 1977, ensued.  Far from cracking down on the rebellion, the counselors joined in.

I am more attuned to music now that POB (partner of blogger) and I are talking to bands about our wedding.  Since we met at camp, these songs have resonance.  Camp, and the mutual trust that was embedded in that experience, is the bond upon which we were able to start building wonderful life together.  So, these songs need to be part of our celebration.

Because these are the ties that bind.  And those of you who spent idyllic summers at Camp Wingate in the 1970s know about that bond.  And how it shaped us.

And I am lucky to be marrying a Wingate girl.

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As heard on the subway

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This morning, I was having my usual full-body experience with complete strangers on the subway.  At 86th Street, three guys got on the subway together.  It sounded like they were neighbors.  They were in their 40s and 50s, but they could have easily been kids in a school yard.

The short, balding, rotund guy with bad teeth (Nebisch) was trying to impress his two friends by talking about a pending lawsuit over unauthorized use of information.  He apparently knows the person who is suing for a significant sum.  This guy signed a confidentiality agreement, but didn’t read it — at least that is what he said.  He wasn’t allowed to talk about it or the name of the case, but it rhymed with . . . and well it is a matter of public record. . . .  And, thanks to the conversation on the subway, a matter of subterranean record.

 

I think Nebisch wanted his “friends” to know that he knows/is related to/hangs with a person who stands to make a lot of money.

One of the “friends” is a taller guy, full head of hair, with expensive coat and shoes, that didn’t work with the pedestrian shirt and tie (Bully).

Bully egged on Nebisch to breach his confidentiality agreement and pushed him to say more than he wanted.  At his core, Bully is insecure.  He looked around every time he said something to see who was noticing him.

Bully used the usual tactics he has honed for thirty years — diminishing and challenging everything Nebisch said.  And, Nebisch, wanting to undo those childhood memories with any number of bullies, had something to prove and was pushed to say more than what was comfortable.

The third guy had his back turned to me, so I couldn’t get a read on him, other than he did nothing to help or hinder the conversation.  But he is necessary to this vignette because his presence, together with his silence (Enabler), enabled both Nebisch and Bully to assume their school yard roles dance the age-old dance.

I was able to block most of it because I get embarrassed listening.  Besides, I generally operate on a need-to-know basis (if I don’t need to know, then, really, really, I don’t need (or want) to know — mostly because my brain capacity is shrinking daily).

Eventually, Nebisch got very frustrated with Bully and Bully got bored (people were not paying enough attention) and, without more, Enabler was no longer a catalyst. I guess people do grow up and don’t run into on-coming traffic to prove they are tough enough.

At 59th Street, the subway car cleared and there was enough room to move away from the trio.  As I maneuvered through the subway car, a woman asked if I wanted a seat.

“No,” I said, “I just need to stop listening to that car crash of a conversation.”  She laughed and offered me the seat again.

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One Less Among the Living

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SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) just got back Monday night from Oregon where they were visiting HOSOB’s ill parents.  HOSOB’s father, Mr. HOSOB, was in very bad shape.  On Tuesday morning, SOB emailed that Mr. HOSOB died during the night.

My first thought was “Thank G-d HOSOB was there over the weekend.”  Of course, it is one of those anecdotal truisms, that a person waits for the family to gather.  A final blessing from the dying one to his/her loved ones.

My second thought was “Shiva?”  HOSOB and Mr. and Mrs. HOSOB are not Jewish, although HOSOB has effectively converted by osmosis.  Culturally, that is. HOSOB and Mr. HOSOB were, are, and remain, conscientious objectors when it comes to the existence of G-d.  Still, SOB thought it was a fine idea for Blogger family to come over before HOSOB and SOB go back to Oregon for the cremation. POB (partner of blogger) and I went to their house tonight for, let’s say, a Christian Shiva.  Or “chriva,” maybe.

So, what to bring to a chriva?  Rugelach and a chocolate bobka, of course.  You have to be born into the Jewish tribe to stomach an offering of gefilte fish.  But I say, “what’s not to like about rugelach and bobka? Chocolate in cake-like creations.  Something, any chriva-goer would enjoy.”  Even, HOSOB shrugged and threw his head back, in that Jewish way, when he repeated my words in even mimicking a slightly high-pitched voice.  So, maybe, he’s Jewish already.

DOB (Dad of blogger) also came.  He brought Hebrew prayer books in case we really wanted to have a service.   “What’s the big deal about a minyan?  [Mr. HOSOB] wasn’t Jewish anyway, so we don’t need ten people to say Kaddish.”

STOP. 

Logic? NONE.

But DOB loves HOSOB like a son and wants to comfort him in the only way DOB knows how.  And it touched all of us.  I bet there were ten yarmulkes in DOB’s pocket, if necessary.

We did the usual things that are done at shiva (even though this was a chriva). We got teary-eyed at times and laughed at other times.  We toasted Mr. HOSOB’s life and his memory.  We told stories and looked at pictures of SOB’s and HOSOB’s wedding, when Mr. HOSOB was still strong and his eyes twinkled with joy.

Eventually, POB and I had to go home and HOSOB, SOB and DOB had to go out for a bite.

DOB, at his age, usually goes to very sad shivas.  This was an upbeat chriva (although all of us are heartbroken for HOSOB).  So, he was probably very pleased with his first chriva experience.  Which misses the point, in that way that old people do, but every death makes us grateful for each elder that abides among us.

To my dearest HOSOB, may your father rest in peace and his memory be a blessing for us all.  We will always remember him.

~ Blogger

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A Traditional Thanksgiving

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For Thanksgiving, we gathered the usual suspects around the table.  We also had two new people, a young girl from Paraguay and a colleague from Zurich.  SOB (sister of blogger) thought I should issue a disclaimer to my foreign colleague that this was not a “traditional” American Thanksgiving.  Clearly, we are not traditional.  No, sir.  Evidentiary exhibit no. #1: we have brisket instead turkey.

Then, more food than anyone should eat in a week covered the table, and there was more waiting in the kitchen.  I sighed.  SOB and I looked into each other’s eyes and we had to acknowledge that our Thanksgiving is as traditional and American as anyone else’s.

In truth, SOB and I feel best when there is so much food that no one could possibly go away hungry.  First, if a guest had a “clean” plate, that meant there wasn’t enough food and the neighbors would whisper that we didn’t come from a good home.  Second, my grandmother always said if the Russian army showed up at your door and you had plenty of food, they would leave the women alone.  Coincidentally, these precepts handed down from generation to generation drive us to mimic the conspicuous, over-consumption that is our American Thanksgiving.

We were, in fact, sooooo American that, even though it was brisket and not turkey, DOB (Dad of blogger), like so many patriarchs hating to turn over the reins of family celebrations, muttered “under his breath” (but so loud that the neighbors could hear), “I could’ve done a better job of carving.”  Gee, thanks, Dad.

SOB, we have arrived.  We are no longer an immigrant family.  We ARE America.

 

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