Hammacher Schlemmer

Posted on September 22, 2011 by 40andover

Hammacher Schlemmer. What a mouthful.

When I was a kid I thought I would hear my mother say, “I went to HAMmacherSchlemmacheh” and I thought it was Yiddish. I thought she was saying she went off the grid, as in had a knipshun fit. If you went to “HAMmacherSchlemmmacheh” it was like you went berzerk, but not so berzerk that you couldn’t talk about it later on the phone.

Hammacher Schlemmer.

I kept trying to liken it to other Yiddish phrases and parse its etymology. I couldn’t figure it out. I accepted it as a one-off word without common roots that was just something you said in one breath and it meant bizarro-world.

Then one day, when I was about 16 years old, I was walking along 57th Street and saw a store with a Hammacher Schlemmer banner. It didn’t say “HAMmacherSchlemmmacheh” but it was too close for coincidence. I didn’t get two steps beyond the second set of doors when I was scared by my childhood images of going insane in town of HAMmacherSchlemmmacheh.

After a few years, I realized it was an emporium of cool, yet useless, gadgetry. Before our personal austerity plan was enacted in 2007, I spent a fair amount of time and money at this emporium. I felt bad — these were probably two anti-Semitic Germans whose names will forever sound Yiddish. That thought made me smile. Also that I, a second generation American, was a vociferous consumer of their useless over-the-top goods. Wedding gifts, novelties — the Two-Germans-Who-Sound-Like-Yiddish-Purgatory was my store of choice.

The fact that I haven’t shopped there in 4 years doesn’t stop the emails about the new products. Today’s made me laugh: The Mold and Germ Destroying Air Purifier and the Hands-Free Hair Rejuvenator helmet. http://hammacher.whatcounts.com/dm?id=C89617FFA81C5A49230781CDAA8D77348B67C265ED571C6B

The HANDS-FREE HAIR REJUVENATOR? It looks like it could also double as a bike helmet. Now, there’s value.

Sometimes, first impressions ARE right.

The Sum of our Lives

Posted on September 19, 2011 by 40andover

Don’t ask why I had reason today to meditate on the meaning of life and death, legacy and detritus. For the purposes of this entry, please just accept that I did.

Much of the meditation happened today on the Cross Island Expressway, the Long Island Express Way, the Throgs Neck, the Northern Parkway and any number of other main arteries in and out of New York City. Given the timing and the traffic, there was much time to ponder (and outrage that the tolls got to be so expensive). Another story for another day when I am musing about driving as a contact sport.

After the mourning, and the tearful yet loving remembrances, comes the task of disposing of a deceased person’s worldly possessions. Remember that bumper sticker, popular in 1980s or 90s, that adorned really expensive cars, “He who dies with the most toys, wins”? Did the people in those cars think that they would be buried with the stuff?

Actually if that kind of acreage weren’t so expensive in this part of the country, that would be a great idea and soooo much easier on the rest of us. No one would have the task of reducing it all to cash for the benefit of the heirs.

I don’t believe that “stuff” is the sum of our lives. But it does bog down the survivors in details that make us forget those we mourn and celebrate the lives they lived.

What I learned today:

If you believe that “stuff” is the sum of your life, just ask an auction house what you are worth and the answer will freak you out.
Things that carried enormous sentimental value or were mementos of wonderful experiences now become “stuff” to be sold off for distribution in accordance with a last will and testament.
If you want someone to have something when you die, give it to them in your lifetime, so you can see them enjoy it. That someone may not be alive when your executor tries to carry out your wishes.

If you love your family and friends you will have only two nickels to rub together at the end of your life, because you will have given the rest away during your life time. POB (partner of blogger) wants to time it just right, so we have EXACTLY two nickels, lest people say “they didn’t have TWO nickels to rub together!” (What would I do without my own personal reality check?)

A Quiet Man

Posted on September 15, 2011 by 40andover

I am traveling to Washington, DC on the Acela, in the Quiet Car.

What does that really mean, to be in the Quiet Car?

The man opposite me very quietly took a call on his cell phone and apologized for it, but made no attempt to cut off the chit-chat. For the last half-hour, he has been snoring in that wheezy-wheezy-then-full-throttle-eruption-of-noise that could be grounds for divorce. Is that quiet?

In the Quiet Car, does a person have a right to involuntary, grotesque bodily functions while unconscious? What about if conscious? What about if concussed?

The fight for the soul of the Quiet Car is NOT just about cell phones and electronic beeps anymore.

Life with Birds

Posted on September 14, 2011 by 40andover

A month or so ago, I was having lunch out with a friend, at an outdoor cafe. Pigeons were fearless flying all about where the patrons were eating. I got nailed by bird shit on my jacket and my pants. It didn’t dampen my appetite, although I took off my jacket and covered my pants completely with multiple napkins. Luckily, I had a spare change of clothes in the office. I am not sure I have worn those clothes again. I told the story to some, many of whom responded that this was a sign of good luck. Yeah, good luck for person who didn’t get nailed because I did.

Today, at the same cafe, I had lunch with two colleagues. Indoors, this time. As we left the cafe, a pigeon flew under the outside umbrellas and nicked me on the head. I touched my head instinctively. Then I realized that all the diseases the pigeon carries were not only in my hair but now on my hand. I thought about running to the nearest hospital to get that hose-down you see on TV when some is exposed to radioactive substances. I thought about getting a haircut. I also considered having my hand amputated. All in the name of good hygiene.

But by the time I resolved to do this list of things, my entire body became a petri dish of pre-apocalyptic germ warfare, as well as the source material for Dustin Hoffman’s comeback in “Outbreak II”.

Nope, I was doomed. So, what else to do? I went back to work. But I washed my hands so well that they are raw. And since no one was touching my hair, I think humanity, and the lawyers in my office, are safe for now.

Pigeons in New York are getting more confrontational with humans. Think Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”. If only I resembled Tippi Hedren (what is with that first name?). That would be some comfort.

Pigeons. Probably once a great and noble species. Now, not so much.

Sunday Dinner

Posted on September 11, 2011 by 40andover

FOPOB (father of POB (partner of blogger)) is a hard guy to pin down. He doesn’t like to “commit” to coming over for Sunday night dinner when he is in the City (and not at his beach house). This weekend was no exception: he wasn’t able to say yes or no when asked again yesterday. He’d let us know. Ok.

In fact, he let us know by coming over at 3:15pm, unannounced. That’s so early even for MY dad who would come at 9am, if we let him. That’s ok. I couldn’t even emerge from the bedroom until 3:45pm. Then I felt guilty and let POB escape to the kitchen. At 4:15pm, FOPOB was itching to watch the Giants game. And in a slightly-passive-but-really-overly-aggressive move, I told SOS (our son, source of sanity) to keep FOPOB company, believing full well that SOS would get bored within 5 minutes and start trying to convince FOPOB to change to either Nature or Discovery channels. And it would drive FOPOB nuts.

You think that wow I can be awfully mean sometimes. Yes, yes, I can.

Somehow, despite my best-laid plans, SOS started to get into the game. (My son: the child who went from worrying about the euro crisis to watching people gratuitously concuss each other in 48 hours. I am having whiplash and I will remind him of this indignity until the day I die or the guilt kills him — whatever.) The Giants versus the Redskins. The Redskins? Really? Do we still have teams with humans (in this case, Native Americans) as mascots? Haven’t we progressed as a civilization? Oh, wait, that is my way left-of-center whine. I am a centrist now. I digress.

FOPOB was impatient at cocktail hour (6pm) because the Redskins (pause, take a deep breath) were beating the Giants. And, because HOSOB (husband of SOB (sister of blogger)) and CB (cousin birder) were talking about bird nerd things that even a loving and adoring sister-in-law and cousin could not possibly abide. SOB was seeking shelter in the kitchen with POB, leaving me to referee the “boys”.

So I threw out random things, like the blue inner feathers of a mallard and the way hummingbirds make their calls with their feathers, to bring the conversation within normal nerd parameters. Nothing doing. DOB (Dad of blogger) rather adeptly tried to steer the conversation away from what could have been mortal boredom (did I mention how much I adore HOSOB and CB?) by musing about the difference in conversations he had when he was our age 20 years ago. OK, DOB, that was 40 years ago when you were our age, but who is counting. Yes, it was just after the 60s and you were wearing mustard colored bell bottoms and Mom was wearing floral halter tops, “hostess” pants and Elvira the Vampiress make-up, but I am sure your politics had sound bases. Still, he had a good point.

FOPOB, who had a moment to shine, instead said flatly that the conversation was boring, he’d rather watch his team lose and did anyone realize that Casablanca was on TV tonight? I poured everyone more wine. DOB mentioned he liked it and I told him it was NOT Trader Joe’s $3.50 special Merlot. “Really?” DOB was genuinely surprised. I excused myself to the kitchen where POB was hiding out. I asked POB to kill me before SOS ever had to have this conversation with me.

Thank G-d Cousin Gentle arrived. And time to eat. FOPOB wanted to take dinner-to-go but we locked the door. SOB had to take a call from the hospital. SOS wanted to run back and forth from the dinner table to the TV in our room to watch the football game. I considered Crazy Glue to keep him in his chair but I settled on the Evil Eye of Doom and Despair that I inherited from my mother that kept us in line. It is amazing how a few moves of the facial muscles can subdue a child. It worked. Luckily, I also still have the brute strength in my arsenal, if necessary. But only for a little time more.

At the beginning of the meal, we toasted the many sides of the family that were present. We toasted our good fortune in being together. We remembered the victims of the attack on our Nation 10 years ago.

At some point in the conversation, we started talking about the different sources of the Bible and how women may have been writers. HOSOB asked what I knew about this. So, of course, I held forth, but with a caveat. I started with, “Unencumbered as I am with fact or knowledge about the subject matter . . . .” Cousin Gentle was impressed that I said this. I was shocked. I thought this was an implied caveat in any conversation in our family history because clearly Uncle Loud, Cousin Gentle’s father and DOB, would have otherwise been mute for most of their lives.

After that, someone complained that the chicken was salty. Someone wondered about having added marjoram (a spice I still don’t understand) to the quinoa dish. FOPOB wanted to take dessert to go (keep trying, dude) in order to watch Casablanca at home on his ginormous TV.

So, we were deep, we were shallow, we were loving, we were honest. . .and in so doing, we gave meaning to the statement:

WE ARE A FAMILY.

I love you all.

By the power vested in me . . .

Posted on September 10, 2011 by 40andover

In six weeks, I am “officiating” at our goddaughters’ wedding (by the power vested in me by me).

I have been thinking about what I would say since the day I was asked. I can’t settle on anything.

It can’t be too preachy or instructional — they have been together for years and have had ups and downs.

And, besides, I don’t have all the answers. POB (partner of blogger) and I love each other deeply and our relationship is always changing and, we hope, growing. And there are always tests. I can only tell them what life and love feels like further down the road they already travel.

The Hollywood version of love is Ali MacGraw’s famous line in “Love Story”: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” That is just wrong.

Here’s what I think love means:

Love means listening to your partner’s hurt and saying “I’m sorry” if only because you didn’t mean to cause the hurt. Whether or not you are right or were misunderstood.

Love means that your partner’s happiness is a goal more important than making partner in a law firm or managing director at an investment bank.

Love means both of your being happy is more important than either of you being right.

Love means being gentler in your criticism than you actually feel sometimes.

Love means imagining life walking together hand-in-hand.

Love needs to be nurtured, renewed and romantic, even with kids. Pay for baby sitters even if, after that expense, all you can afford on your date is a happy meal.

In times of pain and loss, try to give your beloved the support she needs in the way she needs even if that is the exact opposite of what you would need in the same circumstance.

And, don’t worry, if you didn’t go to sleep mad sometimes, you wouldn’t get any rest.

And it takes a lifetime to get it right.

So, take notes and relaaaaax.

E-Mom, I have a question

Posted on September 9, 2011 by 40andover

Tonight, we went out to dinner at a local place to celebrate SOS’s (our son, source of sanity’s) first half-week at school. (Never mind that I pay something like $275 a day for him to go to this school . . . .)

I asked him about his day and what he liked about school so far. He dutifully answered. And then as I took a satisfying sip of wine, he asked, “E-Mom, what is the status of the euro crisis?”

Really? Really? Not, “can I watch TV when we get home?”? Nooooooooooooooooo. The euro crisis.

Yep, you heard me, the euro crisis.

(I remind everyone that he has not one of my genes. So, I stand in amazement with all of you.)

So I told him about today’s high profile resignation and how that shook the markets.

“Why, E-Mom?”

“Because this guy was against the kind of measures we took in the US to put more money in the economy. And people don’t know if that is a signal of a different policy.”

“What does that mean?” I proceeded to discuss the ramifications of those who worry more than others about inflation or deflation. He stayed with me, which is amazing. I ended with the reason that people have different views:

“Well, there are different countries that use the euro and they have different degrees of prosperity and recession. And the rich countries don’t want to carry the debts of the economically troubled countries. “

“Can’t the federal government do something about it?”

“Well, it isn’t like the US. These are different nations.”

“So they are like separate towers on the map of medieval Europe.” (We are reading about medieval times and the great explorers.)

“Well, ok, that is true to an extent.” (More true than he realizes.)

“How is Asia doing?” (Really, how is Asia doing?)

“They are trying to slow their growth. While we are in a terrible recession where it is hard to find a job, some countries in Asia (although not all of Asia) have the opposite problem. They are creating too much wealth. And prices aren’t connected to value anymore. So, we might pay $10 for something for which a person in China pays more than $100.”

“Are they all talking to each other?”

“Well, just like we talk to some of our neighbors and not others, countries do the same. Remember the guy in our building that Mommy [POB (partner of blogger)] accidentally said was an idiot? Well we don’t hold the elevator for him anymore, but we hold the elevator for other neighbors, like Sophie and her parents.”

SOS’s hamburger and french fries came. Thank G-d. I was committing the conversation to memory so I could blog about it. To that end, I didn’t have a second glass of wine.

We got home and the idiot’s wife was at the elevator. SOS pushed her floor button for her. She asked how SOS liked the first week of school. He said he had fun. He paused, and then asked after her (and the idiot’s) children, “How were Isaiah’s and Gertie’s first week?”

My son, the bridge across the divide.

So, tonight, he can watch TV until he drops. He has come in several times to ask if I will watch TV with POB and him. Coming, buddy, right after I blog about you, I say to myself.

Real time memories. I hope he smiles in 25 years when he reads this. He had the wisdom of the ages and the “can do” simplicity of children. Oh, how we need the latter right now to save our world.

Why clothes shrink

Posted on September 8, 2011 by 40andover

There is a time-release formula for medicine, right? (I don’t really get it but the commercials say it.)

There must be a time-release formula for shrinkage in clothes. Otherwise, how could clothes that fit me for 10 years suddenly, SUDDENLY, be snug?

Clothes also get really, really, heavy over time. Tonight, at the gym, when I was doing my awesome pull-ups, I felt like someone attached a kettle bell to my body, as I tried to complete my three sets of three. What’s that about, huh?

And, have you noticed that the labels have teeny, tiny print? What, they are saving on ink?

My clothes and I are going into counseling with a fitness trainer on Saturday. We have to work this out; we have had way too many years together to break up now.

Wait, I can’t hear you. Let me put my glasses on.

Posted on September 6, 2011 by 40andover

When you were a kid, didn’t you think, “Wait, I can’t hear you. Let me put my glasses on” was one of the most bizarre comments your parents and grandparents ever said?

Glasses are for seeing. Not for hearing. But now I get it. I really do hear better with my glasses on. And not only that — I hear only certain tones of voice. Disappointment, nope. Irritation, nope. Boredom, nope. Frothy exuberance, yes!! You may deduce then that I do not hear sounds that often. Brilliant, isn’t it?

Not that I need glasses. In fact, with the help of ginormous magnification, I am typing without my bifocals, which I can’t seem to find anywhere.

Yes, sir. I am the female version (ok, uglier female version) of Brad Pitt in that media debacle about the reverse-aging man. Except my chestnut brown hair with auburn highlights is gray.

But I learned today from a questionable site featured on Yahoo that some scientist (and possibly of questionable moral rectitude) determined that as we “mature” we no longer break down the hydrogen peroxide that forms in our hair follicles. So, the hydrogen peroxide bleaches our hair white. And, to think, from Marilyn Monroe to Lady Gaga, they tried for the so-blond-it-is-almost-white look and I, for one, now get it naturally.

I bet you wondered why I am rambling on like this. Answer: I am losing my mind, of course. It is still probably in my head, near where my glasses are perched, which is why I couldn’t find them until now.

Tomorrow I am going to wear a hard hat and ear plugs to keep my brains in place. And I will try not to sneeze.

Vacation with a 9 year old

Posted on September 4, 2011 by 40andover

Vacation with a 9 year-old is an oxymoron, because vacation implies relaxation. So, let’s call it a trip to the beach.

There are high points and low, low points. I would like to think that we are both having growth spurts — he is maturing and I am becoming a more patient parent.

Elements of salvation:

sunny days,
a house with a pool,
a steep driveway (awesome for scootering WITH HELMET and various other protective gear),
wi-fi (that was an unexpected bonus),
evening TV (Scooby-Doo mysteries), and
wine.

Did I mention wine? G-d’s elixir.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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