Author Archives: 40andover

In Memoriam — Yvette

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Yvette died peacefully today at age 94. She was born in Paris, France in 1916.

I met Yvette many, many years ago, as a friend of my mom from their days at Revlon in the 1960s.  Rudy and Yvette were stalwart friends to my father and my mother when my mother was dying and then died.  They were a necessary part of every family celebration (except for Thanksgiving). 

Even though she had been in this country for over sixty years, she would still say things like, “let’s get together for — how you say? — lunch!”  As she was losing her beloved Rudy to renal failure, she would say, “this is le end, ne c’est pas?”  “Oui,” we would say, our hearts’ breaking.

Rudy was Jewish; Yvette, as she got older and more forgetful, gravitated to her religion of origin — Catholicism.  At the end of Rudy’s life, when he wanted them to be cremated and their ashes joined and thrown to sea where they met (see below), her response was, “pas catholique!”  I said, “Yvette, you’re Jewish!”  A family friend motioned me over and said that she had been taking Yvette to Christmas and Easter mass for years, because as her memory was fading she didn’t remember she had been Jewish.  I had been noticing she was making signs of the cross every now and again and more frequently over the years.

Their lives could fill adventure novels.  She was a nurse on the war front for France during WWII and then worked for the Resistance.  She was awarded two medals (or commendations) for valor.  Rudy’s family had fled their native Austria when the Nazi took hold and found their way to Palestine (pre-Israel).  They met on a boat taking Jewish Holocaust survivors to Palestine; she, the ship’s nurse, and he, the commander of the boat.  They fell in love.  These boats were being strafed by British bomber pilots because the international community didn’t want Jews to populate Palestine.  Yvette did what she did because her nature compelled her to help people in need.  She and her beloved Rudy were heroes in cowardly times.  Their wishes were that their ashes be mingled and cast out to sea where their love began so many years ago.

And she lived life with humor, perseverance and strength of character that kept her going 94 years. 

May her memory be for a blessing.

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Blogcation Year 2, Day Whatever – Too Much Information

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So, on vacation, one can lose track of days, especially when one has drowned one’s blackberry (accidentally).

Our G-d daughter and her life partner came over for a couple of days.  We gave them the downstairs bedroom (with two full baths – go figure) and POB (partner of blogger), our son and I took the two bedrooms upstairs (with one bathroom to share).

As is often the case on vacation, everyone’s toiletries bags are open and strewn around the bathroom.   I was downstairs with our G-d daughter and her partner talking, and POB and our son were upstairs so he could get ready for bed.

Our G-d daughter’s partner overhears our son’s question to POB, “Mommy, what are Tampax?”  She repeats the question to us.  I jump up and ask, “[POB], do you need help?” “Ye-e-es” she responds in a way that says I am too tired to deal with this.

So, I run upstairs, my mind blank about the “Tampax” issue.  I get to the bathroom and say (because my son is a bit of a bird nerd), “You know how birds make nests when they are ready to lay eggs?  Well, imagine that we have nests inside us.  If we don’t produce an egg, then the nest has to leave our body and we use Tampax and other products to avoid the messiness that ensues from the nest disintegrating.”

He’s 8 years old

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 3 (or 4?) — The rain has gone

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The sun came out today — first as a faint orb in the gray sky and then in all its sunburning glory.  Now, all of us summer people can go back to our pools and the beach and not swarm the already overwhelmed (and wildly expensive) sea-side towns.

One thing I did learn was that when booking a house, one has to parse every single word of the ad.  For example if it says, “ocean view”, that could mean that one bathroom in the house has a slight view of the water.  In our case, there is some water on the horizon out of our second floor bedroom.  If the add says, “water view”, it could mean the pool or your neighbor’s pool.  Or for those really wanting to stretch (and break) the bounds of truth in advertising, water view can mean this:

A view of the Montauk water tower.  Yes, we have a lovely view of the water tower from almost every window.  But no matter.  We are close enough to the beach and we have a pool and the sun — hooray, the sun — is out today.  But really, the water tower?

The other excitement of the day concerned our rental car.  I got this huge, gas guzzling Mercedes.  Why?  The rental place had no Volvos (the safest family car) and no Mercedes had ever been recalled (and the rental place didn’t have just a family sedan) but it had more Toyotas than you might think possible in such a small rental place in a small (geographically speaking) city like Manhattan.  Toyotas — cars with brakes that don’t work; accelerators that have minds of their own?  Are you kidding me?  Nope. nope, nope.  No hybrids available either.  The place did have Chryslers and GMs but until ones come are assembled by non-disgruntled workers, I will take the car with the track record and pay through the nose for it.

The problem with the mammoth Mercedes is that I can’t tell my car from the other mammoth Mercedes (plural) in any parking lot out here.  Also, the air in tires needed rebalancing and the low beam light was weak, so I had to get it fixed.  As I rolled into the mechanic’s place with my mammoth car and asked about a light change and a rebalance of the air of my tires, there were enough smirks to go around that I figured, “this is going to be expensive.”  I know, I know.  It’s a rental car.  But having a blown left low beam can be dangerous as can unbalanced air pressure in the tires (I read that this “safe” care has a roll-over risk — awesome).

I hang out and talk to the guys while they are fixing it.  It takes a lot of unscrewing parts to get to the headlights.  Maybe easier in the assembly line, but not so much when trying to change a light bulb in the left low beam.  They keep teasing me about the cost.  And I tell them it is a rental car, to boot.  They look at me as if I am on drugs. I say, “I am not asking you to fix my cruise control or stereo system!  These are matters of safety for my family and others!”  One guy says he is impressed that I am not freaking out and calling my boyfriend.  If he only knew. We continue talking about life, what matters, and what Montauk is like when the summer people aren’t here, etc.  He is married (I tell him I am, too, which I am in spirit if not in paper) and I could tell he is flirting with me.  But it was a sweet flirting, in the way that someone appreciates that you are passing the time while he is at work and not talking on the phone while you wait for a “service person” to handle your problem.  He shows me pictures of old Montauk and it was a perfectly lovely way to pass an hour (plus he only charged me for 30 minutes).  And he did a great job and now I know that I have taken all precautions to be a safe driver and that lets me sleep at night.  (And, I am going to present the receipt to the car rental place.)

Anyway, all is good and I am slowing disengaging from my Blackberry.

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Long Island — Heaven on Earth? Or the Other Place?

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My son has visited his grandmother’s graves.  They are on Long Island.  Sometimes, as parents do when they have no answers to children’s questions about love and loss, we say, “Nana and Grandma are watching from Heaven.”   About two or more years ago, I had to tell our son that a family friend — family, really — had died and — well, er, um — gone to Heaven.  “Does that mean he is buried on Long Island?” our son asked.  I responded that while some people believe that Long Island is Heaven on Earth, we in Manhattan think of it as a place to keep and honor the bodies of our dead loved ones, but that Heaven was not a place on Earth and surely not on Long Island.

Fast-forward to this week of vacation in rainy Montauk. Yes, on Long Island.  Heaven on Earth to some (not us, especially in the rain). Today is Day 3 on the road to Utopia.

For a retreat for the rich and even-richer, my experiences in the Hamptons and Montauk today were particularly democratic.  All of us thought we would be around a pool or at the beach.  But the weather is the great equalizer.  We stood cheek by jowl and vied for tickets at the local movie house or a table at the local pizzeria.  You may be a titan of industry when you are in NYC, but here, HERE, in the RAIN, don’t even THINK of trying to take THAT table in the greasy pizzeria.  I did offer a chair to a woman with a particularly large number of diamonds on her finger because the weight of them seemed to make her list to the left in a most unbecoming way.  Tragic deformities of wealth.  Good thing we are not at such risk; we will have good posture.

Julianne Moore was browsing the Montauk bookstore with her husband and daughter.  Of course, her children’s books were on display.  Since she was a lead in the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” I wanted to kiss POB (partner of blogger) to show her that women of a certain age with children can still feel love and passion, even though she portrayed some of us as insipid, mousy individuals.  Ok, some relationships, gay or straight, are that way.  But, it would be great if a major motion picture about lesbians wasn’t a feel-good movie for straight people.  Am I ranting?  Ok, so I am ranting while staying on some people’s version of Heaven.  Is this the closest I will get to the Pearly Gates?  Oh, boy, am I in deep shit.

I also went to the gym in East Hampton, because the stress of staying in Heaven while it rains was getting to me.  A woman started to talk to me in the locker room.  Apparently, even in Heaven, I have “schmuck” written on my forehead and a magnet for random strangers.  She was telling me that she needed to work out, rather spontaneously, because she was upstairs at Citarella and some woman continually bumped into her in a rude manner and then blamed her.  Apparently, she thought I was staring at her bizarre work-out “costume” (ok, she was right).  I looked around for the Court of Judgment and listened for those trumpets, because since this is Long Island, and therefore, Heaven, there must be a divine court of justice.  Hmmm.  Must be on vacation until Labor Day.  Back just in time to render judgment on me for Rosh Ha-Shanah.  My timing is impeccable.

The other thing I realized is that Long Island cannot be Heaven because I recognized some business people who said they would see me in Hell, and given their business habits, I believed that they, at least, would be THERE.

Gosh, I would love a relaxing beach vacation.  Anyone know where I can find one?

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 2 — The Shopping Expedition

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We actually shopped on the first day out.  The King Kullen which is sooooo big (by NYC standards) that it could be its own Congressional voting district.  I have this image of someone being interviewed on CNN with the caption, “Representative [John Q. Public] [(D)/(R)] — King Kullen, NY”. But I digress, clearly.

POB (partner of blogger) determined that I should be in charge of stupid purchases, since she had the master list of all that we needed. How does one live up to that standard?  How many stupid purchases could there be in a supermarket.  Ok, let’s assume that I am not going to buy pet food for a non-existent pet.  Let’s assume that I am only looking for comestibles, as one would generally find in a supermarket.

Still, I was overwhelmed by the choices for stupid purchases:

Here is the cheesoid (the cheese equivalent of a factoid), complete with aerosol canister that is bad for the environment.

Then there is the life time supply of cheese balls (really? really), that contains no natural anything so it can survive any number of natural and unnatural disasters.

Then there is enough Reddi-Whip for dessert for the entire world.  (This is actually a red herring.  I have seen more in my sister’s fridge.)

In POB’s defense, I went in search of insane food stuffs (or quasi-food stuffs) to purchase.  Some were more gross than these, but I think the managers of the King Kullen thought I was taking pictures for the competition and I had to stop.

I was especially taken with the colors of frosting on the “home-made” cupcakes.  Those colors require lab scientists to intervene in the natural order and produce them.  So, I guess the quotes around “home made” are meant to tell us that these are home made only if you live in a lab.

So, what food stuff was my “stupid purchase”?  I am not telling.  All I know is that there is no expiration date on it.

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The Clan

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POB (partner of blogger) thinks that my extended family is more properly called a “clan”.  She means that in the best of ways, I am sure.  [Pause.] My family is an odd bunch.  POB didn’t meet many of the older generation, but she feels as if she did because of the way we imitate them.  Memory is very important in Jewish tradition.  And, well, how best to evoke memories than by imitating the idiosyncrasies that made each of them — as shall we say — “special.”

My father was one of five boys and they all had children and most of them had children (and so on).  But we are still not the close-knit, ever-fighting group as existed when all the brothers were alive.  That is probably because in their early years, their survivals were all interdependent.  They were the generation of firsts:  first to go to college, graduate school, move to the suburbs, Florida, buy a Cadillac.  They survived poverty, the Depression, the War and immigrant parents who knew even less than they about their adopted homeland.

There was a family barbeque today that we, the Blogger family pod, had to miss because we are at the beach.  SOB (sister of blogger) sent pictures that captured some of the clan members perfectly.  One picture captures a cousin, the member of our generation who most holds to the standards of conspicuous consumption aspired to by his parents, eating a doughnut while holding forth on an issue.  His father  — my uncle — looms large in my memory and in my imitations.  “Uncle of Blogger” is not descriptive enough.  Hmmm.  Uncle Loud. Yes that is it.  Uncle Loud had a pinky ring that shimmered when he waved his hand.  He had a pencil mustache hidden under a huge nose.  I have a image of Uncle Loud eating a plum, with the juice dripping down to his chin, making politically incorrect pronouncements about everything and anything, mostly about things for which he had no basis or fact.  He also described everything about his life as if we were visiting from a remote island and had never experienced modern conveniences.  In order to evoke the memories of Uncle Loud, I wave my hand with the imaginary pinky ring talking about something (it could be mundane or indeed a previously unknown wonderment), adding, “the likes of which you HAVE NEVEH seen.”  Yes, “neveh”.  The use of Rs in spoken English was an evolutionary advance seen only in my generation — the second generation of Americans (and not all of us received this species-enhancing genetic mutation).

We remain a clan for so long as we, in my generation, retain the vivid memories of the Five Brothers in their primes.  After us, the clan ends because the ensuing generations are scattered and never saw the small apartment on Pelham Parkway where Grandma and Grandpa raised five boys in a two bedroom apartment with one bathroom. Or heard the raised voices that were inevitable when everyone got together for family occasions or religious holidays.  Sometimes it was so loud that more distantly related people would run for cover.

On Sunday nights, at dinner, we try to share these memories with our younger cousins so the bonds stay tight.  But it is a haphazard and ultimately fruitless effort because, like all formerly immigrant families, my children and my cousin’s children and grandchildren are Americans, not children or grandchildren of immigrants.  And, over time, the tie that binds gets frayed and loosens too much.

All the cousins of my generation, save a few, are gathering together for my dad’s 90th birthday in October.  In New York City.  Alert the police and the media.  The Clan of the (Mostly) Civilized Cave Bear will celebrate the Five Brothers and the one who remains and the tie that still binds us (if not our children).

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 1

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We are at the beach and it is raining.  Happily, POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) are readers and can relax doing indoor activities.  I can always nap and blog.

POB and I read the Times.  Predictably, the news of the world’s ills twists me in knots but it is harder to stay angry and frustrated when you see and hear the ocean and feel the cool breeze through the house on a rainy summer’s day.

Just one thing, does the Ground Zero Mosque make you think of the Holy Roman Empire?  (Hint: HRE was not holy, not Roman and not an empire.  GZM is neither at Ground Zero nor a mosque.)  DISCUSS.

So, this is all we have done today.  When the rain abated a little, SOPOBAB jumped into the pool until the rains came again.

And I am good with this.  Really.

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Who needs Kevin Bacon?

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DFOB (dear college friend of blogger) and I were talking not long ago and discovered that our family members know each other without relying on our 30-year connection.

Here is how it works:

SOB (sister of blogger) treated DFOB’s brother (BODFOB) when he was hospitalized a few years ago.  I went to visit with the parents at the hospital while DFOB was flying in from California and SOB walked into the room.  Crazy, huh?

It also turns out that DFOB’s cousin trained SOB early in her medical career.

BODFOB’s girlfriend is someone with whom SOB and I both went to high school; her mother was our English teacher (the latter is the reason that this sentence has a semi-colon and is grammatically correct even though it doesn’t flow so well).

But wait, there is more:  POB (partner of the blogger) worked with the girlfriend on her book years ago (POB is in the publishing industry).

So, who needs Kevin Bacon any more?  Ok, maybe if I want to be connected to Barbra Streisand or Alec Baldwin, I need Kevin Bacon.  But G-d help me if I care about making those connections.

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When Jon Stewart gives up and just rants

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Jon Stewart is my voice.  He says what is on my mind.

But more than that.  He is my litmus test for whether I am over-reacting.  If he slams a news story in a light-hearted and are-they-“f”ing-kidding-me way, then I think I am over-reacting; it is stupid but it will pass.  But recently, Jon Stewart has given up on satire and has gotten visceral and angry.  Especially with the mosque in lower Manhattan.  That scares me because I had hoped that I was over-reacting in my belief that this country is going down a bad road with the opposition to this mosque.  I am scared of mobs incited by power-seeking ideologues who will throw away the principles that make this nation great.

A measure of a nation and a people is whether they hold fast to their ideals in the face of those who would destroy them.  Hey, Sarah, Newt and Harry Reid, how do you think we are measuring up?

And, so, Jon Stewart speaks for me when his humor oozes hopelessness from the political stagnation and petty internecine warfare.

President Obama cannot solve all of our problems.  And he is an egotistical, self-satisfied politician.  But he is more thoughtful and careful than George Bush and his cronies.  He is not always be right, but he is trying.  And I don’t agree with President Obama on many things, but I can still support him as the President of the United States.  If anyone says he or she agrees or disagrees with the President 100% of the time, then there is more to it that a president or his policies. It is about something else.  President Obama is more polarizing than any other President.  Why?  Because he is an African-American.  It is both liberating and threatening to Americans.  Let’s talk about it.

The GOP can rally the base with veiled racist fears.

Yes, I am feeling hopelessness and despair and so, it seems, is the most trusted name in news.

(I remember Stephen Colbert from his days at Dartmouth and I cannot, will not, listen to him.  I remember too much of when he wasn’t a fake neo-con.)

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Really? Are ya kiddin’ me?

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New York City is my home town.

Native New Yorkers (and those nearly native because they’ve lived here so long) abide by some neighborly rules.  For example:

  • Help tourists with directions.
  • Ask a blind person if he or she would like assistance (but never ask if he or she “needs” assistance).
  • Look the other way when your neighbor is sneaking a cigarette around the corner.
  • Always go to the green grocer on your own block because that is the store that stays open and keeps the neighborhood buzzing and safe at late hours.

New York City is ruined by those who come here thinking that New York is so anonymous that they can give way to their worst or selfish impulses with impunity.

Yep, you guessed it.  I had a run-in or two today.

Some guy sees me waiting for a hypothetical cab that might be free at 6:20pm on a weekday in midtown [hint: chances are better that you won the mega-millions lottery].  I know he sees me.  We make eye contact.

What does he do?  He walks down the block to try beat me out of the still hypothetical, available cab.  Since he is being rude with me, he goes for double and cuts another woman.  The woman then walks further down the block to cut him.  As you can probably tell, in order to get to win this way, one has to be moving further in the exact opposite direction of one’s intended destination.  We are on Sixth Avenue (or the “Avenue of the Americas” to those who arrived in the Big Apple after 1970) which goes north.  These two people are walking further south to get a cab ahead of each other.

I have my righteous indignation going.  Not at the woman; she did not see me.  The guy is the target of my wrath.

Of course, I have to walk a block out of my way (the man and woman were leap-frogging each other for the still hypothetical, available cab).

I catch up to the guy and call him out on his behavior.

He responds in a are-you-for-real look, “it’s New York” with a twang in his accent and a “f”-you shrug.

He did whaaaaaaat? He told ME, ME, a New Yorker for 46 years, what IS and IS NOT New York?  Is he kidding me?

Ok, I lose it.

I say, “Don’t you tell me about the rules of this town. I was born here. Did you ever hear of manners?”  (Actually, the “did you” came out like “didja” and the “ever” came out like “eveh”.  When I am angry, I lose “oo”s and my “r”s.)

The guy shows me the universal hand signal for displeasure.

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

So, next I go down to the hotter-than-hell subway station, where everyone is letting loose.

And it doesn’t stop even when we are packed on the subway like sardines.

A woman with FABULOUS hair is flipping it all over everyone and my scalp immediately starts to itch from the contact.  No, no lice, but, hey, you never know.

There is a woman who looks TWELVE MONTHS pregnant standing while young people are sitting.

There is the guy who sits “wide” and takes up one and one-half seats and is also hunched forward so that he takes up the standing space in front of him.

A woman is screaming that some man is sweating in her personal space.

I turn to the incredibly pregnant woman and ask in an ordinary subway voice (i.e., yelling) if she would like me to find a seat for her.  She says she is ok in a way that suggests “I can take care of myself and who are you?” but she decides I mean well and smiles.

Someone gets up to get off at the next stop and then people insist that the pregnant woman sit down.

It was just the neighborly thing to do.

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