Privacy, please

It is funny how people give away private information about their kids without even knowing it.

I was at a meeting and we were talking about kids and dating and a colleague from the midwest said that her early-teens son was very friendly with girls but hadn’t decided on a girlfriend.  Fine so far.  Then she added, “but he is always out with them.  If there are seven girls going to the movies, he’s the only guy.”  Ok, ok, ok.

The difference between a New Yorker and a midwesterner is that we New Yorkers would know the implications of that fact pattern and would leave it to the son — and to time — to unravel the mysteries therein.

When my son is an Olympian

On Sunday night, we gathered for the usual family dinner.  This time, we ate out, courtesy of Dad who stuck a crowbar in his wallet and sprung for the bill.  It was my (older) sister’s 50th birthday.  It was literally the least he could do.  I did the least I could do as well by merely showing up.  At least our son made a card.

Our son mentioned he would rather be watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympics.  Ok, he doesn’t get the tact award.  My cousin asked our son about what he saw and learned from watching the Olympics.  He said that every night, he and I went over the sports that were too dangerous for him to try.  My cousin asked what sport he could try and he answered, “curling”.  My cousin leaned over and asked me in a sidebar, “how long do these prohibitions last?” to which I responded quite emphatically, “until I am DEAD!!”

Bottom line, my son will never make the skeleton or the luge team, as if they are sports anyway.  They are kamikaze runs.  Have you noticed that the winter sports are REALLY dangerous?  Just ask any insurance agent whether some of these athletes can get life insurance.  Ok, maybe Lloyd’s of London will insure these athletes.  But then again, Lloyd’s insured the Argentine fleet against the British navy in that not-so-recent unpleasantness over the Falkland Islands.  (Remind me why those islands mattered enough to risk lives?)  Then again, Lloyd’s behavior seems quaint in the wake of the global economic collapse created by a few 25 year-old derivatives traders and short sellers.  But I digress.

Curling isn’t really an option, either.  It looks like “extreme housekeeping” with those hot iron and the brooms.  And my son, a chip off the ol’ block that he is, knows gornischt (nothing) about housekeeping.

and the years spin by . . .

How do you know you’re getting older?

1. You are willing to spend a small fortune for an ounce of magic wrinkle-erasing moisturizer.

2. You pass by the General Nutrition Center and drop $150 on mind and body rejuvenating vitamin packets.

3. You see a picture of yourself and you say, “I don’t really look like that. I’m younger.” Which may make sense — if you are on a planet other than Earth.

Yep, I did all of these things.  Maybe I just go for the full body lift.  I am sure that I can get a good volume discount from some cut and paste doctor somewhere.

Why Airlines Should be Punished

I recently flew to and from California.  Years ago, the quality of ticket I purchased would have been in the “leisure traveler” section.  Soon that name was too grand and the designation became “coach”.  From there, it tumbled further down the slippery slope into “economy” class which meant no one cared if you had an aisle seat right next to the stinky bathroom.  This trip has confirmed that the tumble has gone into free-fall and the proper designation is “cattle-car” class. 

On the way there, parents separated from their children reached across strangers to hand their drooling children some bribe to try to stay quiet.  Then the parents put on their Bose headphones — you know the ones that block out all sounds.  Excuse me, but don’t you think that we — the poor strangers subjected to your whining progeny– deserve the headphones and you deserve to hear your children? 

And I can’t forget the guy who pretended we were seated in first class by expanding his elbows not only into my personal space but in my very rib cage.  (Really?  Did you really not feel some resistance to your expansion, you creepy man?)  I pulled down the tray table, put my pillow on it and then did a face plant into the pillow, so Mr. Strange-as-G-d-makes-us can elbow away.

On the way back, I took the red-eye and I was tired and aggravated.  Already one guy held up an entire line of people to get his laptop out of his bag.  And it was not my imagination — the seats were smaller.  I am a little person and I felt like I was busting out of the seat.  Also, someone (or more persons) took all of the space in my overhead bin.  I was seated in the bulkhead so I had to stow everything.  While the idiot man getting his computer held everyone up, I noticed someone adding a satchel to the luggage in my overhead bin.  When I got to my row, I took the satchel and handed it back to the guy and said, “this is not going to work, I have no seats in front to stuff my bag under.”  He took it and didn’t put up a fight.

And WHAT is with people not turning off their smart phones when asked?  I was about to lunge at this young woman whose tweeting was obviously so profound and important that she could risk endangering us all.  My colleague seated next to me stopped me so that I would not be arrested and carried off the plane in restraining gear.

And, $3 for earphones?  Soon we are going to have to pay to use the restrooms. 

Airplanes today are just gross and need to be upgraded for humane use. 

Ok, I remember flying Air Myanmar.  The planes seemed like demo models because they had indentations where the oxygen mask and the flight attendant button ought to have been.  Also the seats flopped back and forth on take-off and landing.  I sat next to a Buddhist monk so I felt safe.  My friend was in a row with only one seat; the rest of the row was penned-in for some yaks who were also welcomed aboard in that way that only a repressive regime can welcome a visitor (“Good luck, if you have it”).

So, airplanes today aren’t the most inhumane I’ve experienced but I am going to save my pennies and investigate private plane service.  I bet it costs about the same as first class, which isn’t even first class anymore.

Olympians — inside and out

A friend told me that the Olympic Committee ordered 70,000 (yes seventy thousand) condoms for the Olympic village this time around.  Why? Because 50,000 weren’t enough the last time.

It is a two week event.   That is 5,000 condoms per day.  Don’t the athletes need to rest before and after their events?  Or is this another (untelevised) event?

Beats curling, I guess.

Look away

I have been pretty good about a new gym regimen since I started my new job.  (My 2010 horoscope said that I should keep up an exercise schedule, and that is as good a reason as any.)

Since the global economic melt-down, I have taken to drinking wine.  One glass goes straight to my inner thighs.  No joke.  I feel it the next day.  So, I need to work out just to maintain the usual mid-40s spread.

Since going to the gym, I have been feeling much better about myself and my degeneration into older age (in our family we call it “decrepitude” because we are — er — so gentle).  And I have noticed that, in the afternoons on the weekends, men have been looking twice at me at the gym (and not because I have stains on my t-shirts or my outfits are disastrous).  Most people would feel good about that.  But I have to tell you who is looking.

Imagine we are in the early 1980s when the Olivia Newton-John exercise outfits were popular.  Imagine your relatives who were moving down to Florida around that time.  Remember how they couldn’t pronounce “condominium” and kept saying “condominian” (which now sounds like a group of ten prophylactic devices)?  Remember the men who wore short-shorts with dark shoes and dark socks, dyed their hair and uber-cool sunglasses?  You know, the ones who drove Cadillac El Dorados.

Imagine now it is 2010, and these men have aged 30 years and wear white free spirits and white socks and they dye their hair an odd shade of red.  Apparently, mid-afternoon on the weekends, the older set comes to the gym.  The upside is that they wipe down the machines and don’t do many reps.  The bad news is that the men think I am old enough to be interested in them.

I wear bi-focals, but generally my eye sight is good.  I am graying, but I have few wrinkles.  I have a little extra thickness around the middle but I still have muscle tone in my arms and my breasts still hang comfortable above my waist.  Also, I am a lesbian for Goodness sake.  Ok, they don’t know that last fact.

I just wish I weren’t so attractive to the 85+ crowd.  Maybe once, just once, a young, beautiful woman would give me a second glance that doesn’t telegraph, “oh, you really should have taken better care of yourself when you were young. . . .”  Oh, well, that isn’t what I need.  I need the old men to look at me and think, “she is way too young for me.”

So, my cousin just called and I told him about this blog entry.  He lamented that only really older women check him out on the street.  We were laughing/crying to each other and he mentioned that this could be a schtick for http://oldjewstellingjokes.com/.  I checked out this site and there are videos of old Jews telling jokes.

The internet is worthwhile if only for bringing us this website and keeping the tradition available for the younger generations.  Also, if there could be a registry for “I’m too young for octagenarians”, that would be awesome.

Tiger

Does anyone care if Tiger apologizes?  Why is it news?  Other than his family, whom did he let down?  Certainly not the women who wanted their 15 minutes of fame by having sex with him.  His fans?  Didn’t people root for him because of his athletic ability and his personal story?  Did anyone root for him because he was a faithful, family man?

The unfortunate truth is that if you know something sordid or unappealing about a person, it affects you more than if you knew something positive or simply neutral.  I didn’t listen to Tiger’s apology, but if it took this long to come up with one, then it is a public relations apology to regain sponsorships and not a soul-searching mea culpa.

A dear, wise friend once said, “you do it, you live with it.”  She also said, “the strong eat the weak,” although she has mellowed from that position.  But she is right, life is about taking responsibility and standing up for what is right or taking your lumps when you blow it.  We lived across the hall during senior year at college and I was having an — how shall we say — indiscretion and she cleared the hallway of people for me to avoid embarrassment.  (I am not giving details, so you need to read between the lines and draw your own conclusions.)  The next morning, she was knocking at my door, booming, “if you want to dance, you need to pay the fiddler,” which means if you can’t do something in the light of day (as it were), then don’t do it.

This friend probably doesn’t know that she caused me to look deep inside and start the process of coming out of the closet.  She continues to have high standards, tempered by compassion from life experiences.  She is the standard bearer and I adore her.  She and I have had professional upheavals these past few years and I admire her willingness to take on new challenges in new places.  She is my measuring stick for success and hard work.  If she reads this, she may be surprised that she had such a profound effect on me so many years ago and through to today.  I hope that she puts me in her “win” column.

She could have taught Tiger a lesson or two.  And she would have shaped him up faster than an army drill sergeant.  And, she has perfectly puffy hair.  So, Tiger (if you know what is good for you), be afraid, Tiger, be very afraid.

And, to my friend who is always in my court, long ago you re-directed my life on a bumpy but, ultimately, very happy course.  You make a difference just by your presence among us.  I love you.

I’m here, I’m queer and everyone is used to it

I neither hide nor trumpet that my partner is a woman.  I refer to POB (partner of blogger) and our son when appropriate in a professional setting, just as a straight person should only refer to family as appropriate. 

I assume that, in my background checks and google searches, my sexual orientation comes up.  But it is not — nor should it be — something that anyone would raise as a question in interviews.  As you all know, I recently changed jobs. 

Today, POB and our son came to see my new office and met some of my new colleagues and support staff.  I introduced them as, “this is my partner [POB] and our son [SOPOBAB].”

Everything went smoothly — as it should — but I am old enough to remember coming out in the workplace and being afraid of losing my job or my standing as a promising young associate.  Those days are not so long ago.  I decided to step out of the closet for good when I switched law firms 13 years ago. It has probably been in the last five years that my sexual orientation hasn’t been a source of intrigue for my colleagues.

Times are a-changing. And, I am grateful.

I know why Cheney never uses his given name, “Richard”

“Former Vice President Dick Cheney has told conservative political activists he thinks Barack Obama is a ‘one-term president’.”

Gee, Dick, you were a two-term VP but you were only popularly elected once.  Ok, you were not popularly elected because everyone hates you.

You harangue President Obama over his handling of terrorist trials and yet it is exactly how you handled.

A best friend

I think many people have more than one best friend, which is an oxymoron.  But let me explain.

POB (partner of blogger) is my BFFL (best friend for life).  SOB (sister of blogger) is also my BFSB (best friend since birth).  My college friends are EDFs (enduring dearest friends). 

I also have a BFWINS (best friend whom I never see).

BFWINS and I were colleagues for many years and sometimes lose touch for a year or more.  And we get mad at each other and give each other the silent treatment for months at a time (and, since many months pass between our communications, we might not know if we are in trouble with the other).  BFWINS and I know many of each other’s secrets (although I never shared pictures of my fat years) and we keep those secrets.  We are also there if something bad happens.

So, BFWINS had to cancel our dinner plans again.  That’s ok because BFWINS is just that — the best friend whom I never see.