Mothers and Their Daughters and the Perilous Schlepic to New Jersey

Posted on November 11, 2009 by 40andover

Today I went to a funeral in New Jersey for the mother of a friend. After my mother died, my heart always breaks for a daughter losing a mother. And when it is a dear friend, the pain is excruciating. Because daughters and their mothers have bonds that, well, you have to be one to understand.

I arrive at the rental place early this morning and the rental car agent and a customer were comparing menopause symptoms. After enduring about 5 minutes of this (which seemed more like an hour), I ask if I can get a special discount for being peri-menopausal. I cannot. I rent the car anyway.

The car is equipped with NeverLost GPS and, confident in the GPS system, I set out for New Jersey. It is a 21 minute drive with no traffic, but it IS New Jersey and, as a New Yorker, I must allot an extra hour to navigate New Jersey. The GPS voice and I are getting along fine. Smoooooooth.

Then GPS lady tells me I have arrived at my destination and it is a jewelry shop. Ok, this IS a Jewish event but it is not a wedding and this is not the registry, so this is clearly wrong. New Jersey has stumped the NeverLost lady. She is now the NeverLost-but-all-bets-are-off-in-New-Jersey lady. I make a mental note that, at that moment, in that parking lot, in our generation, man triumphed over machine.

I call the funeral home and a man, who must be taught to speak in that Musak voice, gives me directions that a native would understand. But I am not a native. I am a foreigner in a foreign state. It is moving from the State of New Jersey to the State of Agitation. So, I try to follow the instructions and I go round and round and see some lovely sites. In fact, I passed the funeral home once without realizing it, on my way to getting lost for yet another time.

I pull into a shopping center and walk into a Whole Foods and inquire at the help counter. A lovely woman named Sheila googles the address, then calls the funeral home, then tells me some landmarks, walks me out of the store and points to the exact road where I needed to go. I hug Sheila. I think she is surprised and thinks she might be starring in a commercial, but no, it is the explosive gratitude of a person who fears that she may never see her family again even though she is just a few miles from the George Washington Bridge.

I arrive at the funeral just in time. My friend speaks poignantly of her mother and said so many things that resonate for me in my relationship with my mother. I keep thinking about Joni Mitchell and her stupid, stinking, painted ponies going around on the carousel of time.

My friend talks about being grateful for what was and not being resentful of what will not be. Very poignant and resonant. My friend, in her mourning, teaches me a life lesson. My absurd trip that started out as an effort to comfort a friend and turns out inspiring me. I leave the funeral feeling upbeat about the life and legacy of my friend’s mother because of the love and humor that poured out in the eulogies. Only neurotic Jews of a certain generation can use words like “great” to describe a funeral. You’ll have to trust me that it isn’t ghoulish. There is something so life-affirming about love and humor amid the tears and the sea of people taking time out of the usual grind to stand in remembrance of person or in support of those she left behind.

Life is eternal and love immortal and death is only a horizon (Carly Simon).

But it WAS schlepic.

Imagine Peace

Posted on November 11, 2009 by 40andover

Imagine peace.

That was Yoko Ono’s ad in the journal for last night’s benefit supporting New Yorkers Against Gun Violence (NYAGV).

My mother helped found the organization. I remember vaguely that she would go up to Albany to lobby for tighter gun laws, coordinate the silent marches (the sea of empty shoes for those killed by gun violence) and generally be a nudge for the public welfare. She was unassuming about her efforts for this cause.

I sat at the benefit and I was both stunned and brimming with pride at the flourishing my mother’s “seed” work, about which she was very quiet and very determined. A young woman spoke about her work for the organization, doing outreach to youths at risk. She spoke from the heart. My eyes welled up. I went over to her afterward to tell her how I was so taken with her words and her work. I mentioned that my mother helped found this organization and she looked at my name tag, and then hugged me, saying “I have heard stories about your mother.” Then a board member came over and said, “I knew your mother and we still talk about her and use her catch phrases.”

My mother has been dead for nearly seven years. And she is remembered by both colleagues and people who never actually met her. A life well lived.

My sister is standard bearer for our generation. Her wedding registry was composed of two charities, one of which was NYAGV. When same-sex marriage is legal in NY, I am going to follow my mother’s and sister’s examples and make it part of my registry.

My mother’s legacy is a challenge to me to leave this world a better place than it was when I was born. Not fix everything, just fix or enhance something.

Imagine peace. I hear her saying, “now go and make it happen”. Mom is a tough lady in death as in life. And an inspiration. May she rest in peace. Her memory is always a blessing.

Imagine peace.

The tragedy at Fort Hood

Posted on November 10, 2009 by 40andover

Brave men and women lost their lives at the hands of one of our own.

Yes, Major Nidal Malik Hasan is one of our own.

Just as much as Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma City bomber, is one of our own.

We can make all the shallow distinctions but radicalism creeps person by person, as it did with McVeigh and, as we are told, with Hasan. The horror and the responsibility begin and end with the person.

There are always signs in retrospect. And, they allow for a useless free-for-all for Monday quarterbacking pundits.

Yes, let’s look closely at this tragedy and learn its lessons. But, first, let us bury our dead with honor and with thanks of a grateful nation.

Just a few days ago, President Obama stood ramrod straight with a crisp salute as the fallen soldiers were carried off an army transport to be buried by their families.

It is tragic that he must do so again so soon and under these circumstances.

Today I went into work in jeans

Posted on November 9, 2009 by 40andover

Going to work in jeans on a Monday was not a rebellion against “The Man,” but an acknowledgment of the realities of aging — the rounding out of one’s waist and tummy.

I scoffed at low-rider jeans until some years ago, POB (partner of blogger) told me I had to stop wearing “Mommy Jeans” and she took me jeans shopping. Little did we know that years later the President would make Mommy Jeans famous as necessary nerd wear.

Today I am grateful for these low-riders because they fasten below the waist and tummy. Some days, my full-waisted dress pants don’t close without a fight and I am tired of popping buttons. And when a button pops, it does so with enough velocity to hurt someone unfortunate enough to be in its trajectory. Soon, I will have to register my tight-fitting clothes with the local police precinct, as is the rule with assault weapons.

So, until I lose a few pounds or feel that it is ok again to spend money on new dress pants, low-rider jeans are the way to go even though, by every demographic study, it really NOT a look I should sport.

Chicken in so many ways

Posted on November 9, 2009 by 40andover

I can eat cooked chicken, I can cut a cooked chicken and I am not bothered by chicken remains.

But, I cannot buy a raw chicken. It was on the list of groceries and I had to tell POB (partner of blogger) that I could not cope with that. The chicken is well, recognizable as a chicken, although it is headless and dead. And there is always a scare about bacteria with a raw, dead, chicken.

Meat is so much easier, because you don’t see the cow.

Thanksgiving is a nightmare in this regard. Not just some small bird, but a huge beast that is so big it needs a special pan. And then people talk about dressing the turkey. Work with me on this. On the start of Thanksgiving Day, there is a naked, dead, headless turkey with a plastic bag holding the gizzards stapled to it. Loooooooooovely. Does dressing the turkey make us feel better about a roasted dead, headless, naked bird on our dinner table? And what message am I sending to my son and brother-in-law who are bird nerds? That we will eat you one day? (We are tough family, but we only figuratively chew people up and spit them out.)

AND, eating leftovers means reliving this for a week.

So, this year: BRISKET.

Credit Card Companies Charge More and Are Meaner, to boot

Posted on November 6, 2009 by 40andover

I was just on the phone FOR THE SECOND TIME questioning some stupid fee charged by a credit card company. The first time I had to endure a surly response from my customer service representative — customer service in the credit card industry being the definition of oxymoron.

This time, I was greeted with serieuse attitude coming from the Mr. Customer Service who is not the mere definition of oxymoron but is the true personification of oxymoron.

Definitely a call center in the US because no one can fake that decidedly American accent. So, there’s a silver lining — the abusive person was a fellow American and his job was not outsourced. I don’t know if I would have remained as calm (a stretch) if an American job was lost so I could be berated in this manner.

The oxyMORON reminded me that the call was being recorded as was the call from my prior excellent customer service experience. I said that I was glad it was being recorded because I would love everyone and anyone to hear the tone and manner of the customer service representatives. We concluded our business and we ended the phone call.

I did not break the phone, which I consider a tribute to my self control.

Taking Candy from Your Baby

Posted on November 5, 2009 by 40andover

So, here I am at 7:25pm on Thursday after Halloween and I am eating candy that my son gathered on his trick-or-treating extravaganza. I am feeling guilty, but only a little. My son is 7 years old so it isn’t exactly like taking candy from a baby (she writes defiantly).

Halloween was its usual hell-ish experience. As I have written before, I don’t like the holiday because of, among other things, the ghoulish costumes and behaviors, and I didn’t know what to do with the carved pumpkin except put it in the refrigerator where one would normally put ripened or cut fruit. Leave it out for the bugs and the vermin? Now, that’s not a plan for an urban dweller who likes to keep both nature’s jungle and the urban jungle at bay.

A major issue was my son’s costume. He did not want to dress up and wanted a general pass on the occasion (that’s my son!!). POB (partner of blogger) had long ago convinced me that Halloween was important (as were scooters and other toys of potential death and dismemberment) because we should stress social inclusion (but not assimilation or group think).

As you can tell POB is the intellectual in the family because I am still trying to apply these principles to daily life and parenting. Realizing that I was still struggling, she recently restated her position in words I can understand: having two moms will be tough enough when he is a teenager, do you want to add the deficit of Halloween? Because we are two women, our son’s societal acceptance depends on celebrating Halloween. Ok, I get that thinking. Sort of. My straight parents were dismissive of some societal norms and my college friends thought I was a Soviet spy. It was lovingly meant as weird and kooky, I think.

So, Halloween it is. It took some cajoling for our son to agree to a costume: “why can’t I be ME?” he asked. As part of the inclusion model, I did not say that a transitive verb takes a subjective pronoun and the question is “why can’t I be I?” which, while non-sensical, is grammatically correct. But I digress.

He loves the Natural History Museum which was founded by early 20th century President Teddy Roosevelt. So, he decided that he would be Teddy Roosevelt in the age of the Rough Riders. We got a rough rider hat, bandana, round spectacles and I taught him to say, “bully, bully!!” just like Roosevelt. But it was a little — how shall I say — cerebral for a 7 year-old.

Mindful of inclusion model, I tried to get him to think more commercially — work with me on the inclusion part here — and I asked, wouldn’t you like to be a Power Ranger or an X-Man? Nah, not so much. Teddy Roosevelt it was.

My parents would have beamed with pride and joy if I wanted to dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt for Halloween. One generation later, I am begging my son to be an X-Man. There is a PhD thesis in here somewhere but not now.

Needless to say, in No-Where-istan, there is no Halloween.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Posted on November 4, 2009 by 40andover

I saw my sister in the gym tonight. Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out. I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled. You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights). I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister. I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor). I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment). She doesn’t flinch. She is not my sister. My sister would have flinched. I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow. Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know. I mention some things I had written in my blog. She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries. But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy. I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body. I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969. The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien. Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture. Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck. After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

Posted on November 4, 2009 by 40andover

Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness. According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender. (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.)

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders. None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2. Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender. Not that it matters. But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway. I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion. But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”.

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand. Not dispositive. No discernible Adam’s apple. Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand). Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive.

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess). But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams. And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

A schlepic

Posted on November 3, 2009 by 40andover

schlepic (n): [pron: SHLE-pic] a journey of epic proportions (from the Yiddish schlep). A schlepic is often measured by length and grueling effort or by short distance with emotional energy expended.

So, according to Vebster’s Dictionary of Yiddish phrases, a schlepic can be long but complicated and frustrating travel or a short subway ride full of bizarre behavior and emotional and psychic energy. Or anywhere along the continuum between those two points.

I had a schlepic this morning:

Although I am feeling “waist creep” — that terrible feeling that you can’t suck in your stomach to close your pants from last year — I am still a small person who can fit easily in the small space between two large passengers on a subway car.

And yet, I didn’t have to fit easily between two people in the subway car. I was at the end of the bench next to a hand rail, a comfortable distance away from the next passenger, who had a wide berth on the other side of him as well. Then, a large man squeezes in next to me.

The man on the other side of him still has room to move down a little, but insists on standing (er, sitting) his ground. So the force of gravity is heading my way on the right and there is a metal handrail on my left.

I lean over to assess the situation and see if I can ask the man on the other side to move down. As I lean forward, I realize that I have lost the back of the seat to my fellow traveller’s shoulders. He never looks up and he takes out a text book to read (very convenient on the subway). The man on the other side is looking down and is wearing ear phones, so my “excuse me, sir” falls on already noise-filled ears. I try to reach over to tap the man, because if I get up, then textbook man will slide into my already diminished space. Of course, I had to invade textbook man’s space to tap the other passenger. That turned out to be an affront to his G-d-given right to comfort and self-determination on the subway. I said, “I am just trying to get a little more room here,” and his response was a sigh of disgust, as if I am the interloper. Ok, ok, ok, how does this work? I am being squished out of my seat and I am the interloper and troublemaker?

Many mean thoughts raced through my head. Then rage. Then my stop came. No resolution. No catharsis. No release. Just a jackass on a train who thinks he is right. Ok, he represents a huge demographic in our country. Probably over 60% of the population.

Emotions and anger continue to rage as I walk up the steps and out of the subway.

It was short, but a schlepic nevertheless.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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