My Gift to Me

This is my week of vacation at the beach.  Well, it isn’t really vacation.  It is a change of scenery with my family and I don’t have to do professional work.  But it is work to keep SOS and his friends who are out here, too, happy and un-whiny.

Still, I have a gift just for me.  As much as I love picking a scab, I will not, shall not, cannot watch the Republican National Convention.  I haven’t even read what the pundits have written.  I don’t know if Chris Christie spoke yet.  My pre-ulcerating stomach and my righteous indignation need a rest.

I feel free and chilled out.  I am not even bothered by SOS’s whining about the unfairness of it all when we tell him that he can’t play on the computer because the day is too beautiful to waste indoors.

Then I heard about the hideous incident where GOP racist conventioneers were spewing hatred at a camera woman.  And now profound disappointment and anxiety about our future have come roaring back into my vacation.

Well, that chilled out feeling was good while it lasted.

To Us, The Soeurs

Yes, I am a lucky person.  I am one of nine Soeurs (please see Glossary to the right of this entry). Also see:;;

We have been friends (or connected through friends) since 1981, our college freshman year.

Many years, many tears, many happy times, and oh-so-many epic journeys. 

The stories have been told and retold among us that they are canon.  If someone misses a key detail, a Soeur who was not even there at the original event will chime in a correction.  Yep, we all remember that we were all there (wherever “there” was) — all nine of us.  We were all in the coat closet when, just after college, Mi Casa Es Su was scamming with he-who-shall-not-be-named?

Oh, absolutely.  We could pass lie detector tests.

Sidebar: Mi Casa Es Su also had a tag line in college, “so many men, so little time.”  Just sayin’.

Our memories are that collective.  CTFOB had pneumonia (nearly so) but had to go to a frat party to see a guy she liked.  We told her to rest, but she insisted:  “I’d have them wheel me into that place in an iron lung!”

I remember being turned back from the Canadian border on a ride to get Bradoors.  NYCFOB, Mighty and two Soeurs who don’t yet have sub-category names [Sidebar:  JT and HH, YOU HAVE TO COMMENT, GIRLS and then you can choose your “handle”] were REALLY on the expedition.  But twenty-odd years later when we were re-uning in New York during the Winter Olympics, we all stood up in the hotel room and sang the Canadian national anthem, just as we (or they) did all those years ago for the border guards.

Mighty has these long tapered fingers and long nails.  When she pointed her index finger at you in an up-and-down motion, you had to spill your guts to the group because she detected you were hiding serious good gossip.  She used to have to say, “if you want to dance, you have to pay the fiddler,” but after a while, just the finger motion was enough.

Didn’t we all fall asleep in the snow outside ΑΔ fraternity only to be saved by mystery man?  [Oh, hiiiiiiii, JT and NYCFOB.]

And which of us had crushes on Boring Tall Man and Tall Boring Man (different people)?  I remember!!! JKGB (another Soeur who needs a subcategory name) had a crush on Tall Boring Man who was a grad student who hung out at the undergraduate library.  She wore electric plaid pants (on a diagonal) in a sytlistic send-up to the uber-prep.

And then there was Tie Man who used to get drunk and ask people to talk into his tie.  He had a thing for CTFOB.

JT was perpetually on the latest fad diet and I joined her on one and fainted a few times.  (NYCFOB has my fat pictures, and if anything should happen to her, those pictures will go to Woodward and Bernstein). JT also had a thing for ΒΘΠ frat jocks.  They wore boxers that were longer than their outer shorts.  They also had a rare disease, U-trou-creep-up-ium, coined by NYCFOB and CTFOB.

CAFOB, who is rock solid and an old soul, did have that period during which she went from computer star to capturing essence of North Star.  We are grateful that she found balance in between.  And she has been our counselor and sage all these years.

HH, did you really, really think you would avoid mention?  HH is a Soeur who has opened her home and heart to those of us who have had a long journey to adulthood.  Gentle HH, a Soeur who judged, if at all, out of earshot.  And whose husband diagnosed the Chuppah problems at the wedding.  The challenges, losses and happiness of her life made this gentle spirit more gentle and more accepting.  And forgiving of me and accepting the true friendship that I can offer all these years later.

So here we are: CAFOB, CTFOB, NYCFOB, Mighty, Mi Casa Es Su, JKGB, HH, JT and Blogger.  For 31 years.

At the wedding, we had to have a picture, just us.  No one else, so no need to worry about someone being in the photo-croppable position should a relationship not work out.  We are bound by love, by time, by a secret handshake and by crazy stories.

Sidebar:  I mean STORIES, like driving on a dark road when a dog that bit a deer, staying at the Norman Bates Motel and the rodeo hotel (because the neighbors next door), the time JT had a terrible “flu” or so we told her younger sister who was visiting when she asked why I was holding a trash can near JT’s head and propping her forward or my “fat” pictures which the Soeurs will admit to only under oath (or if NYCFOB goes missing).

When I thanked Mi Casa Es Su for schlepping across the country after chaperoning her child’s class trip to Yosemite until Friday, only to turn around and pack and fly to New York on Saturday, she said, “I wouldn’t miss this, are you kidding?”

These are the ties that bind.  The people who can show up on your doorstep any time. No questions.  The people who need to be there in the good times and the bad times.  The people who descended on my home the week after MOB died and soothed me just by their presence in my living room.  Peeps.

I love you. And you danced at my wedding until your feet were bloody stumps (ok, gross, but a phrase of ours).  Looking at all of you dancing at the wedding, well, I was walking on sunshine.  Remember, Katrina and the Waves?

Sidebar:  POB made sure the band played this for us because I have told her about Mighty’s happy keds many times.

We are nine.  We are an amoeba.  We are separate yet we are one.  Discuss.

Seder — a chance to mourn, a chance to laugh, and yes, a chance to sleep, perhaps to dream . . . .

Passover looms large in POB’s and my life.

For Jewish women, Passover is very complicated.  And writing about it is complicated, so this blog is complicated.   So sit back and pretend it is a Fellini script.

In our house, Passover is all about MOPOB.  Why?

Passover was MOPOB’s self-designated proving ground as a Jew by choice.  I remember the Seder I attended at MOPOB’s house.  MOPOB was stressed, as if the bubbes (grandmothers) of 100 generations of Jews were looking down at her wondering if she was using the right amount of chicken fat in the matzo balls.  That kitchen was way too crowded with all those mavens; a lesser person than MOPOB would have made a run for it.

In 2006, POB and I started having Seder for both of our families.  POB was desperate to have those matzo balls float (MOPOB’s receipe; and they did).  We had a rigorous discussion (MOPOB’s form of exercise) about an aspect of the Exodus story.  Then we all ate POB’s delicious meal together with family and friends.  MOPOB pronounced herself satisfied with POB’s and my hard work and how we melded two families’ traditions.  And shortly thereafter, she died.

Sidebar:  So, really, really, MOPOB, with that as a backdrop, how could Seder NOT be about you?

MOB didn’t really like all the prayers and stuff, but she loved having people around her table eating and talking and eating and having meaningful interaction (no idle chit chat at the Seder table).  And anything that tripped off MOB’s children’s tongues were quite possibly the most brilliant ideas theretofore uttered in the history of humanity.  So, it was all good.  For MOB, the most important thing was that, regardless of how everyone came to the table, everyone left that table as family, hugging and kissing (and there were no outrageous failures of tradition that would be shondahs for (i.e., embarrass us in front of) the neighbors).

Over the years, POB and I have gotten comfortable with our mothers’ looming large on this holiday.  The kitchen, though, gets crowded, especially when POB is making the traditional foods.  Her mother’s spirit hovers and my mother’s takes a magazine and sits at the counter and reads, ready to pitch in, but not really ever knowing her way around even her own kitchen (this for another blog).

And, as the years spin by, the elders have gotten, well, even older and a little more forgetful and a little more eccentric in their actions.

Sidebar:  If truth be told, age earns our quirkiness or idiosyncrazies (no misspelling here) the more refined term, “eccentric”.

I had arranged to pick up an extra table from DOB’s house. on Friday  He also bought some wine for us.

Sidebar:  Dad buys wine that is, well, barely usable for cooking.  But it was such a good price that he couldn’t resist.  “And who can tell the difference?” he asks rhetorically.  Dad, I am no connoisseur(se), but you buy rot gut wine.

Sidebar on sidebar:  FOPOB is no better.  He goes for the cheapest Kosher wine he can find.  One year, he told us not to buy wine because he was bringing wine.  He brought ONE bottle and he knew we were having nearly 20 people.  Are you kidding me?  Good thing I always buy non-kosher GOOD wine.  Clearly, we only serve DOB’s and FOPOB’s wine to someone on his or her fourth glass, because that person is too shiker (Yiddish, meaning drunk) to know the difference.

I arrived at DOB’s house around 1pm.  He decided that he will just come over early and hang out with us, while we are trying to put together a sit down dinner for 16.  Oh, goody.  But DOB is such a lovely guy and very lonely, so how could I not bring him along?  I called POB, who primed SOS to read books with Grandpa DOB.  Ok, they went through a survey of American history, and the origins of the Silk Road and it was only 2:30pm.  Time for reinforcements.  I called HOSOB, who is busy working on commissioned pieces of art.  But I know SOB was working hard at the hospital, so she couldn’t stop my asking HOSOB to drop the paint brush, shower and run over to our house to entertain the “boys.”  SOB might have stern words for me later for my having taken HOSOB away from his work, but that day it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

HOSOB, a fabulous member of the clan, came over and took over, leaving POB and me to our preparations.  At one point, DOB was tired and SOS needed a little more exercise so HOSOB took SOS for a walk.  (Some days, I think we really should have a treadmill . . . .)

Meanwhile GDJOB arrived with Kosher for Passover cakes (which were indeed FABULOUS).  As she walked in, she said, “I know you thought I was probably [DOB] . . . Ummmm [as she saw DOB seated]  Oh, hi, [DOB]!!”  Ah, yes, GDJOB, careful when you walk into our house, because as DOB gets older, his sense of appropriate arrival time can make you wonder whether he thought Passover was a lunch or dinner affair.  OOOOOOOOhhhh.  The first of many, many, uncomfortable moments chez nous.  Luckily, GDJOB had to park the car and run some errands.  She exited stage left, post-haste.  And we have a memory for the ages.

Fast forward . . . .   Seder time.

Sidebar:  Elders, children and the sandwich generation. Believers in one thing or another, non-believers and people just having a power nap before dinner.  There was one moment when I looked at my assembled family and remembered when they were the giants of my youth, when they were young and strong and idolized by my sister, my brother and me.  Wasn’t that yesterday?

We all sat to fulfill a commandment that binds the past with the present and the present with the future:

We will go, young and old; we will go, bored and snoozing; we will go, Jew, non-Jew and Atheists; we will go all together to observe the Passover ritual for we shall tell our children, on that day, G-d freed us from slavery, from the house of bondage.” 

Pretty profound stuff.  That is until I noticed my 80+ year-old uncle was already napping and drooling, and FOPOB had taken the whole bowl of haroset and started eating out of it with his spoon. . . .

Also, there is a personal corollary theme: 

We were not delivered from slavery to eat turkey and drink gross kosher wine.  We were liberated to eat a lovely marbled brisket cooked to perfection and delicious Cabernet that can stand up to a Yiddisha brisket.

We don’t follow the Haggadah religiously (as it were).  I like to make the Exodus story relevant to the modern day.  I pick the passages and copy the relevant pages so we can all read together and discuss.  I find portions of the story disturbing and don’t shy away from that.  There is a reason why Jews “tremble” before G-d.  The G-d of the Hebrew Bible is pretty violent and mercurial.  But we must observe the traditions, from generation to generation, even if one year, my theme was:  Saddam Hussein and G-d, compare and contrast.”  Yep, step away from the computer, lest a lightening bolt destroy you and your family.

Because of Arab Spring, SOS has become very interested in revolution and civil wars that inevitably follow.  So, in my preparation for the Seder, I read the Exodus story to find elements that spoke to heady days of freedom and the subsequent factionalism once the common enemy is vanquished.  There is a lot of turmoil following the Red Sea crossing.  The fluidity of the story is both a strength and a weakness — anyone can find something to support his or her thesis, whether for good or malevolence.

And of course, in addition to the usual “emblems of festive rejoicing,” we have our own:  (i) the Moses action figure (with detachable commandments for easy throwing); (ii) a watch symbolizing that we only have one hour before my sister takes the Haggadahs away and declares the ceremony at an end, and (iii) a bottle of the two-buck chuck my Dad will always bring and we will never, ever, drink.

We will fill in this second Seder plate as our tradition continues….

But for now, the matzo balls floated and that is indeed a blessing.


A zissin Pesach to all.

The Marathon That Wasn’t But the Family Got Together Anyway (and had more fun)

Cousin Runner was planning on running the NYC Marathon, to raise money for the memorial fund she founded in memory of her father, my cousin, who died too young.  Her father embodied the our family motto of “no boundaries” tempered by endless love and concern.

Cousin Runner’s mother flew in from San Francisco for the event.  Cousin Runner’s brothers came in, as well, from albeit lesser distances.

Unfortunately, Cousin Runner pulled something and could barely walk.  So, she joined the 15,000 person injured list and had to sit out this marathon.

The rest of the family was happy.  We could avoid having to wade through the sea of humanity in order to glimpse her bib number.  Does anyone remember the legend?   Promptly after the man ran to Marathon to tell his people of the advancing army, he collapsed and died.

Since Cousin Runner’s mother was my cousin before she was Cousin Runner’s mother, she gets an acronym distinct from Cousin Runner — JFCOB (Judy first cousin of blogger).

FCJOB is staying with us, and arrived Friday night and POB (partner of blogger), FCJOB and I had a long dinner catching up.  As we were kissing each other good night, FCJOB remarked, “Wow, how did we polish off a bottle of wine?”  I shocked her when I told her that we EACH had a bottle of wine.  I was immediately dreading my training session at the gym on Saturday morning.

We all gathered for Saturday night dinner.  DOB (Dad of blogger) arrived 2 hours early as usual.  SOB (sister of blogger) trailed in, ahead of HOSOB (husband of SOB) who was sporting a purple 1980s thin tie.  I had to come to HOSOB’s sartorial rescue and offer him a glass of wine in exchange for handing over the tie.  (“Just give me the tie, and no one gets hurt.  Drop the tie.  For the last time, drop it“.)  All was Eden once again.

Cousin Gentle came.  Cousin Runner (with boyfriend) and one of Cousin Runner’s brothers (ASCOB — Alex second cousin of Blogger) rounded out the table. Or so we thought.

But then, a surprise visit from another young cousin who is in dental school in New Jersey!!  (I thought I had scared him off last year when I blogged about the partying rampage that left him just beginning a hangover at 6pm.) Strong work, Cousin Dentist, Jr.!!!!  So glad you came.

SOB was setting us up for a group photo shot with the auto-shoot option.  We stood still, absolutely still, multiple times as she checked and re-checked it.  Luckily, ASCOB offered to help and discovered that every time SOB set the picture, she then hit the “off” button.  Really, SOB??  The button has OFF written right above it.


nos operor minimus nos can operor

We are grandchildren of immigrants to this country.  We derive from the huddled masses, whose very existences, let alone birth dates, were never recorded in official records.  We have no family crest.  No motto of our lineage.

In our second generation of natural born Americans, we have thrown around mottoes that might define our family’s communal sensibilities.  For a while, we imagined a family crest that would match our intrusiveness, lovable brusqueness that is meant to show love.  SOB (sister of blogger) and I imagined with a white picket fence and an “X” through it.  It would signify, “no boundaries”.

But it is hard to figure out how all that fits on a pinkie ring, which is apparently where the family crest goes, if you are a family crest kind of family.

As time goes by, I have determined that we are not so much intrusive (yet lovable) as we are lazy.  We give new meaning to the usual response to the sentiment, “you shouldn’t have!!”  In fact, we DO do the least we can do.

When SOB brings dessert to top off a three-course Sunday night dinner at our house, she says, “it’s the least we could do.”  And I respond, “yes, yes, it is.”  She is gratified that she exceeded the low bar we set for each other.  And since she has exceeded the bar, she can do a victory lap around the apartment and bend her head to receive her Olympic medal.

Our new motto: nos operor minimus nos can operor

We do the least we can do.

I will come up with some crest designs in future blogs.

Sometimes it is fun to stoop to “their” level

Ok, since I hate most all of which Senator McConnell stands for, I can’t help but revel in a little meanspiritedness.

In the photo, he is addressing reporters about holding up all legislation unless the Bush tax cuts are extended (and thus impliedly shutting down the government and allowing unemployment benefits to expire).

But what he is really saying, as he points to his colleague Senator John Cornyn, is, “listen to me, but look at John Cornyn’s strong chin while I squawk like a chicken.”

Yes, it is mean.  But the rabid GOPers do it all the time, with impunity.

Ok, I feel really bad.  He cannot control how he looks.  But I probably wouldn’t notice that he looks like Thanksgiving dinner if he weren’t soooo venal.

I really feel bad.  I am tormented.  I’ll take it down tomorrow.  Maybe.  It doesn’t feel so good after all, this meanspiritedness.  Mitch, you can keep the gutter politics.  I am only sitting in the muck with you this one time.

Same Time this Year — Urban Jungle

Dejá vu all over again, as a famous ball player (not known for his grammar) once said.

Last year (, we had a run-in with urban wildlife in our home.  Since it is happening again this year, I believe it now qualifies as an annual event.

Over the weekend, we heard what we thought was chirping and we surmised it had to be coming from our stove’s exhaust vent (it vents outside).  Maybe there was a nest there.  We did not want to disturb the nest, but we did want the birds to know that there is only room for one family in our home, so we put the vent on, which would not hurt them, but make our vent less of a sanctuary.  Maybe they would move on, we thought.  I also called the Bird Nerd, husband of SOB (sister of blogger), who did not understand the urgency of our concern that others lived among us.  You might think he would remember the hysteria of last year.  But noooooooooooooo.  I digress.

The next day, POB (partner of blogger) had a brilliant, yet frightening, realization.  There had to be family of  mice behind our washer/dryer and the babies (as in many) are making that noise.  This all sounded plausible since there is an empty space behind those appliances that our contractors ASSURED us was closed and sealed, but there I go again, digressing.  Birds, I can deal with.  My son likes birds.  SOB married a bird nerd.  A MOUSE — worse, MICE — this I could not handle.

We left for a day out of the city, with the mouse family not far from my thoughts.  We arrived home late so we had a quick dinner at a local restaurant.  I go into the kitchen later for something and there is a teeny, tiny mouse.  I scream, POB screams because I am screaming and our son asks why we are screaming.  “Nothing, sweetie.  Nothing wrong.”  Ok, our son is a smart guy.  If NOTHING were wrong, why exactly would his two moms be shrieking??

As our luck would have it, our superintendent is in Europe for another two weeks (note to self: consider a career change), and the exterminators come at the beginning of each month.  So, if you are going to have problems, have them then.  This tough love approach is designed to compel those of us who live in the urban jungle to train our varmints better so as not to upset the schedule of the exterminators or the management company.

Monday morning, the handyman lays down the sticky traps.  These are inhumane and make me sick, but this is the urban jungle and this is my home.  I am frankly terrorized by the potential painful deaths of baby mice, but I keep repeating “the strong eat the weak” as if to make me feel more callous than I am.  Also, I am comforted by the knowledge from experience that mice are too smart to fall for that old peanut butter on the glue trick.

Except later that night, two baby mice do fall for the peanut butter on the glue trick.  (Another got away.) I hear about this when I come home to a dark home and find POB and our son in his room with the door closed, the air conditioning on.

POB very calmly (and without looking up from her magazine) tells me that the two baby mice are on the Glue of Death and that she is perfectly happy never to go to that part of the house again until the handyman comes the next morning to take the “glue-kill” away.

Ok ok ok ok ok ok ok.  Worse than having live mice is having dead mice.  I go down to the doorman who cannot leave the door because there are no maintenance people on duty after 6pm.  He gives me a broom and a dust pan.  He wishes me good luck.  His expression shows he knows that I am a freaked-out pampered urbanite who never thought she would be doing this — mixture of sympathy and smugness that is sooooooo unattractive in the younger generation.

Up I go in the elevator.  I come into the house.  I walk over the radiator.  I use the brush to sliiiiiiiiide the Glue of Death over to the dustpan.  The broom bristles get stuck in the glue.  The glue is eating the broom.  The glue is getting stronger, rendering my ammunition useless.  I step on the edge to hold back the Glue of Death and retrieve the broom, but the Glue of Death has taken my sneaker hostage.  I am desperate to shake off the Glue of Death as the dead and dying mice bob up and down like pawns in a cruel game.

POB gets paper towel and tosses it on the floor.  I think, this is not a game of rock, paper, scissors.  This is a death match with mice, the Glue of Death and me.  But I use the paper towel to extricate my sneaker.

I bring the whole mess down to the doorman and, with the privileges of age, ask him to make this go away.

I come back upstairs, pronounce myself a hero to my family but a serial killer to the mouse community.  I take to my bed without food or drink until POB generously braves the particularly treacherous epicenter of our urban jungle to get fruit and chocolate for us.  She screams, but happily it was only a water bug. (Oy, we are soooooo careful and clean, why is this happening to us?)

I am ready to move to a hermetically sealed compound.


SOB (sister of blogger) and I walked our dad (FOB — father of blogger) to Fairway on Sunday after brunch with POB (partner of blogger) and our son. 

FOB is doing great, but he is aging.  SOB and I walked back uptown.  She was going home to write a chapter of a medical book and I was going to find a neutral place to read and comment on documents.  SOB offered that I could work at her house but we both knew that two couches in the living room would call our names and we would lie there and chat about stuff and then take out the Shrine — the picture album that SOB keeps of our mother — so we could have a long, cleansing sob.

With this in mind, we both decided that trying to work in the same room, or apartment for that matter, was not a good idea.  So, SOB walked me to the cafe at the gym where I was going to set up shop.  She sat for a moment and, of course, since the Shrine was mentioned, we had to have a moment about how long Mom had been gone and all that has happened in that time.  

SOB left me to work, but kept emailing me, “Are you still working?” every five or so minutes.   I am 46 and she is 50.  I don’t think we will ever grow up and I am grateful for that.

What a difference 25 years makes

Ok, so I was “chubby” (work that euphemism with me, please) in college.  Once leaving college, coming out and feeling the rhythm of post-college, I lost weight — a lot of weight — and resumed being the skinny kid I was before 11th grade. 

Of course, many people haven’t seen me in 25 years.  (Some one asked me, “so were you thin in high school and then just went out of control for the college years?)  Now the guys, now a little chunkier with a lot less hair, were checking me out.  I was amused by it, and a little creeped out because they were married. 

In fact, two of my married friends were hit on by married-men-not-their-husbands.  Really?  Really?  I thought one of the waitresses was really cute (a grad school graduate picking up extra money — I was in the back talking to a fellow classmate who owns the catering company and she introduced me to her husband the chef and the entire staff).  Hey, if everyone is checking out people, I could, too.  And besides it would be too ooky to check out my classmates, even though many clearly did.  One of my friends, a straight woman, saw this same waitress seemingly sweltering in the heat in her uniform and said to her, “You look hot!”  As in, “it is Hot Like Africa Hot here and you must be sweltering and sweating into my food and that is too gross!”  Still, my friend reported to the group that she told the waitress she was HOT!  I love my friends.

In a too-weird-for-words episode, I was standing with some friends on Main Street and a guy comes barreling out of the nearby café to talk with one of my friends. The guy says “how’s the film business in NY?”  Ok, my friend isn’t in film anymore (as in not for 20 years) and he isn’t in NY.  So, my friend says where he is and what he does and the guy says, “you may know my brother! He died in 1996 but, before he died he was the foremost authority on [the most obscure crazy thing NO ONE has ever thought about].” Ok, now that is a conversation stopper. What do you say, “So, you like staying in the dorms?” or “Got kids?” 

Somethings a person doesn’t need to remember:  nicknames like Crabs, Stain, Fiend and — yes — Swivel

Finally, in the too-late for this reunion, but something to remember for next time

When someone asks you what you do after blowing hard about all the fabulous things he or she does, just say, I just released an album about yodeling.  You might recognize certain cuts from the Sound of Music, but I included more authentic tunes and some new, really edgy stuff.  If you would like, I can put on my lederhosen and bring out my trumpet-like instrument and demonstrate.”

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.