Seder Part 2

Posted on March 29, 2013 by 40andover

Seder, Part 2: Subtitled “Kol B’Seder?” (all ok? literally in good order?)

Meanwhile, Uncle L looked slovenly despite his well-heeled paramour and family. Just take a look at his coat: No wonder his paramour thought we were wolves. A generation from the ghettos of Europe, born in the country, and still. But he is a Yankees fan, so some things are forgiven.

Ok, so we started the Seder. As commanded, we go through our “emblems of festive rejoicing” which are the symbols of Passover: rebirth, renewal, bitterness of slavery and the sweetness of freedom, and the remembrance of the night of death in Egypt that led to the Exodus. But wait, there’s more.

In our family, we have our own symbols of festive rejoicing, requiring a second Seder plate. First, G-d didn’t deliver us from Egypt, then the pogroms of Europe, then the Holocaust, then to two generations of prosperity in the United States for us to drink that gross Manischevitz wine. So, we have a “Manischevitz Free Zone” in our house, where there is (reasonably) good Kosher wine and some good other wine. Second, courtesy of HOSOB (we love him so), we have a Moses action figure (which was a bonus with any Nintendo purchase) that has detachable staff and Ten Commandments for the requisite slamming at the sight of the Golden Calf. Third, have a watch to symbolize the ONE hour that SOB allows for the ceremony before she takes away the Haggadot and announces the first course will be served. In a nod to the modern age, SOB flashes her iPhone timer, so I know exactly, to the nanosecond, how much time I have left.

Finally (not pictured here), we have a brisket and not a turkey, because G-d didn’t work miracles and deliver us from five millennia of trials and tribulations so that we would have to eat dry turkey. No, G-d delivered us so that we could enjoy a nice, juicy, marbled brisket with just the right amount of fat to make it tasty and moist. (Unless you are vegan or vegetarian, in which case we had a delicious Mediterranean bean dish.) That is my interpretation of the wisdom of the ages. You can have yours, just not in my house.

We tried a different approach to Seder this year — we would go quickly through the retelling of the story (see the cheat sheet on the chalk board)

And then we proceeded to discuss who was the most righteous in the story. I emailed everyone with the assignment to determine the most righteous person, and people really read up on it.

Sidebar: GDJOB, who had never cracked the spine of the Bible, was at a loss until her spouse GDKOB showed up. GDKOB was in charge of preparing for Seder. Unfortunately, she was a little late for the debate but her righteous person was discussed. They brought dessert, so all was forgiven.

There was a catch: what is the definition of righteous? Depending on our definitions, we had different answers. There was a second catch: there is no right answer, except that we can agree that among the wrong answers are: (i) Pharaoh and (ii) the Edward G. Robinson’s character in Cecil B. DeMille’s, “The Ten Commandments” (did he chew on a cigar or is that just my imagination?).

We came up with four righteous people (with our varying definitions of righteousness):

Moses (trite);
Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law who advises Moses;
Tzipporah, Moses’ wife who saves him when G-d tried to kill him; and
Pharaoh’s daughter, who, knowing Moses was an Israelite, nevertheless saves the baby from the Nile.

My choice? Pharaoh’s daughter. Who has no name, except in Chronicles, the Koran and the writings of Josephus. In the Hebrew Bible, she is known only by her relationship to a man, Seti I, who decreed that male babies of the Israelites must die. She defied her father’s decree and saved a life and raised Moses as her son. She stepped outside her rarefied, privileged world and extended her hand to a slave child. Because a child is a child. Because a life is a life. And she risked everything, maybe for the knowledge that she was doing the right thing and her heart and soul would not be sullied by the death of a child.

And she was exiled when later it was found out that Moses, her son, was an Israelite.

Her name was Bithia.

Bithia. A person to be remembered as a human who saved a life of a baby who would grow up to liberate a people.

Bithia was her name. And at Passover, I remember Bithia. Because she is the person I most admire in this story.

Chag sameach. (Happy holidays.)

Seder

Posted on March 27, 2013 by 40andover

One month ago, when I invited the “family” to Seder, there was some trepidation.

Why trepidation at just another annual ritual? Well, here is a partial list of the invitees:

Dad (who is not the man he was prior to his brain injury), accompanied by his Guyanese home attendant who had never been to a Seder;
Shelly who is not romantically involved with Dad, regardless of what Uncle L thinks (we will get to THAT later);
Our g-ddaughters, who are not Jewish and one of whom has never cracked open the Bible (but she makes amazing Kosher for Passover desserts, so go figure);
My Uncle L, who having recently lost Aunt R just a few months ago, wanted bring his paramour of 25 years (will someone PLEASE shoot me);
My Aunt R’s blood nephew and his wife, who may not be so psyched to know that Uncle L had a side gig (a shonda — embarrassment — for the neighbors);
FOPOB who is not always emotionally or mentally “present” and SOPOB who is not always physically present;
Cousin Gentle, CB, SOB and HOSOB — thank G-d; and
my personal trainer who gave me good arms for my wedding dress.

So, bottom line: lesbians, their baker g-ddaughter, an uncle, his lover, a Greek Chorus and a brisket. La follie. Madness.

Ok, by the grace of G-d, my aunt’s nephew and his wife couldn’t come so we didn’t have to create even more lies about the state of affairs (pardon the pun) of the family.

Because Uncle L keeps white wine in his refrigerator for his paramour, I bought very good bottles of various white grapes. Only to find out that she likes red wine, but Uncle L won’t buy red because he thinks it doesn’t keep for long.

Sidebar: Really, Uncle? Dirt has thrived in your home since 1954. New life forms and strains of antibiotics could be discovered in your slums-of-Calcutta-apartment and you are worried about whether red wine will go bad? I know people draw lines in the sand but, but, whoa, that is really strange.

A second sidebar: I asked S, Uncle Larry’s paramour (and our new relative), whether she had been to a Seder before, and she said she had been to four, to which SOS exclaimed, “wow, she has more Jewish connections than we thought!!” Oy. Oy. Oy. Out of the mouths of babes, indeed, but, sometimes, a muzzle would work just fine.

Even another sidebar: When will I stop calling her, “the paramour”? Check back with me in 25 years. A generation is a biblical time period and quite possibly after 25 years we will not remember that there was an “overlap” when Uncle L was with Aunt R.

I told S she was welcome in our home as long as she could handle loving references to Aunt R. Wow, now that was a tense moment.

And I haven’t even talked about the preparation for the Seder or the Seder itself. More anon. Stay tuned (with pictures from SOB).

New Age Mom

Posted on March 24, 2013 by 40andover

So, a few weeks ago, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition came out. This, you might think, would be a holiday in a lesbian home. But, sigh, we are here, we are queer and we are middle-age.

SOS is, however, a pre-adolescent boy.

SOS wanted to know whether we needed help going to the drug store. Excuse me? Our boy wanted to help with errands?

Maybe, like a caterpillar into a butterfly, our son blossomed into the son of G-d, as is every Jewish mother’s dream?

Well, no, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition is on display and available at Rite-Aid.

“Dude, I will buy it for you, but you can’t show it to your friends, because we don’t have their parents’ permission, ok?”

“No, I am not ready to own it, E Mom.”

SIDEBAR: When SOS was 8 years-old, he asked everyone he met to buy him that years’ swimsuit edition. Just keeping the record straight.

“Ok, but you know I get it, bud. Mommy and I think women are beautiful.”

“E Mom, no offense, but I cannot talk to you about this, OK?”

All right, too much information for my son. I get it. I am not going to bond with him by scoping out cute girls. Although I could . . . .

We have to do this the cloak and dagger way. SOS gives me an exaggerated wink and says:

“E Mom, do you need anything at the drug store?”

“Why, yes, buddy, I do. Wanna come?”

We go to Rite Aid. I browse in the lotions and potions area, totally worried that I don’t have a visual on my son who is perusing magazines with pedophiles.

It is amazing how drug stores have Valu-Paks of anti-aging lotions. It is really amazing that a chain store succeeded where Vasco Di Gama did not. Fountain of youth, aisle 4, and now in easy to use and re-fill containers. Isn’t the modern world a wonder?

Alas, though, no Sports Illustrated. Only Maxim’s, which would do the trick any OTHER weekend but NOT on the last weekend for the swimsuit edition.

We soldiered on to Duane Reade, where I dawdled again in the lotions and potions aisle and took a brief survey of all the processed foods one can buy these days in drug stores. Are processed foods considered a drug or a food under the FDA?

I went to find SOS after an eternity of inventory research at Duane Reade. Maybe 20 minutes. Apparently I didn’t dawdle enough. Uh oh.

“Buddy, let’s go to a real book store and then I promise I will need a chocolate bar or a bottle of water on the way home, ok?”

At the book store, he was content with the animals of the Serengeti and the dynasties of pre-Communist China.

As promised, we returned to the drug store where I purchased things I didn’t need so that my son could marvel at the bodies of beautiful women.

We got home and I said, “you can go to your room if you want. Just wash your hands when you come out.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Don’t worry, Pearl and Will, no magazines are coming to camp, except the G-rated ones.

When the Past, Present and Future Collide

Posted on March 7, 2013 by 40andover

Some people say time is not linear. I guess then, in terms I can understand, Star Trek’s space/time continuum conundrum is more than a plot enabler. Or life with and without George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life” are just two realities that co-exist in different time dimensions.

And so the space-time continuum has been crashing around me recently. Recently, I have been getting information overload about my aunt that make me wonder, “did I ever know you?”

When I was young, my aunt was gorgeous, avant grade and in the art scene. She was our idol. She knew how to talk to us kids and we felt in our bones that she loved and adored us.

Even as I got older, I knew very little about her family of origin. She cut off any discussions about it. I knew she had a sister who was married, with two boys, and the boys and their father were jazz musicians.

I didn’t realize how thick that wall was until, when Mom was sick, my aunt mentioned that she missed her sister and that she had died of cancer a few years before. I was dumbfounded. I was in my late 30s. How come she didn’t tell us? Why didn’t we ask? Were we not as close as I always thought?

Now, as I clean out her pack rat apartment little by little on Saturdays, I guess I should not be surprised at the person who is my aunt and what I find out about her.

Let’s review the non-traumatic facts I have learned since she died:

she was decidedly older than she admitted (no biggie).
she had an “emotionally and mentally disabled” sister as well (no one really knows what that would mean today) who lived in their parents’ apartment until the building was torn down and died some years later (sad, but, again, not a biggie).
but her birth date wasn’t even the date she told us (ok, getting, odd), let alone the year.
she had an artist’s eye for the human body complete with Polaroids of people we know (a little ooky, but it would be really cool if it were someone ELSE’s aunt and uncle in the pictures).
her other sister, whom she told me she missed, died ten years before she told us and they had not really spoken in 30 years (getting odder).
her mother died young, but did NOT die in childbirth as we were told (ok, but suggests a trauma anyway).
They all led a hard life of immigrants in New York from the turn of the 20th century onward.

So, I guess the theme here is that the “facts” of my aunt’s life are more accurately, rebuttable presumptions. Maybe, if we live to 91, the “facts” of our lives will be similarly suspect.

But here is the fact that I can’t let go of:

It turns out, in a twist a la Mark Twain, my aunt’s disabled younger sister’s demise was exaggerated. She is decidedly undead, though aged and in decline. And all her life, this sister lived close by but still far from sight. There is no evidence that my aunt helped her.

What happened? There is a story behind this. Maybe there is something in their upbringing. Maybe it was the hardscrabble immigrant experience. There is no one left to say (the surviving sister has dementia).

It makes me think about the trajectory of people’s lives and how, maybe, whatever happened in that tenement on Third Avenue in Harlem in the 1920s and 1930s, may have set a course for three sisters, all estranged and one essentially left behind.

A Night at the Gym

Posted on March 5, 2013 by 40andover

So, I went to the gym last night.

The gym was crowded.

I was relegated to one corner where the only thing on TV in front of me was Khloe and Kim taking Miami. (Why are these girls famous, again? They are so gross.)

So, there is a scene where the one who just gave birth is talking to her sister and her sister, in a deep and soulful moment, points to an imperfection on her leg. Unclear whether she nicked herself shaving or what. So the sister who gave birth expresses milk on the blemish to help it heal.

OMG I wanted to vomit.

I turned to my right to see if the person next to me was similarly grossed-out. He was a man in his early 70s wearing 1970s short shorts and head band with a short muscle shirt that would have shown off his abs, if he had any. Ok, I don’t want to start a conversation with him.

Only 12 minutes had passed but I needed to get off the bike for safer ground.

I bumped into my trainer, who was talking to another trainer (someone I don’t really like). He had on headphones that somehow disconnected from his smart phone. The connector piece went inside his shirt and he announced, “wow, I just got a nipple shock! Wanna try?”

At that point I went downstairs and got dressed and took a cab home.

All the retching sensations must have worked about my abs from the inside out.

Once they were young

Posted on February 17, 2013 by 40andover

I was cleaning out a relative’s apartment this weekend (yeah, more death and destruction in Bloggerville).

While I was cleaning the Collyer Brothers-like apartment (though not a home) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collyer_brothers, two timeless axioms of my youth (one from my grandmother and one from the rabbis) came to mind:

Wear good (and clean) underwear just in case you are hit by a bus so the emergency room doctors will know you come from a good family (and presumably treat you better); and
Live every day as if it were your last on earth.

How do these concepts work together, you ask? Work with me, here.

While there may be loftier connections, mine is decidedly mundane:

DON’T EMBARRASS US OR MAKE US CRINGE AFTER YOU DIE.

And the corollary: Get rid of pictures, outfits you haven’t used in a long time, do your laundry EVERY DAY so that no one has to see anything that could make him or her go blind.

Because everyone was young, wild and stupid, once (maybe more than once). Just don’t leave a record of it, for others who are cleaning out your home to find.

Examples of acceptable things to leave behind:

Kick-ass black leather skirts (regardless of your age at death) and even tasteful lingerie;
Memorabilia and photo albums (that don’t have nude or semi-nude pictures of you with other, now aged or dead relatives, however young or not you were at the time);
Keepsakes, necklaces, etc. (of whatever or no value) that your family members can wear to carry you with them always;
Phone number of 24-hour cartage company to cart away some of the inevitable detritus;
List of accounts and financial representatives; and
A last will and testament.

Examples of things NOT to leave behind:

Dominatrix outfits, even if still in the box;
1970s Polaroid photo album of various poses of you and your partner naked from the waist down;
ANYTHING from the 1970s for that matter;
Collection of 20 years of junk mail (not every collection has value); and
Gross piles of dirty laundry strewn about.

Did you stop at “Polaroid photo album of various poses of you and your partner naked from the waist down”? Yeah, I knew you would. Yep. I almost went blind. And I had to stop once I realized what it was I was looking at.

I know, once they (and we) were young. Once, they (and we) were middle-aged. Hell, do it in your 80s. But if you are in your 80s, burn the pictures every night. And in your 90s, don’t take pictures. Because you will forget that you have them. Because, with most of your life in the rear-view mirror, it is almost a certainty that you violate the Rule of the Ages:

DON’T EMBARRASS US OR MAKE US CRINGE AFTER YOU DIE.

This blog will self-destruct in 25 years.

Blessings of a Snow Ball Fight

Posted on February 9, 2013 by 40andover

SOB and I went over to Dad’s house to pick him up for lunch. Our destination? The Coffee Shop of the Un-Dead.

SIDEBAR: SOB and I, in or nearing our 50s, bring down the average age of the patrons by at least twenty years.

After the usual scavenger hunt for important papers that Dad has hidden among the solicitations for fraudulent charities, we worked up an appetite. His home attendant, Heather (who is fabulous) joined us for lunch. (Dad’s and her rapport is terrific. We are soooo lucky. And I hope she feels the same way.)

The snow made getting to the Coffee Shop of the Un-Dead a little treacherous. SOB took Dad’s left arm, Heather took his right and I walked behind, with my arms out and my stomach tight, ready to catch him under his arms if he fell. All was fine and Blogger Family Protocol, while ready, did not have to be engaged.

After lunch, when we cleared the treacherous parts, and having survived the meal without any of the Un-Dead patrons actually becoming Dead, we all got a little giddy.

SOB was walking behind, and I was holding Dad’s right arm. When I came upon some snow that had settled on shrubbery, I whipped my hand around and —

SCORE!!

Direct hit on SOB. Heather, holding Dad’s left arm, not to be outdone, slammed me with snow with an impressive hook shot behind Dad. I made SOB substitute for me on Dad’s right, so I could take the offense and pummel Heather. Then SOB and Heather ganged up on me. All the while, two people are making sure Dad didn’t fall.

It was a winter ballet performed by people in their 50s with the precision and grace of children (ok, maybe not, but this is my blog). Then, as we are about to walk into his lobby, we needed to pelt Dad a little and very gently, so he didn’t feel left out. So add a 92 year-old to our folly and frolic.

When the doorman saw us all, he said to Dad, “Doc, looks like you won!!”

He did. We did. A snow ball fight (after a fashion) in New York City with my Dad and our new extended family that includes Heather. In life, things never turn out the way you imagine. But not everything has to be tossed out just because life has its own trajectory and its own timeline, separate from our hopes and expectations. Nope, not everything we know needs to be tossed out, even in the despair of reality. Except for snow balls. They need to be tossed every time there is snow.

The art of racing past the pain

Posted on February 5, 2013 by 40andover

Shortly after Dad’s injury, SNOBFOB took me to lunch, to guide my entry into the “new normal” of my family responsibilities. She ever so gently (ok, Jewish-gently) inducted me into the club of people with dead and dying parents. It was also a little like when your mom talked to you about the joys of tampons. You knew you needed the information but you really wished you weren’t old enough for the conversation.

SNOBFOB set about to prepare me for the ups-and-downs, the despair and the acceptance. The rollercoaster. As only someone who has lived this can.

In the months since, SNOBFOB has tried to help me see what is doable (and the best way) and what is not doable. What is and IS NOT my responsibility. What I can and CANNOT change. I am not always good at setting limits.

So, just yesterday, over lunch, SNOBFOB hit me with a whopping reality check: I do not need to take on every enfeebled family member’s problems and still I can keep my promises to Mom and Grandpa. I know what SNOBFOB did for her parents and aunts and uncles. She can tell me to slow down or “chill” or stop being so damn depressing. It was so incredibly LIBERATING. Because Dad I can handle, but . . . .

Today, SOB and I were reviewing the past week’s worth of Dad-related snafus, bizarre behaviors and tense moments. And, the tone of our conversation was, well, (new) normal.

The new normal is getting to be ok. Not great, but ok. And I can even laugh and have fun during the ups-and-downs. In fact, the laughs and the fun are much more important now. Precisely, because life is a roller-coaster.

Thank you, SNOBFOB, my very wise friend.

The First Sunday in February

Posted on February 3, 2013 by 40andover

It is a Homeric epic.

Winner takes all.

Family allegiances ripped across a field as brother battles brother.

Harbaugh versus Harbaugh

For glory.

FOR HISTORY.

The Civil War?

Well, in a sense, except with a half-time show and commercial interruptions. I give you . . .

The Super Bowl.

And more important than what happens on that ball field in New Orleans is the number of chicken wings purchased today. It is a sign of economic recovery. No joke.

The estimates are that 250 million chicken wings will be consumed.

One wing for every person in this nation.

If more is purchased, then it is a sign of economic rebound. If less, well, then, we are spiraling down into the Obama Recession (as I overhead someone saying after Friday’s GDP numbers).

Or maybe people are eating healthier foods? Maybe there are more vegans?

What if there is an uptick in hummus, bean salsa, kale chips and those gross meat substitutes?

I am not giving up on soy futures just yet. But those twelve-pack taco and chicken finger samplers advertised on TV did have a certain appeal . . . .

My morning with Bessie and other things in a random day

Posted on January 19, 2013 by 40andover

I am sick (with the flu) and have been home almost all week. The problem with being home (besides cabin fever) is that you notice every imperfection in your house, every age spot on your legs and those barely perceptible (to the naked eye) and asymmetrical droops in your breasts.

I was feeling pretty ok this morning. And I needed to get out of the house. And I was despondent over missing a Soeur reunion in Cancun. And my bras didn’t provide the necessary level of support. So, off I schlepped to the local mecca for women’s undergarments. This is the place where, for decades (until her death), the Dowager Countess of Ladies’ Undergarments would cup your breasts in her hands and yell out a size and style and point you to one of the dressing rooms. And if she determined that your current bra was ill-fitting, she would pitch a loud fit. You had to have self-esteem or you needed to be high to deal with her. I never went while the Dowager was alive.

POB and I went to here to get our undergarments of steel for our wedding dresses. Bessie, an older Southern woman, helped us. She noted that day that I was wearing “some kinda ratty bra.” http://40andoverblog.com/?p=4354

Today, I walked in and saw Bessie and strode straight for her and said, “you helped me with my wedding undergarments and I promised I would be back and here I am.”

“I remember you. You was with a friend and you was both gettin’ married.”

“To each other,” I responded, gently.

“You had a ratty bra that day, I’ll tell yoooooo.”

Sidebar: OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK, really? She remembered? And I was here to rectify that. I was thinking that I wasn’t feeling better; I was just delirious. And why do you think I don’t go bra (other than sports bra) shopping often, huh? A little humiliation every other decade or so lasts a looooooong time.

I spent 90 minutes topless in a dressing room that others had no problem entering at will. I must have tried on 30 bras.

Bessie commented on each: “Now that one make you almost look perky!” “You don’t fill that up anymaw. Betcha you did once!” “Now, that is a beautiful cup on you!!”

“But, Bessie, it is electric blue!!!”

“It don’t matter what color it is. A good fittin’ bra is a good fittin’ bra. You don’t turn your nose at a good fittin’ bra. Not when we’s our age!!”

Pause. We are NOT the same age. I may be going on 50 but she is 70. Wow, I really was delirious.

“I’ll jest put this in the buy pile.” She walked away. Ten bras (of varying colors; some electrically so, some not) later, she went to find matching bottoms. I prevailed on nixing the dull blue and brown striped one that was almost like a bikini top.

“You a full-cut or a thong type?” She yelled for everyone to hear. Of course, the entire conversation was for everyone to hear.

“How about we look at the matching bottoms and then I will decide.”

Bessie packed up all the things she decided I needed, less the bra that I would not, could not, buy. “Now, send your friend on in here, hear?”

Wow, I needed a long snooze.

POB and SOS were doing G-d’s work, by having lunch with my Dad, so I could rest. Or be delirious, whatever.

We arrived home at the same time and had a little rest hour. And then POB and SOS set about making a cheesecake for SOS’s friend who is recovering from serious back surgery. Our hearts were on standby to be broken if anything went wrong. An 11 year-old’s undergoing serious back surgery is a parent’s every nightmare. He came through like the champion he is. And he wanted cheesecake. “Then, give the boy a cheesecake,” said (and did) POB and SOS.

So we all hovered in the kitchen while POB did most of the heavy-lifting, SOS helped a little and I helped not at all.

SIDERBAR: Hey, there needs to be a slacker in every family. I proudly claim that mantel. In fact, I “gold-medal” in it, without the need for performance enhancement drugs. (It is a non-performing sport.)

Then SOS remembered that Cousin Gentle and he are going to visit a Sikh enclave in Queens tomorrow and he needed to learn, “hello”, “good bye” and “thank you” in Punjabi by tomorrow. Cousin Gentle sent a link to a primer on Punjabi.

So, now, I sit in a warm kitchen with wonderful smells wafting through the air, blogging about my day and over-hearing my son practice words in Punjabi.

Yes, yes, I must be delirious.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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