Combined in one big hullabaloo

Posted on July 30, 2012 by 40andover

Today, I signed up SOB and me for a camp reunion in September, celebrating 55 years of Camp Wingate. SOB started in 1969. I, in 1971. And one summer in 1974, so did POB.

Camp Wingate. These two words that evoke sweet days of childhood and friends for a lifetime, and it is quite irrelevant whether or not we see each other for decades. Whether or not we were in the same bunk. Whether or not we even overlapped in years. As long as we know people in common, we share the extraordinary experience that is/was Camp Wingate.

I didn’t know it at the time. I thought our bedtime was horribly unfair, possibly in violation of the Geneva Convention on the treatment of prisoners. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t get two toppings on our soft-serve at Dairy Queen (what is wrong with sprinkles on top of the cherry or chocolate dip?) Obviously, prison rations. Oh, and remember the year when there were too many counselors who offered navel-gazing as the evening activity, so that Pearl had to tell counselors to be at the volleyball court and the waterfront?

SOB and I have to stay at a hotel. Those bunks won’t do it for our decrepit bodies. I snore, so we will have to have different rooms at those scary drive-by motor lodges in West Yarmouth (SOB, are ya sure?). Worst comes to worst, we are sleeping on the floor of Pearl’s house, which we used to call the “Winter House” as distinct from where the family stayed during the summer months while camp was in session.

So, my best friend for those many years (other than POB who stayed for one year and captured my heart) may not come to the reunion. To entice her, I challenged her to a tennis match but using wood racquets. (Where does one find a Jack Kramer anymore?) Years ago, when our friendship was in trouble, we decided not to play the intra-camp tennis tournament. My best friend was sure to beat me soundly. The bunk was on my side but I didn’t want that type of division. The bunk was sensing my anger at feelings I couldn’t fathom and casting Pat in the role of the villain. And I knew that they were wrong to blame her. I had to deal with how my sense of friendship had morphed into romantic feelings and how afraid I was. I wasn’t kind to her during that summer, but I never wanted the bunk to pick sides. We opted never to play that final in the tournament and, in a testament to the principles of Wingate, Pearl told us she was proud of us because we put the embers of a friendship ahead of competition. For the record, I didn’t stand a chance against Pat. We all knew it. But I punished her in my own ways. Clearly she never deserved it. I have been a coward all these years because I have never said that I was sorry, that I didn’t understand it all until much later and that maybe she felt betrayed by me.

Will my friend do me the honor of playing a set of tennis and win, lose or draw? It is a little unfinished business. I do not care about the outcome. She will win (let’s be honest). But I want to face my friend and hug her tightly across the net at the end.

If not at Wingate, then at the court of her choosing. Or we can just meet, hug, cry and talk like I have needed to for over 30 years.

The wonder years

Posted on July 20, 2012 by 40andover

POB recounted this vignette to me after SOS was asleep. It makes me realize that while being at home is harder work, it is also a lot more fun and challenging. (The COB can take credit for this insight.)

POB picked up SOS at the bus stop after day camp. They amiably walked the few blocks to our apartment building. When the elevator came, a skinny teenage boy with acne and long hair emerged. [I never described boys like this until I was a mother of one.]

The elevator had a smell that SOS could not identify. It was, however, immediately obvious to POB. And I am not talking body odor.

“Mommy, what is that smell?” A teachable moment arrives.

“Sweetie, that is the smell of pot.”

“Pot?” No name recognition.

POB tried again. “Dope? Weed?” [Hell, this kid is growing up in New York City.]

“Huh?” [Ok, this parenting thing is getting harder.] “It smells awful.” The elevator opened to our floor.

“Sweetie, it is the smell of drugs. That boy was smoking marijuana, a type of which is commonly known as skunk weed.” [I taught POB that.]

“Eeewwwww. I was inhaling drugs?????” he asked in horror.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie, nothing bad is going to happen on that short elevator ride.”

Worry over. Moment forgotten. Back to play and carefree late afternoons after camp.

A missed teachable moment about that urban legend, “contact high,” to keep our son even farther away from smoking dope. I hope he reads this blog entry when he is 15 years old and using cheesy aftershave and chewing gum to try to cover his tracks as he squeaks in just under curfew while I am pacing in the foyer.

[Note to SOS at 15: Just remember, dude, once you thought it was disgusting. Love, E-Mom.]

When breaking the law is just business as usual

Posted on July 16, 2012 by 40andover

I have at least 3-4 bad parenting moments every day. But my aim is to teach SOS that life is governed by a set of rules:

if you do something, then you live with the consequences;
never, ever, implicate someone who is innocent;
if you want to dance, you have to pay the fiddler;
if you feel guilty at night, then you need to apologize to someone in the morning;
if you’ve done something bad, you have to own up to it and try to make it right; and
if you lie, it only postpones the inevitable reckoning and aggravates anyone who would have been sympathetic to you.

SOS asked me about LIBOR and what exactly was being manipulated. I tried to explain it simply and, to be honest, I was marginally successful (that is to say, inept).

I have been thinking about the Federal Reserve’s expressing concern 3 or 4 years ago, the Bank of England’s having to answer to Parliament, and a venerated international banking institution’s being rocked to its core. And, there are many banks under scrutiny. Then I read an article about the cheating, self-dealing and insider-trading done by Wall-Streeters that are just part of business as usual.

This week, I paid a sick amount of money in life insurance, long term care and disability insurance. Am I a schmuck? Are all these institutions houses of cards waiting to collapse and shatter my dreams and hopes of providing for my family?

I am tired of people cheating with my future. If you want to mess up your life, hell, it is your life. But when what you do affects POB, SOS and me, just be careful never to meet me in person, because, if you are putting my family at risk, I am capable of anything. Anything.

Things I Learned on My Son’s 10th birthday

Posted on July 11, 2012 by 40andover

SOS climbed into our bed after breakfast. I was the only one in pajamas, because POB and SOS had been up for a while doing all the usual morning routines for a day at camp. I love this time in the morning. My family lets me be lazy until 7:30am. POB learned very early on — at Camp Wingate — that trying to make me a go-getter in the morning was a losing battle.

Today, SOS wanted to talk about his momentous birthday and think ahead about the next decade of his life.

“Will I change as much as I did in this last decade?”

“Well,” I said, “physically, probably not — you were a scrawny newborn — but emotionally, intellectually and philosophically? Absolutely!”

He was quiet. I had to remember that he is only 10 years old.

“But I will always be your baby. But not in public anymore.”

Oh, the dreaded “not in public anymore”. I knew it happened after boys hit the “double-digits” (i.e., 10 and over), but on the day that he turned 10? Was that soooooo necessary?

SOS had his birthday party before the school year ended, so all his friends could come. His actual birthday is therefore more low-key. He wanted a hamburger and fries and some Star Wars action figures. Easy enough.

We went to the “burger joint” and while we were waiting for his order, he posted:

So, not a good parenting day as far as SOS’s nutritional intake. But french fries are good for the soul.

On the way back, he took my hand and said,

“I know that I am pretty spoiled, but that is what parents are supposed to do.”

“Sweetie, a parent spoils best when she spoils a child with love.”

“Absolutely, that is number 1, but the toys do come in a really close second.”

I give him a look. That awesome “Mom look” that immediately establishes control over your child’s life.

“Whaaat?” He whines. “I’m just sayin’.”

Over dinner (we took the grease extravaganza to go), SOS asked, “E-Mom, remember when you said that Dubai was becoming more of a tourist attraction than an oil producer or distributor?”

“I don’t remember telling you that. We did discuss that Dubai’s leadership has built the tallest building and various (sinking) islands just off its shore.”

“Oh, yes, I remember: I read it in the Economist.”

From deep thoughts to a child’s scrawling hand-writing to reading business porn, all in the span of one day. Is he 5, or is he 10 or is he 35? Depends on the moment.

Time to fasten my seat belt; it is going to be a bumpy decade.

And I don’t want to miss one minute of it.

A Remarkable Family

Posted on July 8, 2012 by 40andover

Like most remarkable families, they are not famous. And they don’t look at each other and think, “gee, we are remarkable”. It goes without saying that they don’t have a reality TV show.

A man, a woman and their four daughters. Not the Brady Bunch. Not hair of gold (like Carol Brady) and their skin was so white that a flash light could give them a sunburn.

I met them at Camp Wingate for Girls. Not all at once. First the eldest and then the third child. A year later, the youngest. A year or so later, the second child.

1971. The eldest was someone whom people respected and she was engaged to a counselor at the boy’s camp. I looked up to her and knew her every move, because she had an air about her. I don’t think we ever spoke. The third sister was an oldest camper and the oldest campers were too cool for words. And I remember that her freckles increased with every beach day. The weird things you remember 40-odd years later.

Our parents were connected through my aunt and uncle. The men had survived the war that America won — good triumphed over evil. Their father lost his leg and my uncle lost some of his soul. But they soldiered on and their wives healed their wounds because they were our greatest generation and that what just what they did.

For the parents, camp visiting days meant seeing your kids during the day and gathering with the other adults for dinner to eat all of the seafood (tower of treyf) that could fill a stomach. Being in the hell of war, and healing those wounds at home, entitled these couples to a few non-kosher meals. At least that.

The youngest came to camp in 1973(?). She wore tragic danskin top-and-short sets and really pointy keds. Mom sent me with pointy keds as a second pair of sneakers and I hid them under my bed. So, I felt for her. Her legs had mosquito bites all over them.

And then there was the second born. The photography counselor. As crazy as this is, she seemed not of this world, and yet the world was too much with her. I remember that she spoke softly and people listened. I admired her ability to command that type of attention.

After ten summers at Camp Wingate, the friends you made were for a lifetime, no matter the decades in between communication. And, even more, these four girls and their parents were family, indirectly, through my aunt and uncle. But the fourth child — the one with mosquito bites and tragic danskin outfits — she was my friend.

When the second child died, I knew that bubble of Camp Wingate had burst in some way. I wrote a letter to the camp director that — however irrational it was — I believed that a cloak of immortality protected us and that belief was shattered. I mourned the loss of a life and the loss of our collective Linus blanket. The camp director never wrote back. What would she say?

Time passed.

The eldest married. The second was gone. The third went her way. And the fourth, dyed part of her hair purple and was a roadie for a rock band.

More time passed. We aged. Our parents aged. Some of our parents died. Some of life’s waves buoyed us, while others beached us with a mouth full of sand. Life’s trajectory was no straight line for any of us.

And, yes, I have to thank Facebook for reconnecting with the youngest. Although I saw her mom at family gatherings, I didn’t have a way of connecting in a way that wasn’t so stilted until Facebook came along.

POB and I decided to have a wedding even before Marriage Equality passed in New York State. I had mellowed in my rather doctrinaire ways that it had to be legal or I wasn’t doing it. I thought about the people whom I would want at that ceremony and so many had died already. Did it really matter more that the Bible Belt accepted it or that Dad and Aunt Betty and Uncle Larry and Aunt Roz were there to celebrate? And if Aunt Betty, then her best friend of 65 years, Phyllis, must come. And, if Phyllis, then my friend of 41 years, Janet2 must come. Because they are part of us. Even the daughters I am just getting to know and the daughter whose pain will forever be unknowable.

At the wedding, I couldn’t stop hugging Janet2. I needed to make up for the decades lost. I still may have to visit her just to hug the stuffing out of her, such as is left after her latest health craze (P.S.: Kale is really hard to digest.)

Generations of family who are friends. A remarkably resilient family and resilient lifelong friendships that don’t need to be watered or fed on a daily basis. Because love runs deep in the earth that sustains us.

(P.S.: To the eldest: If your kids need anything in the City (or just need a home-cooked meal), they should just come to our doorstep. We are family.)

Something. Anything.

Posted on June 26, 2012 by 40andover

Some days (ok, weeks), I feel in suspended animation, waiting for a sign, a direction, something. I don’t think it is just me alone; the news, the economy, the pundits all talk about uncertainty and the absence of bold action. Universal stagnation.

The Eurozone has been on the verge of collapsing, or recovering, for months. Every day, European leaders are frantically accomplishing nothing while “contagion” threatens to spread.

And who let Cyprus into the euro-zone? Aren’t Greece and Turkey still fighting over that island? Does it really need a bail-out or did it just get in line because it didn’t want to be left out of all the fun?

And, of course, we on the other side of the big pond are frightened and our markets volatile and businesses unsure.

So we sit. And we wait. This is like watching a documentary on the Black Death Plague in slooooooow moooooootion.

And the Supreme Court doesn’t often hand down a landmark decision that also tosses a curve ball into a presidential election (ok, other than in 2000) and so the Supremes are teasing this out to the very last day. Ok ok ok, Messrs. and Mses. Justices, we all agree that you are so fabulous and powerful. Now, give us the f%@#ing decision, ok?

So we sit. And we wait. And I wonder why some of the Justices don’t like broccoli so much, and why that seems absurdly relevant to the court decision.

And then there is Taxmaggedon: the economic cliff that our nation slides off on January 1, 2013. We spent too much on our national credit card and still no one wants to admit that, first, we need to pay the bill and, then, we can shoot the spendthrifts.

So we sit. And we wait. And I wonder why every event has to have a catchy (or actually not-so-catchy) name in order to signal that it is a big deal. Taxmaggedon is apparently catchier than “elected officials not doing their jobs and compromising for the good of our nation and our economy”. I think “Operation Nero” might be better, althought Congress is playing with something other than its collective fiddle.

And then there are Syria and Iran. Syria has a vague “window of time” until it implodes with civil war. Iran has a vague “window of time” before it can explode a nuclear bomb. What should we do? And when?

So we sit. And we wait. And what does a window have to do with time, anyway? And if it turns out we blew that window with Iran, do I really need to keep saving for retirement or going to the gym?

I could go on. (No, really, I could.) And I fear that either the resolutions that won’t come or, if they do, they give rise to more questions and more uncertainty.

Sooo, I’m sittin’ and I’m watchin’ and I’m waitin’ . . . .

A Morning at the Museum

Posted on June 24, 2012 by 40andover

Today, we went to the Met to see Buddhism along the Silk Road: 5th–8th Century. SOS really wanted to go. No joke, and he isn’t even 10 years old (soon). When I was 10, you could not tear me away from watching cartoons or fighting with BOB. A museum? Nevehh.

It was a win-win all around, actually. I wanted to walk on a beautiful day (to the museum). DOB was game for something to do on a quiet Sunday. POB was grateful for extreme air conditioning (in the museum).

SOS has so many books and DVDs on the history of the Silk Road. He is fascinated by the spread of religion and culture through the trading corridor as well as the particularly harsh climate conditions along parts of that ancient route. Actually, all of us were interested in the subject matter, in varying degrees. But mostly, the rest of us marveled at our little guy’s enthusiasm: “[Blogger]-mom, let’s pack all of it in today!”

SOS’s knowledge is broad, deep and thoughtful (forget that he is so young). Every now and again, I try to throw in something I learned from my travels in parts of Asia. It is a little like a klutz trying to jump double-dutch.

“Hey, bud, over here!!, look at this awesome wood carving from an entrance to a stupa. A stupa is place of worship that —-”

“[Blogger] Mah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahM, I know that a stupa holds a Buddha relic,” said with more than a little exasperation.

DOB, watching this exchanged, looked at me and smiled. It must be a little fun for him, after all, he and MOB survived three smart-aleck kids.

But then, just then, I heard him telling POB that the Bodhisattva sculptures were all depictions of the Buddha. Aha!!! I could tell that not all Bodhisattva sculptures were in fact depictions of the Buddha. So, I whipped out my iPhone and logged into Professor Google and read that that he was a correct to a point — the term has morphed so that it also refers to people recognized as enlightened in their time, hence very different faces of Bodhisattva.

“Hey, buddy, did you know . . . .”

“Gee, [Blogger]mom, thanks for the info!!!”

Paradise regained.

Sidebar: Until he is old enough to read this blog, he doesn’t have to know how I knew, right?

Then, off to brunch, where parents re-assumed the mantle of superior knowledge and power. SOS looked to us for Talmudic rulings on whether he could eat the home fries that came, unbidden, with his omelet and whether, if he ate some of the home fries, would it count against his weekly French Fries quota.

Paradise affirmed.

And the strong and brave parents, POB and I, deserve a nap.

Vision and Sight

Posted on June 17, 2012 by 40andover

Sometimes I wonder about Judaism. Some laws are aspirational; others acknowledge the base nature of humanity. For example, “don’t talk unkindly about the deaf” or “don’t put a stone in the way of the blind”.

Nevertheless, a good reminder. But there is a greater imperative: guide someone who is blind if requested, or if you think that the offer of guidance would be well-received.

I went to the gym for exactly one-half hour. (SOB is wearing off on me.) I stopped at the wine shop because I deserved a treat after so much (okay, so little) exertion.

I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman. The man was describing the stores to the woman. He was very formal, as if they hadn’t met before. I looked back and I saw that the woman had a blind person’s walking stick although her eyes didn’t have the tell-tale signs of long-term blindness.

I slowed my gait to listen. The man, Richard, was turning left on 97th Street, and the woman, Debra, was continuing on. On the northwest corner of 97th Street, I introduced myself to them and asked if I could be of assistance.

Debra and I walked along for a block and I described the new stores and the general scene.

Then I asked, “It seems that your blindness is recent. May I ask what happened?”

“Glaucoma. It was gradual. I can see big objects, but I can no longer read. I am what people call ‘legally blind’. But I can’t just sit at home. I have to make the best of it.”

We continue along and I describe the stores and our relative location. Of course, I can’t ever remember what the new store replaced. Because I don’t have to rely on my memory rather than my sight.

And people don’t get out of the way of a blind person. They really need to read the basics of the Hebrew Bible. Mostly because I was ready to rain down vengeance all over them.

She asks, “is the Starbuck’s still here?” “Is the jazz club still here?”

I answered her questions. We talked about family and kids. She is 61 and her mother is still alive and is inconsolable about her daughter’s glaucoma.

At 106th Street, my turn-off, I decide that Broadway and West End converge in way that is difficult to navigate. I decide to take her to the Rite Aid on 110th Street, which is her destination.

“Why this Rite-Aid?” I ask.

“I grew up in this neighborhood and now I have moved back. But the last time I was here was five years ago. I figured that Broadway on a Sunday in the summer was quiet enough that I would try an adventure. To be honest, I was relying on nice people in the neighborhood who might help if I needed it.”

I walked her into Rite-Aid. She blessed me and my family.

But I felt blessed. Blessed that I don’t have her impairment. Blessed that two strangers can walk along amiably for a half-mile and both leave the encounter feeling very positive, even if for different reasons.

Fat Deposit?

Posted on June 15, 2012 by 40andover

I have this bump on the palm of my hand. I wouldn’t have noticed it except I do push-ups (and other torturous exercises to stay in shape), so I am aware of this constant bruised feeling,

I mentioned in passing to POB that the bump hasn’t gone away and the bruised feeling remains (probably because every time I work out with my trainer, I exacerbate the problem).

“Maybe it is a fat deposit.”

WHOA. I know we are lesbians and we have to fight that creepy urge to merge into one being and all, but who, WHO, said it was ok to suggest that I might have a fat deposit?

In fact, I reviewed our wedding vows, both in Hebrew and in English, and I did not find any authority whatsoever for the proposition that POB could safely (and thus without consequences) intimate that I have a FAT deposit wherever found in my body. Not even in the innocuous place like the palm of my hand.

In all honesty, I do have some deposits in other parts of my body, which are increasing at the same exponential rate as oil reserves are being depleted. (Why, oh why, can’t modern science suction cellulite and use it instead of fossil fuels?) But this is AFTER the wedding, AFTER I fit into an unforgiving dress, AFTER I wore body armor. So, go on, make my day. Get a GET (a Jewish religious divorce) at your peril.

I know, I know, POB didn’t suggest I was like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor (Chunky Monkey) or suggest the FAT DEPOSIT was in a place that would offend my inner diva.

Ok, it is in my palm.

But it is a fat deposit. So, POB has to climb out of the ditch on this one.

Maybe I will send her out for Chunky Monkey. Ahhh, a Pyrrhic Victory if ever there was one.

But a VICTORY nonetheless. And when you are 40-and-over, every victory counts.

Training Day

Posted on June 14, 2012 by 40andover

In recent weeks, SOB has taken note of my quasi-buff arms and POB’s outrageously buff arms arms, and decided to inquire about FTOB (fitness trainer of blogger).

While I applaud her desire to tone and strengthen her core muscles, I worry about her gentle internal ecosystem. SOB does the least she can do at the gym. Really. SOB doesn’t even break a sweat on the elliptical machine, which she does (ir)religiously for a “really long time” before she can’t handle the monotony of it. In real time, that means 12 minutes, tops.

“How long can an hour-long training session be, 45 minutes?” SOB asks innocently.

Sigh. Doctors, even non-psychiatric ones, think in different time intervals than the rest of us. And she is a New Yorker. So if a New York minute is less than 60 seconds, then a New York hour CAN’T be one hour. The logic is valid, but SOB has no idea what is about to hit her.

FTOB is wonderful and “quirky”. She dances during breaks; she uses words for parts of the body that creep me out. In a moment of Zen, I just thought I will let SOB experience it all, without the usual warnings I might convey.

And, yet you can understand my worry. I am delivering my dearest SOB into the hands of a fitness freak. While I can handle FTOB, my gentle big sister may be consumed by the sweat and exertion of it all. I knew it could be a moral crime, but I needed to check whether wanton disregard for the attention span and general fitness profile of a loved one was a punishable offense under New York law. So far, there is no crime on the books of New York State for accessory to a fitness event.

Still.

SOB was happy that I “happened into” the gym about 30 minutes (a New York 45 minutes) before her first training session. (Of course I was on hand for the momentous event.) I made the introductions, even though I already gave FTOB the talk (hurt my sister and you are dead meat). As I left, I did the “I am watching you” hand signal of touching my eyes and then pointing to FTOB.

So, I lurked about to make sure that SOB wasn’t crying or leaving mid-session. Imagine my surprise when FTOB said, “walk this way” and started doing something out of Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks (www.youtube.com/watch?v=wippooDL6WE), and SOB did!!

SOB made it to the end of the full hour and then made arrangements to start regular sessions.

Me? Turns out I was just a stalker without a cause.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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