Category Archives: Life

The View From Inside

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This morning I had an endoscopy. For stomach, esophagus and duodenum.  Not colon, thank G-d.

But first the back story. DOB (father of blogger) has horrible reflux.  SOB (sister of blogger) sometimes has bad digestive episodes, but she never complains.  DOB, however, does complain, but if you ask him, he would say that he just describes the sensations searing through his digestive system.

[You can tell that the family parses these distinctions at the dinner table because, after all, Jews can talk about anything with their mouths full.  A curse and a blessing, that tribal trait.  But I digress from my back story.]

Like DOB, like Blogger.  I try to be more like stoic SOB, but recently I had become concerned about the severity of the reflux.  I even went to a doctor last Friday.  SOB went with me, in case I did not present the key elements of my “case”.  (Doctors are that way.)  The GI Guy (gastro-intestinal doctor) lectured me on how I need regular check-ups and screenings.

All the time I am thinking, “you are a really nice man and come highly recommended but, GI Guy, if I don’t listen to SOB, why would I listen to you?”  But GI Guy is SOB’s friend and colleague and I didn’t want to make waves.

Maybe GI Guy is a mind reader because he suggested that I consider an endoscopy.  Or more probably, based on my sparse history of going to doctors, he must have realized that I must be concerned if I was in his office.  We set today as the date for a look-see down my throat.  Then, SOB reiterated the lecture about getting checked out regularly.  So, I asked her if she practices what she preaches.  Pause.  I told her that she was unashamedly hypocritical.

It is amazing what you can find on the internet.  Pictures of not so good results:

 

I thought the procedure would look like this:

 


But not exactly.

 

Anyway, enough back story.  Fast forward to this morning at 6AM. I picked up SOB in a cab and we went over to fancy shmancy East Side for the procedure.  But at 6AM, even the tony, tony neighborhoods look like hell:

Still, I am not so unnerved by this.  I figure a relaxant and then a tube and a few pictures and that’s that.  And there was a spa two doors down…

Ok, not so much.

Blogger is on a gurney (the first picture is to show off the pedicure) next to really enthusiastic GI Guy – it IS 6am and the civilized world is still asleep or at least in their jammies.  (SOB is in the room (and taking pictures).)

The anesthesiologist shows up.  ANESTHESIOLOGIST?????  He mumbles questions and we had a little Marx Brothers routine, where he asked questions in English mumble, SOB translated into English non-mumble and then I answered in Blogger-ese.  SOB then had to translate into doctor-speak.  It could have been the United Nations, except we were all speaking some dialect of American English.

Thank G-d for SOB. She gave me a good luck kiss on my forehead, but I knew she was staying right next to the anesthesiologist.  She is my bodyguard and I am hers.

In went the IV and the propophyl (the stuff that killed Michael Jackson).  I had to bite down on a plastic ring and off to sleep I went.  I was awakened after the “scope” and tissue was scraped for biopsies.

First question to GI Guy when I awoke:  Did you take pictures for my blog?

I stayed loopy for a while.  GI Guy’s assistant told me: Do not to resume normal activities (she doesn’t know that no one ever ascribes “normal” to anything I do); do not go to work; do not make any important decisions; and do not sign legal documents; do not make business decisions.  As if directed at me specifically, she told me:  Do not do anything that requires unimpaired concentration or judgment.  I don’t get it; that is how I live every day.

So, I went to sleep.  That propophyl is awesome.

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A Day at the Refuge

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Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge is a world away from New York City. Imagine a place so quiet that you can hear the bird calls and Canada geese walk right past you as calmly as if you belonged.

 

Except the refuge is actually IN New York City (see faint red arrow pointing to Empire State Building).

Seemed like another world, except for this sign:

 

But, then again, in this country, that sign could be anywhere.  But in a wildlife refuge?  Really?

Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), DOB (Dad of blogger) and CB (newly rediscovered cousin who is a birder) had an outing there.  TLP had binoculars, HOSOB and CB had those AND these crazy telescopes on tripods.

I thought we would be stared at for all the bird nerd equipment. I was soooo wrong. People there had all manner of paraphernalia to observe birds. And these people are serious. No jocularity allowed. Apparently, lawyers who are new to bird-nerding are the most opinionated (and most often wrong). In fact, we came upon a heated discussion among the nerdiest of the nerds about the kind of tern that was on the beach ahead.  CB being a low-key but über-knowledgeable nerd tried to help and consulted the various field guides handed to him. It was getting so heated that we had to leave as did the neophyte lawyer nerder who had made a “wrong tern” identification (as it were). He stomped off, taking a “left tern” and we opted to take a “right tern”.  Okayyyyy, no more tern jokes.

Actually, we did see some extraordinary things through the nerd scopes.

But then when the boys — HOSOB, CB and TLP — started debating whether a bird was a mature, immature or juvenile sub-species of something (I know two birds; pigeon and yellow belly sap sucker, the latter may be a made-up cartoon bird), the rest of us needed to rest.

Needless to say, the mature females — SOB, POB and me — along with the eldest male — DOB — enjoyed a lovely walk around the quiet, calm sanctuary. (Ok, except for the near altercation I mentioned.)

A terrific day for nerd and non-nerd alike.

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Subway story

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I know, it has been a long time since I had a story that involved the magnetic S (for Schmuck) on my forehead.  You remember, the one that attracts crazy people to me.

Yesterday, on the subway (OF COURSE) a man introduced himself to me as a “storm chaser” and told me all about the tornado hitting Springfield, MA.  Then he moved on to stories about the wonderful people in California after the last earthquake.

He and his wife travel to natural disasters.  He told me:

“It’s what we do.”   

I keep thinking about this guy and his wife.  They aren’t storm chasers because they only arrive after the catastrophe.  He didn’t mention that he was an aid worker.  So, so, so, they are . . . .

Disaster Gawkers?

How creepy.  So much oooky-ness packed into 3 subway stops.  I was a little capitivated by his creepiness and oooky-ness.  Thank G-d I had to get off because I was running late to a meeting; otherwise I would have traveled to bowels of Brooklyn to listen to this guy. 

Am I a Creepy/Oooky Gawker? Maybe, because  . . . .

“It’s what I do.“

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Transformations

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Over the last half-year, POB (partner of blogger) started exercising to handle the stress generated by her job.   (I wanted her to quit because she was working so hard at making a difficult situation workable that I didn’t think it was worth it.)

POB balances so much — she takes such fabulous care of TLP (our son, the little prince) and me — that I tell her often she can stop anytime and then eat bons bons and rest on her laurels for the rest of our lives.

Recently, POB’s job ended [more on that later].

All of a sudden, she had time to shop (she needed new clothes for the summer and for her slimmed-down body) and do things for her and the family that often went undone because of our schedules.

Then, one night, I came home and walked into the kitchen to see this tall, slim, blond woman in heels and form-fitting clothes, cooking dinner.

I was a bit surprised; who WAS this women?  Then, I remembered.  Before she could turn around, I asked, “Excuse me.  Are you the trophy wife I ordered from Amazon?“

POB turned around and said, “Yes, yes, I am. Be afraid.  Be very afraid.”

Ah, all is the same.  POB is still POB and she is a gift.

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Desperately seeking “Apps for Dummies”

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Well, not Apple apps especially.

I need help with any apps that are supposed to enhance my photo library or make on-line anything easier.

For a while, I have wanted to post an adorable picture of my son on my blog, but I have wanted to photo-shop it so that his eyes are blacked out for privacy (let me dream that identities can be protected).  And, apropos of nothing, I wanted to combine a few Adobe pdf scans into one document.

I sit down at the computer and an Adobe reader update is downloading.  Hmmm, I think.  The system that lets me combine files, mark up scanned documents, fill out governmental forms, etc. from my office laptop.

Adobe, I think again.

Adobe, I determine as my answer to all things technological.

ADOBE, I decide to purchase more applications.

ADOBE, I know will make my home computer dreams come true.

ADOBE, it becomes my mantra.

I click my heels twice as I also click on my credit card information and off to Oz I go. (Funny, Oz requires credit cards these days.)

I think Oz turned out better for Dorothy.

Two hours and two large glasses of wine later, I haven’t been able to combine my pdfs into one, but I managed to export my photo libraries into the netherworld.  Coming soon to a world wide web address accessible to you.

I wouldn’t care about having those pictures out in the world (they will bore anyone who is not inextricably tied to our families), but there ARE the teenage/post-adolescent fat pictures of POB (partner of blogger) and me.  Those could go viral.  Otherwise, if you need a soporific, have at the family pictures.

So, to all of these “make your life a snap” apps, I say, “Give me my typewriter and Polaroid camera.”

Oz was a bust.

 

 

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Kids are amazing

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I come home and TLP (our son, the little prince) cries out:

“E-mom, E-mom, look at my awesome new summer stripey pajamas!!  Don’t I look handsome?“

[Note to self:  I might think he is the son of G-d, like any good Jewish mother, but I need to pretend that he isn’t.]

He looks adorable, but the pajamas made me think of Steve McQueen in the movie, “Papillon”.

I said, “you look like a prisoner on Devil’s Island!!!”

And TLP responded, “that’s what I said to Mommy [POB (partner of blogger)]!!!!“

“How do you know about Devil’s Island?”

“It was in something I read about penal colonies in Africa.“

“There is such a book and you read it?”

“Well, a lot of famous and important people like Nelson Mandela were imprisoned in penal colonies.“

“That was Robben Island.”

“It was just an example.  I could look it up for you.” I was amazed by his knowledge, even though he seemed to know an ooky amount about penal colonies.

“Thanks, buddy, I’m good.”

“Ok, wanna play?“

After we played some, I looked up Papillon, the movie, and after seeing a clip — the Internet can be awesome — it turns out that Steve McQueen wasn’t wearing a striped prison outfit after all.

So where did we both get that image of prisoners in striped pajama-like clothes in penal colonies.  (Must be another Hollywood flick, because I don’t think TLP has seen Holocaust footage.)

Anyway, as you can see, in order to hold my own with my not-even 9 year-old, I am going to need some serious intellectual reinforcements.  Paging Dr. Einstein?

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It’s raining, it’s pouring

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We, in NY, are luckier than most — we didn’t have massive flooding, destructive tornadoes, out-of-control oil spills sullying our coast lines or active volcanoes.

But if this rainy, gray weather doesn’t stop soon, I am moving to Seattle or London.  At least there no one deludes him or herself into thinking that the sun will come out tomorrow.  In fact, no one bets his or her bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun. (Apologies to Orphan Annie.)

It is just Gray.  Dreary.  Soupy.  Frizzy.  And Sleepy.  Give me a few minutes, and I will come up with two more Dwarfs.  But forget Snow White.  Let her sleep (she is the one who sleeps, right?).  Why wake her for this weather?

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Non-bloggable moments

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College friends were in town this weekend and those who were in town on Friday came over at our house for a late bite.  We were all catching up on each other’s news, and I was telling a story, and my dear, dear, friend, let’s call her DCFOB (DC friend of blogger), exclaimed, “this story isn’t on your blog!! I thought everything was on your blog!!”

Dear, dear, DCFOB, not everything can be on my blog.  Then, no one would talk to me.  So, yes, there are wild and crazy stories — just ask IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) but there need to be blog-free zones.  In fact, one of our dear friends prefaced one conversation this weekend by stating, “this is a blog-free conversation!”

So, everyone, I try to be tactful where others are concerned.  I am not always (or often) successful, but I do try.  Really, really, hard.  And some stories . . . well, I think I have shown exceptional restraint.  But, when senility starts to eat away at my discretion, just hope that the memories get lost too.  Otherwise, be afraid.  Very afraid.

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High School Reunion

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THIRTY YEARS.

Thirty years.

Thirty YEAHS (said like a New Yorker).

It isn’t as if we were celebrating 30 years of marriage or a career.  We were celebrating surviving for 30 years since we last saw each other as a group.  “So, whatcha been doin’?” would require days, if not weeks, with every classmate, in order to catch up.

But we only had a few hours.

I was the class nerd whose parents couldn’t afford to have me keep up with the clothes and accessories of the others.  So, I always felt I was on the outside looking in and, sometimes, some of the girls were mean.   And, of course, I had an inkling that I was different somehow (later, to realize I was gay).  I think it manifested by not understanding how to connect to the other girls; I was always at home talking with the guys.

So, this is was a loaded event for me.  But I had a plan:

look thin and prosperous.

Except I hurt my arm 10 days ago and hadn’t been to the gym.  And, POB (partner of blogger) is no longer employed.

Great plan; bad execution.

So, I was bloated and feeling unprosperous.  And yet I am a lucky person in life and I am really happy, so, Saturday, I had a new plan:

Just make sure the make-up is flawless and the lipstick color is awesome.

So I put on comfy clothes and went.  There was a small pre-party at a classmate’s chocolate shop, with people who were always quirky and kind enough to accept my bizarro-ness and eccentricities even then.  Immediately upon entering the chocolate shop, all trepidation disappeared.  And the years melted away in such a warm and wonderful way.

[Just a side bar about the chocolate shop: Bond Street Chocolate, www.bondstchocolate.com, a tiny, fabulous place that is worth the schlep to East 4th Street; it isn’t actually on Bond Street].

Everyone was instantly recognizable.  Same laughs, same voices, same cadences and same energies.  Some looked so fabulous that I just know they have their own Dorian Gray-like pictures in their closets.  They were AGELESS.  And no scalpel touched their faces.  (Maybe some hair coloring and under-eye cover stick but that was it and we are 48!!)

We all arrived at the official party.  The turn out was amazing.  And, again, people were instantly recognizable.

Life has tread on all of us.  We lost our harder edges.  The mean girls weren’t mean anymore.   Those old distinctions didn’t matter anymore.  We all had happy times, disappointing times, scary times, and sad times and that makes us all a lot more grounded than teenagers spending grades 7-12 together in a tiny Upper East Side private school.

I left grateful for the occasion to reconnect with people who share some of my past and, I hope, part of my future.

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