Category Archives: Life

Lego

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My son is into Star Wars and really, really, really, wanted a battleship cruiser (or something like that).  It was expensive so we said this was an early birthday present.  And he is really good about not asking (ok, not begging) for things everywhere we go and, well, he is our one and only child, so ok, we spoil him.

He and I go to the store to buy this colossal box and return home immediately to assemble this, the “most-awesome-gift-ever-thank-you-so-much”.  Here is the trick, this thing requires assembling 1,180 Lego pieces, ranging from small to minute, in the right sequence and in the right place.  There are two, yes, two, instruction manuals because all the instructions can’t fit into the first manual that is the thickness of, say, telephone books for most towns across America.

Who was I kidding — my son got distracted with the easily-assembled action figures almost immediately, leaving me with the assembly of the mother ship.  I learned many things from this experience (which isn’t over by a long shot), the most important of which is that I need a stronger bifocal prescription.

Within an hour of starting the assemblage, POB (partner of blogger) takes my son off to a playdate in Brooklyn, leaving me on the floor with 1,180 pieces of a battleship.  Two hours later, I am still on the floor.  I go to the gym for 45 minutes but really can’t focus because I must conquer the Lego monster that is in pieces on the floor.  The box says “For ages 9 through 12.”  Hah!!  I don’t know anyone that young that has a PhD in Lego construction. 

POB and son come home to find me on the floor of his room, in a defeated, “woe is me,” pose.  I simply need to take a nap.  POB eyes me with that “you’re a wimp but I love you” look as I take to my bed with great pomp and ceremony.

That night is our date night, so we leave our young prince in the capable hands of a wonderful young woman studying to be a special ed teacher.  When we get home, our babysitter says to me, “G-d bless you for trying to put together that Lego thing!  It is impossible!!”   Ahh, validation.  Still, POB eyes both of us with suspicion.

Next morning I wake up (later than POB and our son because, well, my son may be a prince, but I am the Queen) and POB says, “Omigod, that LEGO thing is impossible!!  I tried to attach some things, but I think I did it all wrong.  It is insane!!”  Ahh, validation.

I look and she got it backwards AND upside-down.  Impressive. 

My hopes of a project with my son are dashed.  But I take appreciation — and, ahh, validation — where I can get it. 

And I am reveling in it!!

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One thing leads to another

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I started the weekend early by slipping out to go to the ear doctor.  Most people wouldn’t call that the start of a weekend.  But my ears have been clogged and itchy on and off for some time and more and more people have told me that they’ve been to the ear doctor and the problem was wax.  Deriving from a deep-seating egotism or martyrdom — I am not sure — I assumed that the ear doctor would look into my ears, faint at the sight of the wax and then, once regaining consciousness, would suit up (a HazMat, of course) and begin excavation.

He looked into my ears, my ears and my throat.  He said, “No wax.  Your ears are clean.”  He looked at my expression and asked, “You were hoping for serious wax, weren’t you?”  I nodded.  He felt bad.  He said, “I am really sorry, but your ears naturally dispose of excess wax, just the way they are supposed to.  And it just may be allergies causing the itching and clogged feelings.”  I was so dejected.  He started to feel really bad.  He continued, “Look, I kept you waiting for 30 minutes and there was no wax, so I am waiving the co-pay for the visit.”  I protested, after all, it wasn’t his fault about the wax and he apologized for being late the moment he walked in the room, so my anger at that was assuaged.  “No,” he insisted, “give it to charity.”

I walked onto the street and tried to hail a cab during that ridiculous time of day when ALL cabs are “off-duty” — why every cab company must have the shift changing times is beyond me.  I inadvertently cut in front of a guy and ran to an off-duty cab because sometimes the driver will take you if the destination is on his way to the designated shift-changing location.  I felt bad — I don’t usually cut a line and this was right after the doctor waived a co-pay.  The guy looked odd but harmless enough.  So, I offered him a lift to his destination — Port Authority. This is a very non-New York thing to do.  A cab is one’s (rented) private domain from the beginning to the end of the ride.  Don’t get between a New Yorker and his or her cab.  It would get ugly fast.

It turns out the stranger in my cab was a doctor and a sheep farmer near Binghampton, NY and was in the city for a medical conference.  He hates the city and the thought of living on a farm gives me hives.  So, total opposites and that does not bode well for the 20 minutes remaining in our time together.  That is an eternity in a small space with a stranger who somehow feels beholden to make conversation.  And he was clearly not a natural conversationalist.  For example, he mentioned that not only does he get wool, milk but he also gets hides.  Picture a dead Bambi starring in the movie, “The Silence of the Lambs.”  He had noooooo sense of humor and seemed somewhat sad.  When we got to Port Authority, I declined his offer of payment and told him that my doctor waived the co-pay, and telling me to give it to charity and so I am doing the same here.

As the cab driver and I continued on to my destination, I said congenially, “Was I crazy to give a stranger a lift?”  The cab driver looked at me in his rear-view mirror and said, “You seem like a very nice spirit and a professional, educated person.”  I knew that that was a compliment and a way to say he thought I wasn’t crazy doing a good turn for a stranger, but it is fascinating how different cultures and the “immigrant experience” shape our language.  He then asked rhetorically, “You are Jew?”   Turns out Moustafa is a Muslim from Egypt and a civil engineer.  (A weird factoid: he is the third cab driver — all were Egyptian — to ask if I were a Jew.)  We had a wonderful chat about life, happiness and universality of humanity.

It is crazy how a doctor’s waiving a co-pay led ultimately to a conversation with Moustafa.  A conversation that lifted my spirits and reminded me of our common humanity.

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Dear Brother-in-Law,

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Yes, we were impressed with your preparation of all those vegetables for SOB (sister of blogger) [see yesterday’s blog].  I know she was working in the hospital this weekend and you, the dutiful husband, prepared dinner for her again tonight instead of your both coming over for Sunday night family dinner.  (Remind SOB that she scored so big when she met you.)

Because we want you to feel included, I am sending a picture of the food you could’ve had if you had come to dinner tonight.  This is not a competition.  No sirree.  It is just that we missed you and we wanted you to know what you left on the table, so to speak.  I made sure that we didn’t clear away the main course before dessert so you could see the full array:  wild salmon, rice, and roasted asparagus.  Followed by a delicious fruit selection of strawberries, melon and grapes.  There was even ice cream if asked.  Ok, this is a competition.  And POB (partner of blogger) outdid herself.

So, maybe next time.  We did miss having everyone together but FOB (father of blogger) and COB (cousin of blogger) rounded out our dinner table.  (And ate your portions.)

Mwa, mwa (big kisses) to you and SOB,

~Blogger-in-law

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Our family

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Today, my son went on a bird walk led by my brother-in-law.  My son, who has encyclopedic knowledge of all things bird-nerdia, was — how shall we say — an active, vocal participant in the walk.  The non-family “walkers” (Cousins Boss and Gentle were also in attendance) were apparently quite taken with his knowledge and enthusiasm.  One octogenarian asked, after hearing that my son is almost 8 years-old, “how long have you been interested in birds?”  My son responded, “since I met this guy” and pointed to his uncle and my brother-in-law.  About 3.5 years.  “This guy“? The man that takes care of my beloved sister?  Later, I had to make sure that my son showed proper respect for his uncle.  “In the future, Buddy, “this guy” is Uncle Bird-Nerd to you! ” So, we have nuanced levels of respect in our family.  But respect is respect, however, absurdly we define it.

Of course, my son and Cousin Boss (the family name for POB (partner of blogger)) were the ones who got out of the house at 8:30am on a Saturday.  I was a slug and arrived just in time to kiss and congratulate my brother-in-law at the end of the 2.5 hour walk.  SOB (sister of blogger) was impressed even at my effort.  It was, in fact, the least I could do.  We have such low expectations of each other.  Maybe that we like to get together so much because it is nearly impossible for us not to exceed the expectations.  And when that does happen, well it is fodder for family gatherings for years.  So, while we are easy-going, we forget no detail that we can hash and rehash to our delusional delight.

So, how well does my brother-in-law take care of SOB?  He vowed to take good care of her (including making her eat vegetables).  So, here is a picture SOB sent of part of tonight’s dinner:

Clearly, the intense interest in the mundane details of human existence is genetic.  Mutant thought it may be.

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Out at Work

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I “out”ed myself today at work — not as a lesbian [remember, I am here, I am queer and I am over it] but as a blogger.

While I didn’t give away the site, apparently some of my coined phrases, like “schlepic” — in the passages I cut and pasted for a colleague — can lead straight to this blog.  So, the secret is out.  I will never be on the Supreme Court as a result of my writings.  That’s okay.  First, I am not qualified.  Second, I am one of the few New Yorkers who doesn’t look so good in basic black.  Phew, intellectual and sartorial disasters averted.  Our nation is safe again.

Although, come to think of it, I would dispense justice, tempered with mercy.  As in, “would you like extra fries with your LAST meal?”  I fear that most people would be horrified if every opinion from the bench started with, “Schmuuuuuck, what were you thinking when you . . . ?”  I would imprison people who tortured the words of laws or statutes beyond all recognition to fit their desired ends as violations of the Geneva Convention.  You know, the Geneva Convention, the so-called “quaint” doctrine discredited by Dick Cheney and his highly educated legal “scholars”.  Just using fancy words doesn’t make an idea good; it just makes it high-fallutin’ bullsh@t.  But I digress.  See, I would get on a roll and mayhem would ensue in my court room.  Maybe I should get the Presidential Medal of Honor for having the patriotism not to seek a judgeship.

Anyway, today was a regular day without many gross things to report.  Other than the fact that the Virginia governor forgot that slavery was part of Virginia history.  That’s like a Texan forgetting the Alamo, for G-d’s sake.  But the governor’s omission did hit an impressive trifecta:  gross, idiotic and inflammatory.

And then there is the mining company that put profits ahead of lives and now 25, possibly 29, miners are dead. I think Lady MacBeth found that blood stains your hands forever.  That crazy Bill Shakespeare.  Our very own Elizabethan Nostradamus.

Starvation in the Sudan is at a humanitarian crisis level.  (There are so many centers of humanitarian crisis, wouldn’t it be easier for the UN to list where there ISN’T a humanitarian crisis?)  We really should think about how lucky the majority of us are in this nation (and remember and help the less fortunate).  But, tea party-ers are crying over taxes, which most of them don’t pay anyway.  Children starving in the Sudan.  Spoiled Americans are protesting a functioning government that protects their liberties and provides a safety net from starvation.  Let’s put these two concepts on the scales and balance them.  Ok, why are the tea party-ers still talking?

Associate Justice 40andoverblog of the United State of America.  It has a nice ring to it.

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Doctor, heal thyself

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The urologist who put up a sign saying, “if you voted for Obama, go somewhere else,” got his information from the Internet and . . . wait for it . . . it was misinformation.  We did not “misunderestimate” him (my favorite moment of the otherwise bleak Bush years).  He was flat-out wrong.

The Internet is an amazing tool.  It also must be viewed in its context.  Opinions — informed, ill-informed and maliciously disinformative — are out there.  It is up to each person to glean the facts, evaluate the sources and come to one’s own conclusion.  Just because I can write an opinion that you might read doesn’t mean that I am right, that I have all of the facts or that, quite frankly, I am interested in the truth.

Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but that doesn’t mean that each opinion deserves equal weight.  I spoke to a tea party goer about a year ago that heard on an unnamed “news” station (ok, FOX) that the health care bill would give social security benefits to illegal aliens.  Ok, let’s set aside the fact that we are not talking about E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial, or Martians, and that they are humans deserving at least the catch-all phrase of “illegal immigrants”.  I asked this woman if she ever dealt with the government.  She asked me to get to my point.  I responded that even if President Obama were seeking to give away the money in the Treasury (which he can’t because there is a 3 trillion dollar deficit), that the government needs a social security number to take any action with respect to a person’s benefits.  So if someone doesn’t have a SSN (let’s assume that an illegal immigrant hasn’t stolen one because why impugn someone who is seeking a better life here, while there are native born executives of Enron and Madoff enterprises who have committed heinous crimes and haven’t yet had their days of reckoning), then it is impossible to give that person social security benefits.  The commentator was either mistaken or intentionally misleading.

Ok, let’s be honest.  MSNBC is slanted the other way and sometimes uses inductive reasoning — basing a hypothesis on one fact — and gets the whole analysis wrong.  For me, sometimes, it is analogous to watching a show about law or maybe a doctor watching ER or Grey’s Anatomy.  It strains credulity and sometimes is farcical.

However, when I realized that I paid more in 2009 taxes than most, non-celebrity, tea party-ers pay in two decades, I realized that I put my money where my mouth is.  I believe in universal health care, medicare and a safety net for those like my grandparents who slept at night knowing that, if they lost their jobs in sweatshops, their children would not starve.  As a child of those children — the embodiment of the American dream — I pay my taxes for those like my grandparents and my parents, and not for the ungrateful masses who are the tea-party-ers.  Why?  Because this is America, the greatest nation on Earth.  But if you don’t want to buy in, that’s ok.  But there are consequences.  How about we mess with your medicare?  Would you be partying then? I hope you get along with your neighbors because if I join your group, there won’t be money to pave the roads outside your homes.  But because of my belief in America, and my indebtedness to my forebears, you get to be parasites sucking on the dream of America.  To tell you the truth, I cannot wait to heave the yolk of your entitlement of my already heavy burden.

How about that?  Let the generous, gentler and kinder America (thank you, Bush I) reclaim what is America.  I live America — I work hard, I pay my taxes, I pray that the government is good, right and just, I do not believe in torture and I give charity to those who need help to jump start their lives.  Yes, what Jesus would do.  And I am a Jewish, lesbian, Ivy League educated, Northeastern elitist.  And I embody the promise and opportunity of America more than most of the greedy, uncharitable, talking heads that pollute our airwaves.

Bring it on.

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Glory Days

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My son is into trains.  We allow supervised access to YouTube and Technorati.  How can we not?  He has access to computers at school and already he mentioned that one of his friends clicked on “inappropriate videos”.  At least our son knows that it is wrong to watch certain things, but he hasn’t hit puberty yet.

He desperately wanted to see some train videos.  They were entitled “Glory Machines”.  Think about that for a moment.  We are at a cross-roads.  And he is only almost-8 years-old.

POB (partner of blogger) and I were more than slightly horrified at the thought of what would come up on a naked search (as it were) of that phrase.  I kept trying to add “model train video” to the search and my son kept saying, “E-Mom, I know what I am doing!!”  Oh, sweetie, I thought, if you only knew the dangers of what you are doing.  Miraculously, the search (which I was ready to minimize with my fingers on the mouse) came up with the train videos.  Phew, dodge a bullet.

We watched the train videos and while there was some innuendo (which was really funny because it was cut and pasted from 1950s movie reels), there was nothing untoward about any of it.

I bookmarked the videos so he would never have to do that search again.  He was happy that I saved him a step in finding them again. I was happy that I saved him from pornography and kept him young for one more day.

I was happy I saved POB and me from having to confront raw sexuality with our 8 year-old.  Although, to be honest, Oedipus Rex is alive and well and living in our house.  When POB, our son’s biological mother, is not around, all is light and roses with my son and me.  When POB is around, my son gets very territorial about POB.  POB is happy that he is exhibiting the usual signs of a normal growing boy and I remind her that Oedipus killed his father (or in my case, his non-biological mother).

Just saying is all.

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The Circle Game

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My friend’s father passed away gently the other night. He had been chronically ill for three years and then, as it often happens, he deteriorated at a rapid and startling pace.

I read his obituary.  I was stunned.  The jovial, good-natured man I remember from my college years and my friend’s wedding was a marine in WWII.  The things he saw at such a young age could have shattered a person forever.  And then he joined the FBI, in counter-intelligence. He must have had a gun, although this image is totally incongruous with the person I remember.  Maybe he was the slightly rumpled government agent, world-weary yet a never-failing optimist — the quiet hero of our dreams and aspirations.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.  All I know is that my friend loved and respected her father and that makes him a hero.

He had sparkling eyes, was upbeat in nature, liked talking to people and was so proud of his daughter.  In my mind’s eye, I remember him as sitting with other parents at some graduation party, beaming and happy.  Of course, we, the graduates, were in a constant alcohol stupor and so the rest of the memory is a little vague.  Was it at the party my parents threw in one of the condo communities near the campus?  Those of you who might remember, please correct me if I am wrong.

A person lives an allotted number of years on earth and then, if you believe, abides in the hereafter.  A person also lives through that person’s impact on us — whether by DNA or nurture.  Whether good or bad, it is inescapable.  My friend resembles her father and, like her father, is kind and loves a good laugh.  He lives on in her (and her siblings) and her children (and their children).  I hope that my friend feels the portion of her dad’s soul that he put in her as he left this world.  I felt that happen when my mom died and she is an everyday part of me.

The hard part is after the rituals of death, when the world keeps moving and the carousel of time keeps spinning.  It is just brutal.

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Seder

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Our theme this Passover was “where does it say “loving G-d” in Exodus? Hint: it doesn’t.  The acts may be loving, but the language is about fear and the actions are brutal.

I found this hard because if, as commanded, I must tell my child how G-d set me free from bondage, I have a lot of pain, gore and scary things to talk about. And according to the text, G-d tells Moses that Pharaoh will set the Israelites free because of a greater might. How do I square this with my teaching my child (i) that might is not always right, (ii) that right doesn’t always need might, and (iii) that even if you are right, using might is not always justified.

It was interesting also to discuss the meaning of time — in current human terms, in biblical times and in the realm of G-d. According to Rav (Rabbi) Google, also known as the Google Shem Tov for its mystical qualities and abundant knowledge, the king who arose who knew not Joseph was Seti I, father of Raamses II (Yul Brynner in the Ten Commandments). Seti I ruled for 115 years. Did the ancients tell time differently or were age spans this long? (Sarah did give birth to Isaac at 92). And is 115 years a blink of an eye for G-d even though generations suffered? Was G-d busy creating another galaxy and his attention was elsewhere? Or does the suffering of many for a long time not matter so much to G-d, who kills people willy nilly through out the Bible?

A conundrum or two, indeed.

On the positive side, POB (partner of blogger) cooked a delicious meal. Truly extraordinary effort.

And SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) tried to take over running the Seder.  Wow, a preview of power struggles to come.

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“Youthful” moments at the gym

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Why, at the gym on a Saturday morning, are cartoons playing on two the TVs?

My son watched these cartoons as a 4 year-old.  4 year-olds are not allowed to work out in a gym.

So, let’s be like Glenn Beck and just go with that.  Hmmmm.  Then, we are a nation of tall, strong, vibrant 4 year-olds.  4 year-olds so strong and impressive that they look like they are between 25 and 55.  That’s why we don’t need universal health care because our youth, if left alone, will thrive.  Ok, I have freaked myself out enough.

Setting Glenn Beck aside, does the scene I describe say something about the mental and emotional ages of my fellow Upper Westsiders?  Actually, the networks had news shows on until 10, when the cartoons start. But it is 11am and no one has asked to change the channels.  In a place where people routinely quarrel about the stations on the big screens, this is indeed odd.

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