This Atonement Day and Beyond

Posted on September 18, 2010 by 40andover

Yom Kippur started Friday at sundown. We have our services at the Jacob Javits Convention Center. It is a free service — no one is turned away. Keeping an open door policy is part of who were are as a community because the synagogue was started nearly 40 years ago by gay Jews who were not welcomed anywhere as gays, as Jews or as gay Jews. Now our synagogue welcomes people of all sexual orientation (including straight) and all gender orientations (I only know the two main ones, but I am told that there are as many points on that spectrum as, let’s say, colors in the rainbow). Almost 4,000 people attended Kol Nidre on Friday night.

The senior rabbi is a woman in her late forties but she looks like a pre-pubescent, book-ish boy. She is a thoughtful and insightful speaker. And, she does have moments of levity, as when she announced that she would like to be known now as “Lady Syna-Gaga“. Ok, there is a reason why our synagogue can never really go mainstream.

We ended around 10pm last night and started up again this morning.

This morning, we all went to the children’s service which had a fair amount of substance. The rabbis talked about seeking forgiveness, saying, “I’m sorry,” etc., and otherwise tried to distill the elements of the Holy Day without dumbing it down too much.

Then we came home and I fixed our son a sandwich for lunch. He is 8 years old, so he does not fast but we do put techno-toys away for the day.

I was about to sit down at the table to keep him company while he ate, but he said, “E-Mom, I would like to eat alone so I can think about all of the things I need to say sorry for and all the things I need to do better.”

Ok, my son is wonderful and all, but this is out of hand. Reflexively, I asked, “Really?”

Right after blurting that out, I thought “I need work on not being so cynical and more trusting of my son’s motives, because we were at this substantive kids’ service and maybe something spoke to him —-”

My thoughts were interrupted by my son — ever the honest little boy, “Nah, I just want to play with the iTouch and I didn’t want you to see.”

At least he is honest.

We returned to synagogue for the late afternoon service through to the end of Ne’ila, the last service of Yom Kippur. After services were over, as we poured into the street to find our ways home, two attendees who were, just minutes before, wrapped in prayer shawls, stole cabs from us. I started screaming at one in the cab that was then stopped for the light, “Yom Kippur is just over and this, this, is how you act?”

Then, I realized that my son was watching me and I thought to myself, “Yom Kippur is just over and this, this, is how you act?” So, I stopped.

We hailed another cab and we went home, a tired but happy family.

Our day today

Posted on September 5, 2010 by 40andover

POB (partner of blogger) had a great idea this morning — go to Governor’s Island for a picnic. Governor’s Island is a decommissioned military base island in New York harbor (right next to Ellis Island and Liberty Island) that has been turned into a park and fairground. It is an easy subway ride followed by a ferry ride. Ok, “easy” refers only to the directness of the route. When on the subway or in line for the ferry, a person is subject to the sea of surrounding humanity and their insipid conversations. (For the record, our (i.e., this blogger community) conversations are never insipid — too revealing? Maybe. But insipid? Never.)

First, there was a more-unsteady-than-elderly lady for whom POB gave up her seat. (I was already standing.) POB asked if she wanted a seat and the woman turned to her friend and said, in a cartoonishly nasal voice, “Oh, see!! A seat opened up!!” Poof, like, magic. Really? No, because a well-mannered person got up (in contradistinction to the mopes and slouches around us). Her friend started to talk about food processing in a loud, screeching voice.

What the woman said was important and true — that if you saw how fast food is made, you would never eat it again and that most processing is bad for humans in both nutrition and the environment — but did we need to hear it in outrageous volume with a holier-than-thou tone at 11am on a holiday weekend? And, just across the aisle, a scary-looking, tattooed dad with a beer gut (who was playing with his child by pretending to strangle him — really) was giving the child huge helpings of Pepperidge Farm flavor-blasted gold fish (hmmm, salt, chemically reconstructed “cheese” and polysorbate 60, anyone?). Our son loves them, too, and we know we are going to a special place in hell for parents who let their kids eat this junk. None of the kale or broccoli or grass-fed beef that our son eats will save us from this punishment.

And why DO men need to sit so wide that they take up nearly two seats? I note that the smaller the shoe size of the man, the wider he sits. Is this some psychological melodrama playing out?

Fast-forward to the line waiting to get back on the ferry to Manhattan. A group of women and one man was behind us. The man, who was overweight, and a bitchy effete garden gnome, was commenting to women passersby, “hey, do you think you could have tighter clothing?” or “do you think you could be any fatter?” All I wanted to say to him was, “come out of the closet and stop being bitter with baggage”. But I didn’t. I could take him down in a minute. The women, however, would lay me out. One of the women had a son who was going to grow up to be the bully of his neighborhood. He dropped a juice carton on the street and someone picked it up and handed it to her and said, “I think your child dropped this.” I thought it was an elegant way to force the woman to deal with the litter. She got all huffy, with heavy hip and neck action, saying to her friends, “the baby drops this and he gives it to me?” Ok, who else? She is his mother for G-d’s sakes. And the baby? BABY? Try 6 years-old, going on 12. And mean.

Too much humanity. I wanted to take a private water taxi followed by a cab. I couldn’t handle any more. But we did continue on the public transportation route. On the subway, three 20-somethings were talking and POB and I were transfixed by the car wrecks that were their conversations and their outfits. One was falling out of her skimpy outfit and had used eyebrow pencil to highlight her auburn eyebrows into a Groucho Marx effect. I think she thought I was admiring her instead of not being able to take my eyes off this mobile crashing unit, so when she got off, she shimmied at me and smiled. I was sooooooo grossed out I could barely breathe.

I took to my bed for a nap. Oh, I forgot, once you get to Governor’s Island, it is perfectly lovely.

Pre-High Holy Days Mayhem

Posted on September 3, 2010 by 40andover

So, because POB (partner of blogger) reminds me that in “good homes” the carpets and the furniture are cleaned annually, and the windows are cleaned twice, before Passover and before Rosh Ha-Shanah, we have been in a cleaning frenzy. Also the mice episodes gave the cleaning rituals a bit more fevered pitch this year. Also the bed bug scare in New York had us getting new mattresses, etc. In short, we are doing what we can to raise the retail sales numbers nationally. Now, that is patriotism.

Our housekeeper comes on Fridays. Our housekeeper is a wonderful and robust woman in her 60s who comes from Poland and, as she says, “knows hard vork”. But since she is in her 60s we try to get others to the hard vork. In this case, POB and I wanted to lay the cleaned rug down in the dining room (we had already done the heavy lifting in the living room). This endeavor also involved cutting the mat underneath so that the rug laid properly.

Here are the many dramas that came into play: Our housekeeper said, “[Blogger], you are educated; I know hard vork. Step avay from the mat and I vill cut!” Ok, POB and I were raised to respect our elders and never to let someone older do work we could do ourselves. We are also the “employers”, adding another level. Also, POB is strong like you-can’t-imagine strong.

So we are all on the floor playing out our social, economic and cultural dynamics. The window cleaner walks in (we had left the door open for him after the doorman announced him) and sees three woman on the floor with scissors and box cutters arguing over who is cutting the mat that goes under the rug. He asks, “where do I start?” Really? Really? Is this a usual scene for the window cleaner?

We all stop. I agree to cede the fight to POB and our housekeeper in order to get the window cleaner guy started as long as I get to move the dining room table. Pause. I seeing nodding and I retreat. A little victory of sorts.

Of course, I should have known that even though I was allowed to move the dining room table, everyone would have an opinion on its precise location. POB was the most forceful in her opinions. “A little to the right.” “Closer to the windows.” “No, too much.”

“Are you listening??”

NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I scream in my head, but all that comes out is “Yes, dear.”

Back in my head, I am thinking you thought we should get our windows cleaned before a hurricane. This is not like wearing good underwear in case you are taken to an emergency room. The hurricane won’t treat us any better. But then the hurricane passes us and POB is right — again.

Blogcation Year 2, Day 3 (or 4?) — The rain has gone

Posted on August 25, 2010 by 40andover

The sun came out today — first as a faint orb in the gray sky and then in all its sunburning glory. Now, all of us summer people can go back to our pools and the beach and not swarm the already overwhelmed (and wildly expensive) sea-side towns.

One thing I did learn was that when booking a house, one has to parse every single word of the ad. For example if it says, “ocean view”, that could mean that one bathroom in the house has a slight view of the water. In our case, there is some water on the horizon out of our second floor bedroom. If the add says, “water view”, it could mean the pool or your neighbor’s pool. Or for those really wanting to stretch (and break) the bounds of truth in advertising, water view can mean this:

A view of the Montauk water tower. Yes, we have a lovely view of the water tower from almost every window. But no matter. We are close enough to the beach and we have a pool and the sun — hooray, the sun — is out today. But really, the water tower?

The other excitement of the day concerned our rental car. I got this huge, gas guzzling Mercedes. Why? The rental place had no Volvos (the safest family car) and no Mercedes had ever been recalled (and the rental place didn’t have just a family sedan) but it had more Toyotas than you might think possible in such a small rental place in a small (geographically speaking) city like Manhattan. Toyotas — cars with brakes that don’t work; accelerators that have minds of their own? Are you kidding me? Nope. nope, nope. No hybrids available either. The place did have Chryslers and GMs but until ones come are assembled by non-disgruntled workers, I will take the car with the track record and pay through the nose for it.

The problem with the mammoth Mercedes is that I can’t tell my car from the other mammoth Mercedes (plural) in any parking lot out here. Also, the air in tires needed rebalancing and the low beam light was weak, so I had to get it fixed. As I rolled into the mechanic’s place with my mammoth car and asked about a light change and a rebalance of the air of my tires, there were enough smirks to go around that I figured, “this is going to be expensive.” I know, I know. It’s a rental car. But having a blown left low beam can be dangerous as can unbalanced air pressure in the tires (I read that this “safe” care has a roll-over risk — awesome).

I hang out and talk to the guys while they are fixing it. It takes a lot of unscrewing parts to get to the headlights. Maybe easier in the assembly line, but not so much when trying to change a light bulb in the left low beam. They keep teasing me about the cost. And I tell them it is a rental car, to boot. They look at me as if I am on drugs. I say, “I am not asking you to fix my cruise control or stereo system! These are matters of safety for my family and others!” One guy says he is impressed that I am not freaking out and calling my boyfriend. If he only knew. We continue talking about life, what matters, and what Montauk is like when the summer people aren’t here, etc. He is married (I tell him I am, too, which I am in spirit if not in paper) and I could tell he is flirting with me. But it was a sweet flirting, in the way that someone appreciates that you are passing the time while he is at work and not talking on the phone while you wait for a “service person” to handle your problem. He shows me pictures of old Montauk and it was a perfectly lovely way to pass an hour (plus he only charged me for 30 minutes). And he did a great job and now I know that I have taken all precautions to be a safe driver and that lets me sleep at night. (And, I am going to present the receipt to the car rental place.)

Anyway, all is good and I am slowing disengaging from my Blackberry.

Who needs Kevin Bacon?

Posted on August 22, 2010 by 40andover

DFOB (dear college friend of blogger) and I were talking not long ago and discovered that our family members know each other without relying on our 30-year connection.

Here is how it works:

SOB (sister of blogger) treated DFOB’s brother (BODFOB) when he was hospitalized a few years ago. I went to visit with the parents at the hospital while DFOB was flying in from California and SOB walked into the room. Crazy, huh?

It also turns out that DFOB’s cousin trained SOB early in her medical career.

BODFOB’s girlfriend is someone with whom SOB and I both went to high school; her mother was our English teacher (the latter is the reason that this sentence has a semi-colon and is grammatically correct even though it doesn’t flow so well).

But wait, there is more: POB (partner of the blogger) worked with the girlfriend on her book years ago (POB is in the publishing industry).

So, who needs Kevin Bacon any more? Ok, maybe if I want to be connected to Barbra Streisand or Alec Baldwin, I need Kevin Bacon. But G-d help me if I care about making those connections.

Really? Are ya kiddin’ me?

Posted on August 19, 2010 by 40andover

New York City is my home town.

Native New Yorkers (and those nearly native because they’ve lived here so long) abide by some neighborly rules. For example:

Help tourists with directions.
Ask a blind person if he or she would like assistance (but never ask if he or she “needs” assistance).
Look the other way when your neighbor is sneaking a cigarette around the corner.
Always go to the green grocer on your own block because that is the store that stays open and keeps the neighborhood buzzing and safe at late hours.

New York City is ruined by those who come here thinking that New York is so anonymous that they can give way to their worst or selfish impulses with impunity.

Yep, you guessed it. I had a run-in or two today.

Some guy sees me waiting for a hypothetical cab that might be free at 6:20pm on a weekday in midtown [hint: chances are better that you won the mega-millions lottery]. I know he sees me. We make eye contact.

What does he do? He walks down the block to try beat me out of the still hypothetical, available cab. Since he is being rude with me, he goes for double and cuts another woman. The woman then walks further down the block to cut him. As you can probably tell, in order to get to win this way, one has to be moving further in the exact opposite direction of one’s intended destination. We are on Sixth Avenue (or the “Avenue of the Americas” to those who arrived in the Big Apple after 1970) which goes north. These two people are walking further south to get a cab ahead of each other.

I have my righteous indignation going. Not at the woman; she did not see me. The guy is the target of my wrath.

Of course, I have to walk a block out of my way (the man and woman were leap-frogging each other for the still hypothetical, available cab).

I catch up to the guy and call him out on his behavior.

He responds in a are-you-for-real look, “it’s New York” with a twang in his accent and a “f”-you shrug.

He did whaaaaaaat? He told ME, ME, a New Yorker for 46 years, what IS and IS NOT New York? Is he kidding me?

Ok, I lose it.

I say, “Don’t you tell me about the rules of this town. I was born here. Did you ever hear of manners?” (Actually, the “did you” came out like “didja” and the “ever” came out like “eveh”. When I am angry, I lose “oo”s and my “r”s.)

The guy shows me the universal hand signal for displeasure.

**************************************************************************************************************

So, next I go down to the hotter-than-hell subway station, where everyone is letting loose.

And it doesn’t stop even when we are packed on the subway like sardines.

A woman with FABULOUS hair is flipping it all over everyone and my scalp immediately starts to itch from the contact. No, no lice, but, hey, you never know.

There is a woman who looks TWELVE MONTHS pregnant standing while young people are sitting.

There is the guy who sits “wide” and takes up one and one-half seats and is also hunched forward so that he takes up the standing space in front of him.

A woman is screaming that some man is sweating in her personal space.

I turn to the incredibly pregnant woman and ask in an ordinary subway voice (i.e., yelling) if she would like me to find a seat for her. She says she is ok in a way that suggests “I can take care of myself and who are you?” but she decides I mean well and smiles.

Someone gets up to get off at the next stop and then people insist that the pregnant woman sit down.

It was just the neighborly thing to do.

Just because he’s crazy, does that invalidate his compliment?

Posted on August 13, 2010 by 40andover

Maybe at 46 years-old, I am scraping the barrel for any compliment that comes my way. I need my blog community to rule on whether a compliment received this morning can be counted as such.

(I wish WordPress had those voting buttons so you can click “yes” “no” or “maybe“.)

I have a lunch meeting later with a client, so I am wearing make-up, earrings and a necklace. No, that is not all. I am wearing clothes. (Nice) t-shirt under a bespoke blazer (so it really fits well) and bespoke pants (which would fit better had I not gotten the peri-menopause tummy paunch). Shoes and bag work with the ensemble. A true outfit.

Many of you may be shocked; as sometimes I wear nice clothes but ruin the look with a pair of clogs. But, I digress (comme d’habitude).

A man, who was dressed well enough not to be homeless, entered the subway car with a cart. I know what you are thinking. But, really, the cart had perfectly reasonable looking things in it. Not like he was carrying his worldly possessions or anything. Look, he didn’t SMELL. And some homeless people are down on their luck. Not all of them are crazy. And we should help them off the streets because it is as good a litmus test as any for how civilized is our society really. But, I digress (comme d’habitude).

The train clears out at the next stop. It is an express station — not because he smelled. I sit down in a seat next to the doors. Then I realize I could move down and he could sit in that seat and be closer to his stuff. So I offer to move down.

He thanked me but declined. Then, he said that I looked beautiful and my outfit was just right. I thanked him.

Then he started talking to himself and doing a little tap-dance, foot shuffle, whatever. This continued until he got off the train.

Valid compliment or no? That is the question.

There is a new normal for everything these days

Posted on August 3, 2010 by 40andover

I was sitting on the train and I heard this annoying clicking noise. I thought someone was cracking chewing gum. I looked to my immediate left and saw that the woman next to me was clipping her figure nails on top of her backpack so the clippings would fall into the front pocket. Before I could think to shut my mouth, I gasped a disbelieving “noooooooo!!!” She looked at me, put her clipper away and took out her file, all the while making sure that everything fell into the front pocket.

So if she cleans up after herself, does it make it ok? Is this the new normal for behavior in the subway?

Hmmmmmmmm.

The crazy coincidences of life

Posted on July 30, 2010 by 40andover

33 years ago, my sister met another freshman at college because of random dorm assignments. Two 18 year-olds, one from NYC and another from a small town in Wisconsin, became friends and that friendship has spanned the decades.

The friend is one of eight (yes, eight) children and, long ago, our mothers bonded over the trials, tribulations and –yes — tragedies from which they could not protect their children. And the families have, by happenstance, and good fortune (for our family) literally kept bumping into each other throughout life. I think Kurt Vonnegut had a word for this phenomenon.

When I went on college interviews, there was invariably a sibling nearby to greet me and show me around. When, years later, an out of town colleague of my ex was in NYC and wanted to bring a friend along for dinner, in walked another sibling. (They are instantly recognizable.) So, into my then home walked OMIGOD [name withheld] FROM WISCONSIN!!

When POB (partner of blogger) and I set up home and family in the very Upper West Side, who should be teaching at a pre-school nearby? That same sibling.

Years later, who is dancing at my sister’s (ahem, long awaited) nuptials? That college friend.

And whom do I see when I go for a run, on my way to work or out for coffee? You bet, the sibling. Sometimes we sit and chat about life. Sometimes, I just yell a greeting. If my sister’s college friend is visiting town, I always try to pop over to my sister’s and say hi. Even if I can’t make it, I know that will — and do — bump into that college friend during her stay.

Because our two families — from different backgrounds and along different life paths — were intended to know each other.

I emailed my sister today because I, of course, saw the sibling. My sister wrote back that this coincidence is not as crazy as how I met POB.

POB and I were in the same bunk at a camp on Cape Cod in 1974. We were 10 years old and best friends. Our families both lived in the City and subsequently we went to the same synagogue and Hebrew School. She did her homework; I was in the rabbi’s office. We continued to learn with the rabbis after Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation, until we graduated from high school. We lost touch for 20 years and re-met, first casually, then as good friends, and after our own relationships imploded, as life partners.

All I remember is that POB’s mother randomly picked a camp because they were building a summer house and needed the girls to go somewhere. POB’s father was not pleased at all with the facilities at the camp. When POB’s mother was alive, I often thanked her for not consulting with her husband as that might have changed the course of history. I still remind POB’s dad that going to that camp was one of the best things that happened to his daughter (I only say that when POB is not perturbed with me).

Life is crazy like that. Which is another reason to listen to your grandmother’s warnings about not wearing torn underwear or never going out without lipstick because the doctor in the emergency room could be your first boyfriend. And, no matter what happened since then — even if you are lesbian — you want to make sure that the guy regrets letting you get away.

Wednesday Date Night with Friends

Posted on July 29, 2010 by 40andover

I arrive early. A possible stolen moment of mindfulness and relaxation out of a harried day. But this is New York City, where quiet was expunged from the lexicon long ago. And I am a consummate New Yorker so I must email something to somebody. And so I did, to POB (partner of blogger) and FOPOBAB (friends of POB and Blogger) who were joining us for dinner. Witness my descent into madness.

—– Original Message —–
Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:00:35 2010 [I am 14 minutes 25 seconds early, standing outside a pulsating restaurant]

A hopping place we picked. Such an active bar scene that if you were here early I wouldn’t be able to tell. I am sweltering outside listening to Dancing Queen (they pipe out the music for the pleasure of the passersby). I am trying not to sing along. I wish there were drag queens around to dance with. My inner 20-something

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:03:45 2010 [3 minutes and 10 seconds later]

Cabs are so plentiful I want to hail ALL of them.

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:08:58 2010 [5 minutes 13 seconds later]

Men’s fashion is getting pushed to the limit. It is only ok if [husband of FOPOBOB, who always looks fabulous] would wear it. That is my litmus test.

Can you tell I am overwhelmed by the bar scene raging inside. Ok, a couple with a two year old are considering coming into the restaurant. Mean, evil parents. Toooo much. I am going to try to take a picture surreptitiously. [Unfortunately, I was unable to get my blackberry camera in focus quickly enough]

Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:10 PM [one minute two seconds later]

I am going inside. I am brave.

No one would seat me even though we had a reservation. We ALL had to be there. I had visions of being in a suburban steak house located in a mall where they say, “Ma’am, if you have a seat after your party has arrived, we will call you.” And then you wait to hear, “Blogger, party of four!! Blogger, party of four!!” Ok, I CAAAAN’T GO THERE.

We all arrive and sit down and everybody is chatting and happy to see each other. I turn to the wife of FOPOBAB and ask, steeling myself for the answer, “how is your sister?” [note: her sister had cancer]. I knew it was gutsy.

Although time seems to evaporate when we all get together, it has been quite a few months and ANYTHING can, and does, happen. I see the look on her face.

Pause. Pause. Momentary out-of-body-experience. Back in my body and wishing it lacked a mouth.

“She died.”

[Why do I forget that I have a big S on my forehead for SCHMUCK?]

“We’ve seen you since then but we were with the kids, and I couldn’t go there.”

“Some hors d’oeuvres?” I say. NO, NOT REALLY. She tells me a hilarious story that happened as her sister literally lay dying that involved a nun. There is humor in these moments. I remember with my mother. And if you been there, you can very comfortably listen and laugh along. Because those stories help those still alive cope.

Meanwhile, POB and husband of FOPOBAB are talking about something else. There is a break in the conversations. I decided to catch up the others on our conversation.

I turned to POB and said, “So, I asked about [wife of FOPOBAB]’s sister and she is dead. But still we both have our appetites. And, as you know, I have schmuck written on my forehead.”

Silence.

I turn to my friend and say, “in the future, just text us “worry” or “cry” and you fill us in on the details later. Ok?”

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Personal Moments in an Anonymous City