Category Archives: Truth is stranger than Fiction

My son’s most excellent adventure

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My son is an intrepid traveler.  His partner in crime is Cousin Gentle.

They boldly go where no one on our family has gone before — Staten Island. 

Now Staten Island — that is RED state country.  We descend from the red palette, too, but closer to the blue–red (socialist) part of the spectrum.  The kind of red that would make today’s red staters would prefer to be dead (better than be red).

And these two did not just go to the ferry stop on the “other side” and then hurry back to the safety of our (Manhattan) island sanctuary.  No, these two Upper West Siders took the SIR — Staten Island Rail — to the end of the line, Tottenville.  You might be surprised that there are over 20 stops on the SIR and it takes an hour to go the length of that island.  

They stopped for pizza and the proprietor asked Cousin Gentle, “what country are you from?”  Cousin Gentle replied, “the Upper West Side”.  The proprietor nodded that he had heard of it.  Who knew you didn’t need a space rocket to visit Mars?

Apparently, Tottenville has a shore line and beach area and my son waded into the ocean not yet sullied by the oil spill.  Over dinner (back home in the bosom of our effete, white wine sipping, brie cheese eating, intellectual elitist Upper West Side), my son said, “Tottenville is just like East Hampton!!”  I looked at Cousin Gentle who whispered that he didn’t say that while in Staten Island (because those are fighting words there) and I checked that FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) didn’t hear that statement because, well, FOPOB has a beach house in East Hampton.  Honestly, I would rather risk offending FOPOB than inciting people to riot on Staten Island. 

There are so many sociological layers to my son’s statement.  I, however, will go with “my son, the pampered egalitarian”.  And leave it at that.

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Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one.  The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes.  Ok, I am living in the past.  The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic).  And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes.  This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”.  SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out.  POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out.  POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair.  Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world.  Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner.  Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day.  The warning was clear: be there or be talked about.  Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year.  In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level.  Grandnephews and nieces are not invited.  However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited.  So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news.  FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration.  Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family.  Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner.  Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most.  He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB?  Two family gatherings missed.  I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest.  You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today.  Yes, I did.  But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid.  Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog.   Ooooops.)

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Another typical day on the road to Utopia

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I went out to lunch again with a colleague — one who indulges my need to document life around me.

These photos don’t really need a narrative.  A tender moment (?) on not-so-tender 6th Avenue and 50th Street.  Is this where you want to tell your children that daddy proposed and mommy said yes?  I guess that I’ll leave up to you to decide who is crazier.  I think it is the girl for saying yes. And the outfit requires a 911 make-over.

As if that weren’t enough, I read the Radio City Musical Hall promos and juxtaposed were:

Ok, Chelsea Handler shares billing with His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  And we wonder why our civilization is rounding the drain.

Hey, I just show what I see.

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The Downside of Exposing Your Child to “Culture”

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My son went to the Museum of Modern Art today with his second grade class and loved it.  Why am I shaking my head and wondering how the world gets so skewed?

My son saw Jackson Pollacks and figured he could do that, too.  Check, he understands that no one knows why art is art.  So far so good.

He noted that you can get the Picasso effect if you spin around and around and then look at someone sideways.  Check, he already understands cubism.  He is a prodigy.

He loved some of the Picassos and he thought Matisse’s dancers were fabulous.  Ok, why?  Because they were girls, and they were naked.  He is a boy (with a heightened sense of the opposite sex for a nearly 8 year-old).

It sounds like the set up for my standing riddle:  What do two lesbians moms produce?  A hyper-heterosexual son.

Still, some of his aunts, uncles, cousins and grandfathers might think he is a prodigy.  I won’t tell them that he stares at Victoria Secret ads with probably more zeal than he showed for the not-so-representational works of Picasso and Matisse.

I thought the prevailing wisdom was that boys get easier as they age . . .

I think my mother would giggle at this problem.  And that makes me smile.  But then I get back to reality and just shake my head.

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My Gynecologist, Dr. Jew

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No joke.  My doctor’s last name is Jew.

If only his first initial were A., it would be “A. Jew, M.D.”  That would be the culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

Except that Dr. Jew is Asian.

Actually, that makes it a satirical culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

The whole point of the visit was to talk about hormone replacement therapy.  I am not loving some of the effects of aging and since, in this day and age where we think we can cherry-pick out the good from the bad and have it all, I think why not ask?   And besides I read about it in the New York Times Magazine.  The article says it is safer now.  Ahhhh, the Times.  The word from on High.  I know, I know, I know.  Think Valerie Plame scandal.  Think slanted reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War.  Ok, so the Times is almost as reliable as a comic book.

Dr. Jew was so very gentle and courteous when he suggested to me that doctors tend not to base their medical judgments on New York Times Magazine articles.  They like to rely on clinical tests and multi-year studies, like the kind you find in the New England Journal of Medicine.  “That rag mag?” I thought, but did not say aloud.

Look, I get my news from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  So, it isn’t a stretch for me to get my medical information from comic books.  Thank G-d I am not a doctor.

And Dr. Jew?  He is a good (Jew) doctor.

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A Pulitzer?

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Gene Weingarten won a Pulitzer for feature writing, for an article about parents who accidentally kill their children by forgetting them in cars.  A Pulitzer Prize.  A Pulitzer Prize. 

A Pulitzer he won.  For what?  For telling us about the lives of people who accidentally kill their children?  Whaaaat?

If I won for this article, my mother wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.  She would have put her head in the oven.  She would think, couldn’t you write about world peace, environmental concerns, something other than dead children and the parents who kill them?

Of course, now I am scared that I caused the evil eye to look upon my family and me.

(But, really, a Pulitzer?  Really?)

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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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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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“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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The Acupuncturist

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I go to a wonderful acupuncturist.  She knows that I don’t necessarily believe in the power of my “chi” and that I am a western-centric client.  But, I am open to ways to feel better and balance my body.  That’s why my acupuncturist is terrific.  She doesn’t try to change me.  She works with me as I am.  And I have mellowed over time.  I now take vitamins, fish oils, have healthy foods in my office, etc.

When I leave my office for these appointments, I tell my assistant, “I am going to get pricked like a pin-cushion.”  I keep my blackberry out during the sessions — a negotiated concession from my acupuncturist — and, in response to a flurry of anxious emails, I emailed to my colleague, “do you need me to pull out the needles and run back to the office?”   I was perfectly willing to do so because I am a professional first and a pin-cushion second.  And I knew my phrasing would make my colleague queasy and weak-in-the-knees (for which I get a slightly perverse kick).  This colleague asked me once if I believed in the good effects of acupuncture and I responded, “Nah, but it can’t hurt — too much.”

I have gotten to know my acupuncturist some, and so I need to know about her life and if she is happy.  So, I have to ask, “so, are you seeing anyone?”  Her response: “I still haven’t found the right person.”  The use of “person” means (i) she is being politically correct/sensitive to my being gay or (ii) she is intentionally obfuscating whether she is looking for a man or a woman.  But, the vibe is definitely hetero.  Still, I ask, “man or woman or gender irrelevant?” because I might know someone for a shitach (a match) and I want to get the gender right.  And my gaydar has been wrong in the past.

And, once, years ago, I was talking to a “straight,” ultra-religious woman who started a conversation about finding a husband (for her).  In the midst of the conversation, she said to me, “how hetero-centrist of you to think that I am only interested in men!”  “But you are interested in men,” I said as I was thinking something is off because she knew I was gay. “To marry, yes,” she responded.

After about a two-second pause, I realized the implications of the statement and that it was time for me to run, run like the wind.  And I did.  All the way home to my beloved.  I am my beloved’s and she is mine. There are no ooky parentheticals or provisos to that statement.

What did this last story have to do with my acupuncturist?  Nothing, really.  But where I end up is rarely related to where I started, at least when I am not being a lawyer.

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