Category Archives: BEING DIFFERENT

Youth, Age and Beauty

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So, I am still fixated on the events at the gym yesterday.

I must have a magnet in the shape of an S (for schmuck) implanted in my forehead, just above my eyes.  Why else would I notice things better left unnoticed? 

Yesterday’s magnet caused me to see the following:

In the locker room at the gym, a mid-twenty-something woman is prancing around, checking herself out, all in preparation for her performance of the daily nude hair-drying ritual.  She had dyed hair, sported a tattoo and was bronzed (but not orange like House minority leader Rep. John Boehner).  These fly under the radar these days.  No one notices those things anymore. 

But what shocked me — maybe I am naive — is that she had breast implants.  At her age!! 

Didn’t people use to wait for a sag before a lift? 

Then I walked upstairs to a work-out floor and saw an older woman who had way too much work done and looked Joan Rivers-like only not as good.  Now, that is tragic.

Then I got on the bus and there was a 30-something woman who had had plastic surgery to restore her nose and mouth and part of her cheeks.  You know, that look when plastic surgery is necessary after something really bad happens. 

An unfortunate reality check on beauty and the medical reasons for plastic surgery.

I don’t think I’ll go to the gym today.

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What’s PC

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I can’t keep up with the latest PC terminology.  “Intersex” was the new word for hermaprodite for ten years before someone told me that I needed to get with the times. 

Also, there are apparently six genders.  I can only count two — you could be one or the other, transitioning from one to the other or have both gender markers.  Still, only TWO unless you count points in the journey from one to the other.  Clearly, I am so backward and uncool that being a lesbian mom doesn’t even give me cover.

Therefore, in an effort to regain my “cool”, I am going to make up a new phrase that should be PC.  And I thought of it on the subway as I tried to squeeze between two full-sized individuals. 

No one likes the words “large,” “overweight,” “heavy” or “obese”.  Societal stigmas attach to the words like an octopus to a  [please, someone, fill in this blank — especially if you read about the crazy octopus as predictor of the World Cup winner].  (If I were Jacques Cousteau, I would be able to fill in that blank.  But, you get my point.)  

So, I think that we should use the terms “high volume” or “high density” instead.   Better connotations.  What do you think?

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Signs and Portents in New York

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Yesterday I was walking past a building where a delivery was being made.  I couldn’t see the company logo, just the shirt backs of the two delivery men.

One said, “The First Guy,”

and the other said, “The Other Guy“.

Funny and true and sad.  We readily let two guys into our apartment and we have no idea their names.  If we had to talk about the delivery, we would say, “the First Guy asked where we wanted the sofa and the Other Guy brought it in on the wheely-thing and then the First Guy asked me to sign the receipt.”

Reminds me of my housekeeper years ago when I was a bachelorette.  I left a relationship (and moved out) and took over the lease of my friend’s apartment together with all of the contents that she wasn’t taking to her new apartment with her girlfriend.  I even got the housekeeper, Olga.  Except Olga didn’t do the work.  She had her “cousin”, Marta, do the work. I saw Marta once (Russian, bad blonde dye job) and wouldn’t recognize her if I fell over her.  I was embarrassed not to be able to recognize her, so, on Fridays, I would get up early and walk down the stairs so I wouldn’t run into her.  (Of course, she wouldn’t know me either.)  If I saw anyone of her vague description within a block of my apartment, I would smile and nod just in case.

I imagined how I would answer a detective’s incredulous questions on Law and Order.  “How could you not know Marta’s last name?” “You have no address for the woman who has a key to your home, and access to your jewelry?” ‘Tell me again how you could not possibly know the full name of the woman who cleans your underwear?” “How did you know it was Marta every week?” “Based only on the fact that she ruined your whites with the same hue of blue, you are telling me that it was always the same woman?” Unfortunately, the answers are yes, “I could” and “I did”.

I did have Olga’s outer-borough phone number.  I used it to say that I was moving and I wouldn’t be needing Marta’s services.  I left two weeks’ pay and Marta left a thank-you note written in a scrawl that suggested that she didn’t know so much English and was just as happy that she didn’t bump into me (even if she recognized me).

At least I know her first name.  That is something.  But not really a lot.  A nameless immigrant in the sea of New York, doing work that most people won’t do.  If you want to see strivers and the role that nameless immigrants — legal or not — play in our society, come to New York City.

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A Sign of the Times

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So one lazy morning when I could not, should not, would not go gently into the underbelly of New York which we fondly call the subway, I took a cab.  I know, I know, in a recession, the cost of a cab is like taking  candy from my child’s mouth or food off his plate.  Then again if I lose my mind, then I would not be able to put candy in his mouth or food on his plate.  In fact, it was a “wellness” initiative that should be covered by insurance deductibles.  Every urban dweller should get a few moments of peace (and Urdu or other language) once in a while.  But, as usual, I digress.

So back to life inside an air-conditioned, yet still stale-aired, cab (an oxy-moron only city dwellers can appreciate).  I was just reaching to turn off the video screen (provided courtesy of the Taxi and Limousine Commission in recognition of the global shift toward ADD as an evolutionary goal) when I spied the following sign in a liquor store:

Yes, a LIQUOR STORE, advertising 50% if you come in between 8AM and 10AM.

Are alarm bells going off?  I know we are all seeking solace somewhere in this economic meltdown (Thank you, GOP — NO, I will not accept sharing the responsibility, you greedy bastards), but this, THIS, says we are hurting.  And hurting DEEPLY.

Food for thought or, more appropriately, elixir for numbness of the mind.

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Behind the scenes at my son’s 8th birthday party

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First, let me say that my son had a great time.  Second, let me say that POB (partner of blogger) and I did the least we could do.  Everyday we star in our own MasterCard commercial.  In this case, paying for an all-in party at Chelsea Piers bowling alley, $___; seeing your kid smile, PRICELESS.

We were greeted by the shift manager, a friendly enough woman. She failed to enunciate when she said her name and between the thumping music (which I forced them to turn down) and my middle aged ears, I couldn’t catch her name.  Not to worry, my middle aged brain would have forgotten it in seconds anyway.  She asked who was the mother and we both said, “we are”.  Shock and consternation showed on her face.  She then asked, “are there two birthday boys?” Ok, maybe she was thinking she needed to charge extra or maybe she was worried that there was some foul-up.  But this is NEW YORK CITY on GAY PR IDE WEEKEND.  (As for our family, we’re here, we’re queer, we are sooooo over it.)

Ok, so it took a few screams in all of our ear canals to get the point across (remember there was the thumping, party tape playing — another gift by the gay community) in order for the manager to understand that there were two Moms and that all was the same as planned.  Phew.  One small step for us, one giant step for GAY families.

My dad arrived early but not as early as usual so I was tempted to start a police manhunt to track him down.  (He is almost 90 and I worry.)  I waited outside and caught him as he was passing the place.  He noted the loud music and then I wondered to myself, how can he hear the loud music but not hear me screaming “DAD!!!!” on the pier.  A cosmic puzzlement.  One of the moms of our son’s friends asked Dad, “whose father are you?” (as in is your daughter POB or Blogger?).  My dad misunderstood the question, and answered, “No father.  Two moms.”  He came over to me later and suggested that someone didn’t realize the family dynamics and whether he should have a word with her.  G-d bless my Dad.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the mom-in-question already told me about the mis-communication. So, I said, “Another time, Dad, and thanks.”

It is my son’s day, but I need to have a moment about my Dad.  Sometimes, being the sandwich generation has it joyful moments.

I have spent the day putting together Star Wars lego battle cruisers, whatever.  Every parent can relate.  That’s why we don’t march in the parade.  Who has time when there are Lego projects and Little League and Hebrew School and birthday parties?

I get emails from my college friends asking about the birthday party.  I did NOT tell them (not that I wouldn’t but we had facial moisturizer to discuss).  But one is “friends” with my sister who posted pictures of the event.  You can run but you can’t hide.

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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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Justice, Souder and me

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http://m.yahoo.com/w/ynews/article/topstories/10?url=http%3A%2F%2Fxml.news.yahoo.com%2Fus%2Fnews%2Frss%2Frichstoryrss.html%3Fu%3D%2Fap%2Fus_congress_souder&.ts=1274229436&.tsrc=yahoo&.intl=us&.lang=en

Representative Souder, a G-d fearing family values man, joins the Rogue’s Gallery of the sanctimonious hoisted on their own petards.  I am not gleeful.  I don’t relish another’s embarrassments and defeats — even those people who would deny me my civil rights.

Each one of these holier-than-thou sinners begs for forgiveness and feels entitled to redemption because aliens must have inhabited his body in order for him to behave so.  Do we as a society enable the hypocrisy by forgiveness and opportunities for redemption?  What if we required that each one of these-who-have-fallen-THUD!-from-Grace accept that he is not the interpreter of G-d’s wills, G-d’s ways and G-d’s Bible?  [That is a way lot of “G-d”s for a religious conscientious objector like me.]

If pride goeth before the fall, then humility will come after it but only if we demand it of those whom we forgive. Humility and a quest for understanding of our common humanity. And maybe we will achieve peace and justice for all.

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25th Reunion

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I have 5 weeks until my 25th college reunion.  I have 5 weeks to be slim, prosperous, toned and, maybe, un-gray.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute.  I was a crammer in college — I was still buying the books from the class syllabus three days before the final exam.  (And my GPA showed it.)

I am 46 and, with 5 weeks to go, here is my status:

Slim:  I am much slimmer now than I was in college, even though I have gained “more than a few” pounds in recent years.  I call it the Recession 8.  Better than the Freshman 15.  (I had come in with the pre-Freshman 30, so I don’t have college to blame.)  But, in truth, I look pretty slim.  So, √ in that box.

Prosperous:  Ok, things were better a few years ago, before people on Wall Street got stupid and greedy. But, while I don’t stack up to the crazy high-profile entrepreneurs in my class, I am really fortunate.  So, √ in that box.

Toned:  I want to be buff.  I don’t look bad, although there is a certain sag to the skin on my legs from my fat days.  And gravity does “weigh down” some erstwhile perky parts.  So no short shorts and no tank tops for me.  Anyway, after a certain age, a person looks ridiculous in that kind of outfit.  I lost this last week to having injured my hip and back (a little arthritis in the hip leads to compensating with other muscles that spasm which leads to crippling pain), and so I think buff is out of the question, but quietly toned is still possible.  So, X in this box (with an “*I don’t care anymore because I am not so shallow” followed by “**Does anyone outgrow that infantile sour grapes attitude? Surely not I”).

Un-gray: I am unconvinced on this.  Covering the gray requires upkeep even after the reunion. That is a huge commitment.  Still under advisement.  So put a ? in that box.

My son just walked in and kissed me.  He really wants to use the computer, but the kiss was also real.  That’s the things with kids — they take you as you are and they don’t put on the artifices that we adults do as naturally as we get dressed in the morning.  POB (partner of blogger) calls out to me and wants to know what we want to do for dinner tonight.  I remind her to call her dad about coming over for dinner tomorrow night with my dad and assorted relatives.

Now, I think, do I care if I am thin, prosperous, toned and un-gray?  Yes, but not because of reunion.  I am happy and I don’t envy anyone or want to be envied.  I simply want my family to be happy and healthy and safe.  I have that.  Add new box and put √√√ in it!!! (with an *”still would like to be slim, prosperous, toned and less gray”) .

[break for dinner out during which my son has a mother of all melt-downs and tests my resolve against spanking as a disciplinary tool.]

Ok, so my son was temporary invaded by an alien life form, and all because we cannot go to his choice of local restaurants (there were no tables available).  This is not my son (usually).   The following race through my mind: (i) aliens are clever, (ii) my parents grew up poor and would not abide such behavior in us, (iii) we knew not to exhibit such behavior and (iv) what have I done to create this monster?

Am I still happy and blessed?  Absolutely.  Am I pissed?  You betcha.  But keep the new box with the √√√ in it, and don’t forget the all-important asterisk.


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Don’t cry for me, Argentina . . .

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No, not “Evita!” the musical sensation of the 1970s about Eva Peron.

South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford is living out loud and proud, trying to patch things up with his girlfriend.  It was all a misunderstanding — when we heard Appalachian trail, he said “Argentinian tail”. [see http://40andoverblog.com/p?120]

But, at least he isn’t lying anymore and he maintains contact with his government on his weekends away.  If only other “family values” candidates would be open about marital issues, gay issues and the tough stuff of life that affects all of us, maybe we can re-calibrate expectations of our politicians and ourselves.  I am not saying that infidelity and lying are ok. I am saying live the truth so you don’t have to lie.  So many less lives get shattered that way.

He behaved like a child but he is trying to live as grown-up now.  It is a good start.

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Some questions actually tell us so much about ourselves

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Poor Solicitor General Elena Kagan.  Just because she is single, unattractive, overweight and intellectual, she must be a lesbian.

Laura Ingraham is single and, to some, intellectual.  So, she isn’t unattractive or overweight.  Is she . . . .?

So, former Secretary of State Condi Rice is single and intellectual.  She is not unattractive or overweight either.  Is she. . . ?

Ok, I get it.  If Elena Kagan were hot — or at least not unattractive and overweight, it wouldn’t be an issue.

If she were a man, like Justice Souter, no one would raise the issue.  How do I know?  Because no one did (loudly, anyway).

Has anyone looked at all of the unattractive and overweight women who are married and heterosexual?  Has anyone looked at all the gorgeous heterosexual women who are single?  And all the gorgeous lesbians who are “married”?

Maybe she is; maybe she isn’t.  But if unattractive and overweight were the markers, there would be only five heterosexuals in middle America.

Who will be the first politician to own up to this attitude?  And this “litmus test” only pertains to women.  Overweight and unattractive men?  Just look at the Congress.

GOP senators don’t have gaydar.  How do I know?   They didn’t figure out about Family Research Council George Rekers, who hired a gay male escort to carry his bags on a trip to Europe.  Or that televangelist.  Or the Senator who sits wide in aiport bathrooms.

Democrats assume that the Republicans will raise the issue, so they — including the White House — are “getting out ahead of it”.  In some publications, the Democrats are being criticized for not getting out ahead of it sooner.

So, even among the enlightened of our generation — including those in the White House — it is still a “smear” to say that someone is gay.   And being gay is deviant but fixable, or so says the Family Research Council.  Maybe it should rethink its view in light of the scandal rocking its founder.

We will allow gays to serve in the military so long as they hide under a rock.  Think of the patriotism of these men and women.  They are willing to shed their blood and give their lives to a country that won’t allow them to live, fight and die in dignity.

Aint that America.

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