Fat Deposit?

I have this bump on the palm of my hand.  I wouldn’t have noticed it except I do push-ups (and other torturous exercises to stay in shape), so I am aware of this constant bruised feeling,

I mentioned in passing to POB that the bump hasn’t gone away and the bruised feeling remains (probably because every time I work out with my trainer, I exacerbate the problem).

“Maybe it is a fat deposit.”

WHOA.  I know we are lesbians and we have to fight that creepy urge to merge into one being and all, but who, WHO, said it was ok to suggest that I might have a fat deposit?

In fact, I reviewed our wedding vows, both in Hebrew and in English, and I did not find any authority whatsoever for the proposition that POB could safely (and thus without consequences) intimate that I have a FAT deposit wherever found in my body.  Not even in the innocuous place like the palm of my hand.

In all honesty, I do have some deposits in other parts of my body, which are increasing at the same exponential rate as oil reserves are being depleted.  (Why, oh why, can’t modern science suction cellulite and use it instead of fossil fuels?)  But this is AFTER the wedding, AFTER I fit into an unforgiving dress, AFTER I wore body armor.  So, go on, make my day.  Get a GET (a Jewish religious divorce) at your peril.

I know, I know, POB didn’t suggest I was like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor (Chunky Monkey) or suggest the FAT DEPOSIT was in a place that would offend my inner diva.

Ok, it is in my palm.

But it is a fat deposit.  So, POB has to climb out of the ditch on this one.

Maybe I will send her out for Chunky Monkey.  Ahhh, a Pyrrhic Victory if ever there was one.

But a VICTORY nonetheless.  And when you are 40-and-over, every victory counts.

 

This Parent’s Nightmares

Two New York Times articles this weekend conveniently book-ended the gamut of parental nightmares — child abuse and drug abuse.

In the hallowed halls of elite Horace Mann School, unabashed pedophilia survived through willful blindness for decades.  Just another reminder for me to listen closely to my child’s discomfort and fears, if G-d forbid, there was some problem.  And any man who takes an active interest in SOS and engages in “horseplay” is suspect.

When SOS was young, we thought to have a manny (male nanny) to give him daily contact with a male (something missing in a two-mom household).  But the logistics got complicated when I realized that if we had a manny (who might just be a pedophile), we would also need a nanny to watch the manny watching SOS.  POB gave up on the idea rather than try to unravel my paranoid (and correct) logic.

The second story was about high school kids buying prescription drugs used to treat Attention Deficit Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.  These drugs, when used properly, help certain kids function with the “appropriate” level of attention and focus in classrooms and other venues. The drugs’ effects on kids who don’t need the drug are laser-focus on task and rapid recall.  Like steroids, these drugs are now seen as performance enhancing aids so that kids can perform better on class tests and college entrance exams.

It is shocking how easy it seems to get a prescription or buy a few pills from a classmate.

(My high school alma mater was singled out as one place where there is a real problem.  The person who said any publicity is good publicity is, um, wrong.)

So, POB and I were talking about this and we both scratched our heads.  We as a society are pushing our kids into drugs “to make us proud”.  It made getting high and playing frisbee seem like something out of Mayberry.  You know, the stuff you did to rebel and make your parents fret about your future.

And now my new view is:

SOS, if you must try drugs, please smoke A LITTLE dope (and then make sure it was a bad experience).  And promise me (pinky-swear and everything) that you won’t ever, ever, snort Adderall for performance enhancement. 

I love you just the way you are.

 

My new trainer

My fitness trainer abruptly left the gym and I think the city about ten days ago.  I am worried about him.  But enough about him, let’s turn it back to me, because I need Michelle Obama arms for my wedding.

He texted me and suggested one of the other trainers whom I will call FTOB (fitness trainer of blogger).  FTOB is very, how shall we say, vivacious.  She spontaneously lifts people off the floor when she is happy.  She likes to take dance breaks, which makes me think of the Ellen DeGeneres’s show (the episode I saw) during which she danced with her guests. 

Still, the clock was ticking and I have an unforgiving dress.  I called FTOB and scheduled an appointment.  She is high energy and very effective.  But while I was learning from FTOB, I had to teach her two things: (i) I don’t have a booty and (ii) I don’t have ta-tas.  As to the first, I have a tushie, behind, derriere, butt or any number of variations of those words.  As to the second, I have breasts, a chest or, if necessary, boobs. 

No-no-no to ta-tas.

FTOB was awesome about this.  The second session contained no references to the “b” or the “t” words.  Strong work, FTOB.

FTOB has a FauxHawk (modified Mohawk, where the the sides aren’t shaved, just very short).  In this last session, her hair was slicked back and it looked like it was all one length.  “I love your hair!!” I exclaimed, almost matching her general exuberance.  “You think so?  It got wet and I gelled it back.  I am getting it cut soon.”  Ahhh, it was only a temporary NoHawk. 

So, in a moment that can best be described as my mother inhabiting my body, I blurted out, “You know, I asked [my old trainer] once to introduce us, because I wanted to say to you, ‘You have such a lovely face, why do you have your hair cut that way?'” 

“Really?”

“A good haircut can make all the difference,” I said.

I think we were both shocked at the exchange and I was a little weirded out having had a Freaky Friday moment with my mother in my body.  And FTOB is so good natured that she took it in the spirit in which it was meant — concern.

It turns out she has a girlfriend who likes her hair.  “Well, then, don’t listen to me; listen to her.  But if you are single again, listen to me.”

Oh, Mom, next time, give me some warning, ok?

How I learned to Relax and Enjoy the Newtron Bombney

For many months, I have been tied up in knots over the contenders for GOP nomination. I am terrified that on the third Tuesday in January, 2013, someone will utter any of the following:  “President Romney”, “President Gingrich”, “President Paul” or “President Santorum”.

I watch the GOP debates, with all of the venal, xenophobic, hypocritical, self-serving garbage that the candidates spew.

Any of these people would destroy our nation.  Setting aside Ron Paul and Rick Santorum (who are not winning the primaries), Gingrich is just evil, mercurial and evil (it bears repeating) and Romney is clueless and changes position faster than some in our nation change underwear.

President Obama who was elected to fix everything in less time than it took to break it all.  And, he wasn’t supposed to break a sweat or a promise or make a mistake.  We were exuberant, irrational and naive about the true state of our nation.  No one — no Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Tea Party-ist, whatever — would face any easier re-election bid.

Let’s just accept that.  If McCain had won, he would be called the GOP’s version of Jimmy Carter.

And let’s be clear — Obama’s campaign fed on the hopes and aspirations that we were electing a messianic politician.  He rode high and won on outlandish expectations that his campaign encouraged.  Once elected, he had to tamp down the expectations.  Because he found out just what he inherited and it wasn’t pretty.

But the GOP nominee can be the next president of the United States.  We cannot ignore that scary possibility.  (To wit:  GWB won 5-4 in the Supreme Court.)  Too many people are comfortable that Obama can beat either Romney or Gingrich, but the economy is fragile and people are deeply divided over President Obama (some for political reasons; others, for reasons that are, let’s say, less than Christian).  So, nothing is a sure thing.

Why am I scared? We have never been more divided as a nation.  And President Obama has incited the angry passions in the left wing of the Democrats and all of the Republicans — Democratic left, because he wasn’t nearly as “progressive” as they had expected and the Republicans, because he wasn’t nearly the effete liberal, scared-y cat they were hoping to skewer.

Now that the GOP is divided and frantically scrambling to blow back against a Gingrich nomination or presidency, I smile and relax.

If I set aside what the mud-slinging says about us and our society, I can talk about the debates in the same conversation as others talk about the Real Housewives of Los Angeles.  And no one knows I am talking about the political debates and our (G-d forbid) future president of our country.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

When I am old, I will eat smoked whitefish chubs

Foods, smells and places are triggers for memories.  On Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) bought whitefish salad for my father to have on crackers as a nosh before dinner.  I finished it up last night.    

When I was a kid, Grandma and Grandpa always brought lox (not Nova Scotia salmon), smoked whitefish chubs wrapped in wax paper, herring in cream sauce mit [with] onion and bagels.  All de vay from deVilliamsburgh section of Broooklyn, dahlink. 

Mom used to freak out that one of us would choke on the bones and my grandfather would say, “It didn’t kill you! Vhy should it kill the kinder [children]?” 

I always remember that the oily smell of the smoked white fish lingered in the kitchen, on my grandfather’s clothes (“vhy waste a napkin? I’m not going to no party!”) and on my hands.  For DAYS it lingered.  We were the light of our grandparents’ lives and even our not-so-cuddly grandpa openly adored us.  These were the days before we got too cool or too moody.  These were the days when we looked forward to seeing them and ran up to hug them as they walked in the house. 

When Grandma and Grandpa stopped being able to come to our house, we brought the same stuff to them (all de vay from the upper east side of Manhattan, dahlink).  Grandpa would say, “Don’t buy vhere you live!  A dolleh (dollar) doesn’t buy much!!”

At home, my parent started buying whitefish salad and herring salad (no cream sauce).  And smoked salmon from places my grandparents couldn’t pronounce.  No fuss, no bother.  We smelled better and it was healthier.  Little random acts of assimilation.

When we go over to Dad’s house today, he still serves whitefish and herring salads (along with some tofu-I-don’t-know-what and eggplant salad) for hors- d’oeuvres before dinner.  Not upper class or Episcopalian by any stretch, but well north of Delancey Street.

When I am in my father’s house, I hear, I taste, I smell those childhood memories.   Some day (I hope a long time from now), I won’t go to my father’s house anymore, just like that one day I stopped going to my grandfather’s house. 

What will become of those memories?

So, last night, I resolved that when I am old, I will eat smoked whitefish chubs, herring in cream sauce (ok, maybe not the cream sauce) and salty lox belly. 

And I will remember.

 

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Wedding Dresses Part III

The wedding dresses are coming in two weeks.  Once here, they must be fitted.  And, depending upon how well behaved POB (partner of blogger) and I are, let out a little.  I learned about Spanx which comes in full body casts — I mean, corsets.  I also learned that I cannot wear tennis shoes under my flowing dress.  Really?  Someone is going to make me wear heels on MY wedding day.  Well, yes, if that someone happens to be POB or anyone of the Soeurs (dearest college friends).  For these people, I do what I am told.  SOB (sister of blogger) also can order me around, but thank G-d, she couldn’t care less about these details.  What a wonderful big sister.

Can the wedding come any sooner?  No, actually, because we just decided on the Save the Date cards and we don’t have a band yet.

We have a rabbi, a place, a photographer, a caterer and two unfitted dresses.  I understand that if we weren’t 48 years-old with a child, there would be an epic intervention that might, if televised, rule Sweeps Month.  Thank G-d we are all ready committed and this is just a public and religious affirmation.

Otherwise, I fear Kym Kardashian would be giving me nuptial tips.  Of course, the only thing I know about her is that she had a short-lived marriage after a much celebrated courtship.  So, I don’t need advice from her.  Last thing I need is to try to keep up with the Kardashians.

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A Merry Little Jewish Christmas

Even though I believe that one respects other’s traditions by not co-opting them, I do live in the real world.

In the real world, my partner and I are lesbians moms to a boy, my sister is married to a Catholic, my Jewish cousin has secretly (all his 67 years) wanted to decorate a Christmas tree and my son thinks that Hannukah wouldn’t be Hannukah without presents.  There, you have it.  A typical American family trying to navigate the traditions without losing our minds in the process.

Friday night, we started the festive weekend at the children’s Hannukah service and potluck at our synagogue.  Our synagogue meets at the Church of the Holy Apostles (Chasidim Kadoshim, to the Jews).  As if to show me that I am not the clueless among Jews, someone said, “It smells so wonderful in here, like pine trees!”  Really?  Really?  Ever hear of “deck the halls with bows of holly .  .  . ” and the recipe, “kill a tree,  attach chachkas to them, and one week later reduce to mulch.  Repeat each year.” ??????

We also stayed for the adult service.  It is difficult to take seriously a rabbi who has a Santa’s elves’ styled hat with a menorah on it but she did take it off when she spoke some words of Torah.  It was an important drash to hear.  There were three main themes:  our viewpoint is imbued with our baggage, for every light there is a shadow and vice-versa and, finally, don’t accept the heroes of a story at face value.

First, the baggage.  The story of Hannukah is simply the miracle that oil enough for one day lasted eight days so that the Jews who recaptured the Temple could perform the necessary re-sanctification rituals.  But if it is 1948 Palestine, the story is about a military victory by a small group against mighty armies.  If it is 1498, during the Inquisition, it is about the subjugation of a people.  If you gather rabbis, it is about a miracle.  If it is 2011, you might wonder if the Maccabees were zealots somewhat akin to today’s radical fundamentalists.  (In fact, history bears that out.)  So, who you are, where you’ve come from, and who you want to be, can shade the way you tell the story, and emphasize the elements.

Light of the Hannukah candles casts a shadow.   For advance, there are detractors, some of whom are merely engaging in a power struggle.  The shadow can be dangerous and it can be restful.  The light can be the path but it can also burn.  Light and shadow need each other.  Success lies in the right balance.  And that is the greatest challenge.  The rabbi told us of settlers in the Israeli occupied territories who, whenever there is a threat to their settlement or way of life, burn down a mosque inside Israel.   (Israel immediately rebuilds the mosques and other Jewish organizations provide Qurans and prayer rugs.)  In the light of peace there is darkness.  Darkness of zealots who use the cover of Judaism to perpetrate atrocities.  Have they forgotten their parents’ and grandparents’ ordeals in Europe?  How could this be?  The light needs to shine a light on this darkness.  These “Jews” do not deserve a place in Israel or anywhere in the quasi-civilized world.

For the first time in a long time, I was glad to to synagogue and learn about things that the mainstream media doesn’t cover.  It made me think, rather than go to synagogue again, I should visit a mosque, Sikh temple or a church and listen.

After leaving synagogue, we looked up at the Empire State Building.  Blue and white adorned two sides, and red and green, the other.  I love New York.

Saturday, the Blogger family gathered with assorted cousins and in-laws to celebrate both traditions.  In my sister’s house was a small Christmas tree decorated in blue and white with a rabbi as an ornament.  Cousin Gentle was so excited because he thinks ornaments are sooooooo adorable that he wants to decorate the tree next year.  I told Cousin Gentle that it had to have an irreverent theme, like that the Hasidic rabbi and the dreidel that was at the foot of the tree.  He had a look of total inspiration that I believe he may have been visiting after-Christmas sales these last two days.

I LOVE how politically and religiously incorrect it was.  And, of course, there was a Yahrzeit candle burning for my Catholic brother-in-law’s father who recently died. And my brother-in-law made the latkes.

Saturday night, everyone was Jewish and Christian and all was good with the world.

The Wedding Dress Part II

Dear Mom:

First, I never thought I would get married.  Second, I never thought that if I ever did get married, it would be without you.  I will be 48 (52 if you’ve read my other blog entries) at the wedding, so what did I expect? You ask.  You’re right.  But I am your last born, the baby of the family.  I expected that you would live until, I don’t know, forever.

I know you are hovering in Heaven, but, right now, that is not good enough.  And I am a conscientious objector when it comes to G-d but, because your soul cannot have dissipated into nothingness and because POB (partner of blogger) and I found each other, I hold out some specter of belief in some divinity in a world that is otherwise in decline.  So, it is big that I believe, and this belief thing is, how they say these days, “on you”.

As an aside, does this Jewish guilt work on the other side?  Am I wasting my time here?  Drop a lightening bolt if guilt doesn’t matter in the hereafter.  I won’t tell anyone.  I promise.

So, I couldn’t call you when POB and I found the dresses.  (Did you register any guilt feeling? Ok, I drop the question.)  You would have been so excited about it (and relieved that we didn’t make you schlep to SoHo).  You would ask about the wedding plans and then let your preferences be known in a velvet fist way that sounded soothing yet non-negotiable.  Confrontational and gentle all at the same time.  You should have been Secretary of State.

Thank G-d DOB (Dad of blogger)is healthy (for a 91 year-old) and seems like he will be there, G-d willing.  (There I go again, with the G-d thing.  I might lose my objector status, if this keeps up, so really let me know if guilt works up there.)

Speaking of DOB, I spent Sunday morning trying, in vain, to reconnect him to his email and the internet.  SOS (our son, source of sanity) came with me on this mission of uselessness.  I got DOB all reconnected and did a learning-by-doing tutorial that I custom-tailored for him.  I did that tutorial more times than I can to tell.  Nothing.  NADA.  He can play Free Cell and access his list of  of charitable contributions without assistance.  But, when it comes to the Internet, he can’t really type, he can’t really see the screen and he can’t really understand how to read and send emails.  Still, he is righteously indignant that he doesn’t have much personal email in his inbox.  SOS tried really hard to understand why DOB didn’t really understand computers, the internet or, quite frankly, the 21st century.  Imagine if I listened to BOB (brother of blogger) and tried to get DOB on Facebook.  Neither DOB or I would have survived the attempt.

But I digress.  Back to me. I mean you.  I really mean you and me.

It is crazy how something as anti-feminist as parents walking their child down the aisle seems so quaint and wonderful now.  If only we could hold hands as you walked me down the aisle.  Yes, life has dulled some of my sharp edges and quieted my doctrinaire ways.  Because life, love and loss are complicated and our responses to them are idiosyncratic.

But what is simple is that I wish you were here to celebrate with us.

Really, come visit in my dreams and tell me about guilt in Heaven.  It is the least you could do after having left us almost 9 years ago.  (Did that rate on the Heavenly Guilt-o-Meter? Just asking.  No offense intended.)

Love,

Blogger

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Epic and Less-Epic

Saturday, POB (partner of blogger) and I had an appointment at a bridal salon.  We arrived fashionably late at the SoHo boutique.

We were greeted by a girl who looked too young to drink or smoke legally. She is our WDE, wedding dress expert.  I wondered, “Expert? Expert? Do you get a diploma in this?”  I started humming “Beauty School Dropout” (how else does someone become a WDE?) but stopped in a great show of restraint and good manners.

We were ushered into this large room with a rack of sample WHITE and off WHITE dresses on either side.  WDE says in a half question/half statement, “There are two brides?”  Yes, I said, motioning to POB and me.  She looked surprised momentarily, but recovered surprisingly gracefully.  Nevertheless, I immediately started rethinking my haircut next week.

She offered water and wine.  I asked for red wine.  Pause.  Now she had the upper hand — what kind of idiot asks for red wine in a room with white dresses?  Ooooops.

The dresses looked so, so, so, soooooo bridal.  I know, I know, what did I expect?  But, but, but, after 12 years and a child, I just didn’t see us, in this room, with a WDE of the tender age of 23 (I asked; ok, she is marginally beyond the legal drinking and smoking threshold).

We decided to take turns trying on the same sample dresses (some were a little worn out and in need of a good cleaning or retirement).  POB put on a dress that was spectacular.  I tried it on and we all scrunched our noses.  POB tried on another dress — half tried it on, because she knew she hated it even while she was putting it on.  I, however, loved the dress.  And so it went.

We settled on a different dress for each of us (so no match-y-match-y ookiness), but we wanted to put a hold on them until January.

Why? Because we had appointments at Kleinfeld’s, the wedding mecca for Jews.  We thought we should experience this rite of passage even for our non-traditional wedding.  At Kleinfeld’s, each bride is limited to five guests at the appointment.  Really?  I was surprised.  I was told that I need to watch, Say Yes to the Dress,” and then I would understand the limit.  But I didn’t understand why I would bring anyone.  Another reason to go — I obviously need a lesson in my heritage.

WDE, who is young but still good at the hard sell, convinced us that we were losing the opportunity to have these limited edition dresses and we might not be able to purchase them in January and then there wouldn’t be enough time, and then what would we wear . . . (I was thinking, we would wear a dress of all the money we saved by NOT finding dresses) . . . .

Then I had a vision of one month before the wedding, my combing through the Lands End catalog for dresses, with free shipping and complimentary flannel nightgowns.  I started to feel a little sweaty  — panic or hot flash?  Oh, damn this wedding craziness!!!

POB and I looked at each other.  This WAS in fact the least we could to find dresses.  And we always do the very least we can do.

I handed my credit card to our young, yet sly WDE.  I emailed SOB (sister of blogger/bride) and my college friends (the Soeurs) — so, no turning back.  POB and I don’t have our mothers (on this earth) but we have our 10 sisters:  SOB, SOPOB (sister of POB) and the Soeurs. Now that I think of it, we would have just made the Kleinfeld’s limit, without a seat to spare.  Pheeeewwwww.

A night out on the town

POB (partner of blogger) and I went out to dinner with the parents of SOS’s (our son, source of sanity’s) betrothed.  As a couple, they are our MT (machertunim, a Yiddish term for the relationship between the parents of the married couple).  For the record, HMT (husband MT) finally went to WMT’s (wife MT’s) hairstylist, and he looks younger and fabulous (said with that sing-song falsetto).  Why didn’t he go sooner, you ask?  WMT wants to know, too.  But I digress. . . .

We met at an Indian restaurants in the west 20’s.  It used to be a club/late night lounge.  You can just tell by the layout, and by the incongruous clubby music playing ever so quietly in the large entryway and bar and lounge area.  In the restaurant, it was more traditional.  It was definitely a “fusion” of some sort.

It was an odd place.

The sommeliere brought out the bottle, tasted it first, then poured more in her glass and took a second swig (hey, she may need that extra swig just to get through the pomp and ceremony in front of us, the philistines).  The rest was more traditional — she poured more in the glass and proceeded to coat each glass and the decanter.  Then she poured for HMT to approve.  If, after all of that, HMT sent back the wine, she would have spit in the next bottle. I was tempted to test my theory, but the place was already a little disorienting.  Also, the sommeliere spoke heavily Japanese-accented English, in an otherwise heavily Indian-accented environment AND we were drinking Spanish wine.  No wonder my stomach felt like a UN general assembly meeting.

Anyway, it was fancy and expensive enough to have microscopic portions, so as POB and WMT talked, HMT and I kept grabbing at any extra morsel.  I leaned over at one point, and said, “you eatin’ that?” while pointing to something already on his fork. You understand why POB and I don’t go out much.

Before we ordered dinner WMT excused herself to the women’s room.  When she returned, she said, “[Blogger], there is a comfy couch outside the restrooms that looks perfect for you!!” (She knows that, on the weekends, I will nap on her granite counter if that is my only opportunity for a little extra snoooooze time.)

POB visited the women’s room and upon her return, noted that a couple was chatting on the couch. 

MY couch?  The one that was going to host my pre-dessert power nap?  Whaaaaat?

I needed to go investigate.  Everyone at the table made me promise I wouldn’t ask them to stand so I could test out the couch.  We made eye contact and smiled.  They didn’t look so happy or so into each other.  And she was sitting uncomfortably (maybe it was the hue of her red dress?) as the man (who could have been better dressed) slouched somewhat dejectedly.  Still he has time to check his smartphone incessantly.

Since we are all in our forties, even HMT could not last without a trip to the men’s room before dessert.  Upon his return, he confirmed that they were still there.  We ordered and ate two courses and the wine ceremony and they were still there!!

HMT recognized the couple as having been seated when we arrived.  The young man gave the young woman a necklace.   I confirmed that the woman definitely wasn’t wearing a necklace around her plunging neckline.  Were they breaking up?  Did the necklace just not fit?  Why were they hanging out in the lounge in front of the restrooms in an Indian restaurant in the West 20s, after they have already paid and their table was re-set?

So many questions and I needed answers; too many people (POB, HMT and WMT)  restraining me as they escorted me out of the restaurant.

ODD (and I am not just talking about me).