Category Archives: BEING DIFFERENT

The Test

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COB (colleague of blogger) is tired of my doom and gloom. (Really?  I thought it part of my magnetic personality. . . .)

And that, in and of itself, is shocking, since COB was discussing that the end of the world could occur on December 21, 2012.  Something about the Mayan calendar, Nostradamus and planetary alignments. Not that COB BELIEVES it, or anything.  But he was just putting it out there.

Probably to stack the odds before he dared me to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  ONE MONTH.

In case you didn’t read carefully enough, I was challenged to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  (COB is a poker player and probably has side bets on whether I will sink into despair in 5 minutes, 10 minutes or 2 weeks.)

I think it is funny that people are talking about the end of the world being in 21 months away, since Japan lies devastated (and its nuclear rods laid bare) by an earthquake and then tsunami, Libya is in civil war, Bahrain and Yemen are in chaos, the Ivory Coast is a bloodbath, we are in two wars, our deficit is out of control, the recession hasn’t ended for most Americans and we have a dysfunctional Congress, and on and on and on.  Sounds like the end of days now.

BUT, I digress, comme d’habitude.

Back to sweetness and light and kumbaya.   A dare is a dare and I have my pride.  So, forget the images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Forget images of breadlines during the Depression.  Forget the daily carnage for an acre or two of oil fields.  I am going to be happy, hopeful and cheery, Gosh darn it.

So, here is what I did today to make good on the dare:

  • When I was at the gym, I didn’t tell the stinky man that he was curling my nose hairs, as we took turns on the same machine.
  • I made sure that all elderly, infirm or pregnant people on the bus had seats.  (Yes, I know I am too pampered to hang with humanity, but the recession hasn’t ended.)
  • I swore to POB (partner of blogger) that I would take a time-out from the 24-hours news REcycle, where the object is to scare us more than to provide information.  (Note to self:  If Wolf Blitzer or Anderson Cooper is at the nuclear power plant in Japan, it can’t be releasing THAT much radiation.)
  • I kissed and hugged my son, as I asked G-d (and whomever else with power over these things) to protect him from the chaos.

Not bad for my first few hours of Blogger-High-On-Happiness.

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Elvis in the House

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A portly guy wearing an Elvis wig, over-sized sunglasses and that tragic white jumpsuit that was “signature Elvis” in his final years, walked through the lobby of my office building. Apparently responding to jeers from the security guards, he yelled, “it’s still a free country and I am doing my part!”

Now that struck me. Today, with the news from Japan getting worse, Saudi troops landing in Yemen and Bahrain and pleas for a no-fly zone over Libya, we need all the Super Heroes we can get. Real, imagined or dead. Maybe the Elvis impersonator was doing what he could do to feel in control and perhaps offer comfort as a super human personality (just ask other Elvis fans).

He wasn’t so crazy after all (maybe). I might buy a Star Trek: The Next Generation outfit. They always had the answers. Maybe Counselor Troi, although I would need more gym time as well as implants. But you get the point.

Elvis was in the house. And that was what we needed today.

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Charlie & Co.

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For the record, I have never seen Charlie Sheen in anything, at least to my recollection.  I have only seen clips of the recent media circus surrounding the disintegration of his connection with reality. 

Why are people following him on Twitter?  Why are people tuning in? 

No one interviews a homeless, psychotic person.  But the media is making money on ad revenues by showing Charlie talking about being a warlock and transversing the space-time continuum.  Why?  Because people tune in to feel better about themselves by watching a TV star dive head first into mental abyss.   Just my theory.

This reminds me of an old tale about a media circus surrounding a young girl’s fallinto an abandoned mine shaft or water well.  Everyone was so busy getting the news story and the hard-luck backstories of the townspeople, that no one bothered to save the little girl.

And if that is true, both Charlie and we need serious medical help.

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Sunday School

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My son has a Hebrew tutor on Sunday mornings.  He goes to our synagogue’s bi-monthly Saturday program, but that is more about culture and being part of an LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer) community.  (Please don’t ask me to explain bi-sexuality or queer-identification.  Those concepts arose after I settled down and became middle-aged.)

He has 4.5 years until his Bar Mitzvah and he needs to be able to read Hebrew.  I would also like him to understand modern Hebrew, as well, which is about as different from biblical Hebrew as English is from Russian.  And I think it would be more fun and interesting for him.  And that means he would squirm less in class and learn more.  You get the picture and, of course, as with many of my blog entries, it all must end in Kumbaya (this time sung in Hebrew).

Today, POB (partner of blogger) and I took turns going to the gym while our son had Hebrew class.  Since my gym is close to West Side Judaica, I took the opportunity to go in and see about kids’ books that have been translated into Hebrew (POB’s great idea for transitioning into modern-day Hebrew).  I was looking for books like Goodnight Moon or the Giving Tree that our son read when he was young.  He would know the story and be able to connect Hebrew words with its English counterpart and . . .  you get the idea.

I walk into West Side Judaica looking, as one might expect, as if I had just come from the gym, complete with ear buds attached to my iPod.   All Hassidic men in this store.  Can you say culture clash?

So, I ask Shloymi (that is really his name) if he had children’s books.

“Do I have children’s books?  Of course!! I have a beautiful section full of beautiful books!! For every child, I have a book.”

The melodic Yiddisha English is comforting to me because it reminds me of my grandparents.  I decided that his last comment wasn’t a dig at the sad nature of my child’s life since he was not being raised in an orthodox home.  I also decided that I would not be passive-aggressive and mention that we were two lesbians raising a Jewish boy.  I think that admirable restraint deserves an honorable mention and, voilá, here it is.

There were indeed many books.  All in English and all about G-d and wonderful Torah stories that will keep children trembling before G-d.  Greeaaaat.

I ask a younger man, Chaim, whether there were English books translated into Hebrew.

“Ach,” he said, “we have Curious George [really, is that what we export?], we have . . . .”

He pointed me in another direction. I found shelves of books.  The problem is that I don’t speak or read modern Hebrew.  So, how do I know what I am buying?  I look at the pictures.  Like any other illiterate.

Then I saw it!!  The distinct pea green color of the “Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein.  And there is the tree on the cover (the back cover because Hebrew is read left to right).  And then, I read, in the only thing that is English transliterated with Hebrew letters:

של סילברסטיין

(SHEL SILVERSTEIN!!)

Hooray!! Reform Judaism’s redemption in front of Chaim and Shloymi.

My son was not as excited as I about the book.  So I have begun reading it, in Hebrew. Why is this book so important to me?

I bought the book years ago, when our nanny, Leta Murray, died (may her memory be for a blessing).  She was my siblings’ and my nanny for 18 years (make no comment).  I read it and cried, because she was the tree and I was the taking child.  I know she knows that I loved her and still do.  So, I will teach my child, in Hebrew and in English, the importance of being the giving tree and not the taking child.  At least, not always.

מדור לדור

(from generation to generation)

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lucky

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I hopped a cab tonight because I really, really, couldn’t deal with the humanity that crowds the subway.  Well, actually, it was late enough that the trains wouldn’t be crowded, but still.  There was a chill in the air (frigid, perhaps) and I needed to get home.  A long-ish day.  Not like the “old days” but then again I am not in my 20s or 30s any more (barely still in my 40s).

The cab driver was talking on the phone.  His driving skills were basic:  if your foot is not on the gas (accelerating in a way that gave a born-and-bred Manhattanite motion sickness), then your foot must be on the brake.

Ok, so I needed him off the phone and off the gas pedal.  Hmmm.  I struck up a conversation.

“Where are you from?”

“Sudan.”

“What do you think of the elections?”

“I don’t think it will change much.  There will be fighting.”

“Are you from the north or the South?”

“North.  Independence won’t change anything.  People will fight each other now in the South.  Many different peoples.”

“Same problem in the North?”

“Government there is strong.  So, no fighting in north.”

I offered “brutal” as a more apt description.

He said, “way of life there, not here.”

I had no response to that simple statement of relief and admiration for this country.  I asked him what he thought about Egypt.

“Now the world knows what has been happening there.”

I was silent.  Maybe I should have known before.  I just didn’t think about it.

He offered up, “no one speaks to police.  too much bribes and danger.  not here, government is less corrupt.”

I had never thought of our government in terms of lesser corruption.  Not the superlatives we were raised to expect of our government.  But he meant it as a true compliment.

My world view, turned on an incline — “less corrupt” as a compliment and an ideal.

Another lesson in life from a stranger.

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Dragon Wimpering in the Year of the Rabbit

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My son keeps trying to teach me how to say Happy New Year in Mandarin, but he is soooooo frustrated with my horrible tones (for those of you who may not know, Chinese languages are tonal).  At the tender again of 8-1/2, he has been taking Chinese for a few years and apparently has really good tones.  But I wouldn’t know since I am obviously tone-illiterate.

As someone totally demoralized by the economic bloodbath of the last few years, I have taken to looking up any horoscope in any culture in a — yes, yes — futile attempt to divine (or control, let’s be honest) the future.

Since it is the Chinese New Year, I looked up Dragon in the Year of the Rabbit.  But that isn’t enough information.  I need to know my elements: am I wood or metal, earth or water or fire?  I always imagined my elements would be like 1920s-30s modern furniture — brushed steel or carved wood structure with fabrics in deep red accents or bright thin stripes.

But, you can’t simply pick what you think works for you.  That is determined at your time of birth.  Not so simple, now that Mom is gone.  But it wouldn’t have been so simple either if she were still alive. Mom gave birth in a classically 1960s way:  she was under anesthesia before the first labor pain and woke up for the hairdresser (surgery can play havoc on one’s slightly poofy, Jackie Kennedy look).

So, even when my mother was alive, she couldn’t say, “I stopped screaming at 3:00pm, so that’s how I know that’s when you were born.”  It would always have been, “Oh, darling, you were born sometime between when I was told to breathe deeply into the gas mask and when the hairdresser woke me for an in-hospital hair emergency procedure.”

So, it isn’t as easy as one might think to get tired, trite and vague prognostications.  I needed information from a third party reliable source.

I got out of bed where I was web-surfing and I started hunting around for my birth certificate.  I found only half of it.  The copy I have was the original copy given to my parents and, well, after 47 years, the part with the relevant information had disintegrated.

POB (partner of blogger) asked if she could help and I told her she would laugh at me if I told her what I was doing.  She didn’t laugh but she did roll her eyes.  The Big Eye Roll. The one that means “I had a crazy day and now you are going off the deep-end trying to find out the time of your birth so you can read some free, on-line horoscope and use that to guide your and — therefore my — life for the next 12 months?”

Ok, she had a point.  I cannot control the future.  I cannot divine whether my loved ones and I will be financially successful, or happy, or healthy or . . . or . . . .  But, crazy is as crazy does, because I keep trying.

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Politics, Politics

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Ok, the rant is building, building, building . . . here it comes!!

I liked the State of the Union address.  The President could have touted that he saved the car industry, that he kept the country from economic free-fall, that the US and Israel disrupted Iran’s nuclear capabilities, but he didn’t.  I think he should have because America needs to remember all that he has accomplished.   But that is because I am partisan.  I think he struck the right tone as willing to make principled compromises. Besides, he had one hour to say all things to all people.  Hey, now that’s a reasonable expectation.

The sign that he did a good job was that he was being pilloried by MSNBC, CNN and, even without watching it, FOX.

Oh, and, apropos of nothing, Speaker Boehner has a bad body colorist.

In the GOP retort, Paul Ryan said investment is a code-word for spending.  It is not.  There is no code. Investment is spending.  When I invest in real estate, stocks, etc., I am spending money, with an eye toward making a good return on my investment.

So, the three things that distinguish the GOP and the Democrats is who should do the spending, on what and how much.

I believe in spending on education and innovation.   I believe that these will provide a good return on the money invested.  The GOP believes that investment should be made by private enterprise.  How private enterprise would have developed the Internet and GPS or will develop high speed railways and clean energy without government grants is beyond me.  And should we abolish public education?  No, but the GOP wants to starve it so that the little money spent on it would be a waste.

We pay the least amount of taxes of the industrialized nations.  Before WWII, tax rates had some people paying 80%.  So everyone, chill out on taxes.  Remember the GOP spent willy-nilly (not a usual phrase for me) on two wars and kept it outside the budget so that the American people wouldn’t know.  So, now, NOW, we have to worry about taxing the top 2%?  Did you ask me?  If you did, I would tell you to keep my tax cut and buy some muzzles for the Tea Party legislators.  Now, that is a good investment.  Do you think it is really tea?  It is a dry weed-like substance.  We should try rolling that “tea” and seeing if smoking it give us delusions of intelligent impact on the national discourse, too.

Paul Ryan seems like a lovely guy but I was distracted by his perfect hair and a little freaked out by his Biblical references. And why is your part half way between the middle and one side?  Isn’t that radical?

Rep. Ryan said something like our regulations were fine, it was just the corporate and governmental evil-doers that stole our prosperity.  But, wait, that happened BEFORE President Obama was president.  Remember, that Decider guy?  Yeah, that one.  He was running the show.  And, wait for it . . . he is a Republican!!!  Omigod, how embarrassing, Paul.  Still, with that gaffe extraordinaire, your hair did not move.

And, will you stop about small government?  There are 300 million of us.  We need hordes just to pave roads and administer social security and Medicare, run the military and veterans benefits.  You don’t mean to scrimp on these things, do you Paul?  You even referred to the days of Lincoln as an example of small government.  Those crazy, high energy, innovative days when were no fair labor laws, children worked 14-hour days, no food or product safety laws and, oh, yes, no truth in advertising or disclosure by companies.  So we could die in the factory, die from rotten food or poisonous products or lose our life savings to corporate con men.  And, as a student of history, you know that our nation went through boom and bust cycles every decade because of the inability to regulate the unbridled greed of speculators and market makers.

Oh, yes, sign me up, Paul, for your vision of America.  Or I guess I could just go to a third world nation for the same experience.

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My mother’s words . . .

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“My poor baby, if I could have it for you, I would!”

My Mom would say this in a soothing voice whenever one of her children was sick, be it mind, spirit or body.  I say that now to my son whenever appropriate.  And I mean it, for all loving and nurturing, yet practical, goal oriented reasons.

My son had an upset stomach last night (no fever or other symptoms).  He started feeling sick at 9pm when he was already in bed, at around the same time the Jets were a lost cause and Janet2 was cleaning her kitchen floor (because the Patriots WERE OUT OF CONTENTION — these digressions are getting worse).

POB (partner of blogger) and I dutifully took turns in the night soothing him when he woke up and giving him Children’s Tums.  Because I was just recovering from a thrown-out back at around the same time our son got sick, POB did more turns initially.  Each time he woke up and I went in (and freaked him out by yowling in pain), I would rub his head and back and say Mom’s magic words that always comforted me.  He would eventually drift off for 45 minutes or so. And I would roll out of his bed and crawl to my room so as not to scream in pain and wake him.  Of course, that woke POB, so I probably did more harm than good despite all loving intentions.

3am rolls around and he is up and really, really feeling bad.  I go in, because I know POB has to get up in 2.5 hours and I can stretch my alarm until 8am if necessary.  He is really feeling bad and I say Mom’s magic words and, lo and behold, like a miracle swept in from the sea, he vomits all over me and then runs to the bathroom for the other end of the story, so to speak.

Nothing makes you feel more mom-like than having your child yawn in technicolor all over you.  I cleaned up and started to strip the bed and hose everything down.  (At this point, POB was up and ready to crank up the washer/dryer.)

Our son has a strong stomach for all that to have stayed in for six hours.

I couldn’t help thinking that if he were able to give it to me at 9pm, my system would have expelled everything in 5, maybe 10, minutes and we all would have been happier and all have gotten a good night’s sleep.  Instead, today, our wiped-out son stayed home, I was essentially in traction and POB had to be nursemaid to two babies at once.

Do you think Mom ever had the same thoughts about wanting to be sick instead of us, or am I just a diluted (and deluded) version of her?

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These Arrrrrrrrre the “Good Ol’ Days”

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Forgive me, Carly Simon, for the lack of harmony in the title.  I tried.

A camp friend tagged in an old photo on our camp’s website.  I was 8 years old.  About my son’s age.  It sent me time-traveling through memories.

I was a camper for 10 of the 11 summers, from 1971 to 1981.  Some of my earliest camp memories are Saturday night campfires where we sang and listened to stories under the night sky.  Only as I am older do I understand the importance of those campfires.  In my mind’s eye, we were sitting in the majesty of nature and day turned to night, singing together about friendship and emotions we were too young to understand (like those in Carly Simon’s Anticipation), and being part of a group as we each let our minds wander — sometimes to homesickness, sometimes just in the music, sometimes to how much we loved our friends sitting next to us.   Sugar-coating in part, but only in small part.

So, this morning I had to follow the link to see other pictures.  I found some crazy old pictures of people I hadn’t recalled in years.  And I got so excited that I shared the pictures with camp friends on FaceBook whom I thought could remember their names.  I wasn’t sure that my best friend for many of those years would remember so I didn’t send to her.  Now I think I will, it is less important that she remember the names, but it will evoke for her a (I hope, happy) time — in all its wonderment and angst — that we, those campers of the 1970s, think of as the “Good Ol’ Days”.  When we sang, “these arrrrrrree the good ol’ days”, we may not have known then what we know now:  they were indeed so.

Just a little aside about FaceBook:  Too many levels of contradictions and irony, among them, that it connects people who were friends in a time before fax machines and copiers (rexograph machines were it).  Another blog entry, perhaps.

I was looking at these photos and smiling.  Then my son switched off the cartoons and wanted to cuddle.  I paused my trip to the OLD good ol’ days to enjoy the here and now.   And I think, I am old enough to know — in real time, as this time with my son unfolds — that these moments, too, will be the Good Ol’ Days in short order.

I guess good ol’ days happen all the time.  We just have to remember to enjoy the moment and then, years later, relive the memory.

And stay right here
‘Cause these are the good old days

Everyone, click YouTube of Carly Simon from 1972 and sing along.

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The Differences

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There are obvious differences between males and females.  Some, while not subtle, don’t seem to correlate to the different anatomies.

(And, for the record, I believe there are two genders, but three types of people: man, woman and transitioning (either way).  I don’t understand why some people talk about six genders.  I am too old to be edgy, cool or thinking outside the box.  I live in a box.  It is on top of three other boxes in a building of boxes.   Many people in New York City live happily inside a box.  Some have outdoor space, so those people are LIVIN’ LARGE in and out of the box, baby.

But I digress.  AGAIN.)

Where am I going with this?  Today, I was subjected to a maddeningly persistent, non-anatomical, yet somehow hard-wired, difference.

Two men were talking about how a package needed to get from point A to point B but neither made any effort to undertake the details necessary to make that dream a reality.  Then they both look at me and I, startled, look at them and then turn around to see what’s happening behind me. Nothing.  Really?  Really?  Are you both really incapable of having your assistants help you with this, or G-d forbid, do it yourself?

I bet you stand in front of an open refrigerator and ask your wife where the carton of milk is (as in the one right in front of you).

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