Category Archives: Friends

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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Extreme Family

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On Sunday, just as we and our apartment were recovering from the New Year’s that was, we had two cousins (children of dear cousins Ricky z”l and Judy, and dear, if young, cousins in their own rights). FOB (father of blogger and their great uncle) joined and so it was a multi, collateral-generational event.

It was scheduled for 11am and then re-scheduled for 10:30am by one of my young cousins, so she could catch a train to get upstate for school.  She had lived in New York for a year but in short order we forgot that she is never, ever, ever on time.  If this fact was lost to save another, more necessary fact from slipping out of my memory banks, so be it.  [As a digression (of course), does anyone else fantasize about have one of those 8 GB memory cards inserted in your brain?  Did I just admit that this is the subject of my fantasies?  Ugh, my filter was gone years before I could blame age.]

I didn’t even bother to tell FOB of the earlier start time because, as I have discussed before, as a person gets older, a person arrives earlier and earlier at any event.   So I knew he would be on time, even early, for the rescheduled time.  And FOB did not let me down. I was a little worried that he would be so early as to eat dinner with us on Saturday night, but we aren’t at that stage yet.

POB (partner of blogger) got up early to get provisions.  She is a G-dsend and she reminds me of that daily (the memory thing again).

So while the rest of were all assembled at 10:30am (FOB even earlier and her younger brother exactly on time), my little cousin and her NEW boyfriend arrived at 11am.  We didn’t realize he was ACTUALLY coming — a little mix-up on that score — but we always buy enough lox, bagels and white fish salad.  And we have food on hand if a person is not Jewish — gastronomically or otherwise.

We endured her old boyfriend who was Dutch-Israeli (how did his parents get along long enough to procreate, you might ask, but I really, really can’t go there).  You might be having trouble imagining the effect of a Dutch and Israeli genetic mixture?  Rest easy, I have your answer:  You get someone who tells you his opinions framed as THE TRUTH (there is only one) in a smug and arrogant way.  Really, I am not joking.  But wait, it gets weirder, the old boyfriend works in the hospitality industry. Let’s pause on that point for a moment because you cannot make that stuff up.  There was something undeniably charming about him.  But I digress.  [Sigh] Yes, I digress AGAIN.

So, bottom line, we were prepared for anything. And quite curious.

Also, just some background on her (right) wing of the family.  They are somewhat religious so non-Jewish partners are problematic.

The boyfriend (now, probably, “ex” after meeting us) is not Jewish.  Never letting inappropriate conversation get in the way of a family gathering, my other young cousin reported that his grandparents on the OTHER side of the family have issues with their older brother’s relationship with an older non-Jewish woman who has two kids.  Pause.  I contemplate that both my siblings are happily married to non-Jews and that I, THE LESBIAN, am the only one with a Jewish partner.

Not wanting the new boyfriend to feel toooo bad about this xenophobic-is-it-good-for-the-Jews conversation, I offered helpfully that my cousin’s eggs are Jewish so the family should be ok with a Christian boyfriend (assuming that he wasn’t yet dying to run screaming out the door), but of course we will need some of his blood in order to make wine for Passover.

Did I really mention the blood for Passover wine?  Happily I can say, with little or no guile, that I honestly don’t remember.  Maybe I don’t want that memory chip after all.  [cheesy smile]

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Holding fast to the old and ringing in the new

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Over New Year’s, my worlds collided in the most spectacular way.

We hosted our group of friends who have rung in the New Year together (in various iterations) for the past 8 years.  Our god-daughter (at whose wedding I will officiate this year) joined us this year and made a DELICIOUS confection that made me wonder anew why she is a lawyer and not a baker.  So, our nuclear family was complete (except for her partner who was stuck in THE HEARTLAND).

So, it would seem that it couldn’t get better than this.  And you’re right.  Except people from those dear, sweet (and sometimes naughty) childhood summers also guest starred.

First, a day before New Year’s.  This person is a dear friend (her handle is Janet2) whom I never see and yet to whom I feel bound in this deep abiding way, so much so that if she showed up on my doorstep, penniless, I would take her in, without a question. Maybe because she and her three sisters (one of blessed memory) and my sister and I shared summers — among us all — for maybe 18 years. Maybe also because her father and my uncle served and were scarred in the War together and her parents (now her mother) have been a part of my extended family all my life.  Maybe it is just, that deep down, there is just a connection that doesn’t need to be explained.

So, my friend is now a really big-deal in the music industry (and if she isn’t, I don’t care, because she is to me) and under the guise of a “family that plays music together, stays together” sent us the hugest package I have ever seen, with two Wii guitars, microphone and drum set.  Now I know she thinks I am this really successful lawyer, but it was hell to find a storage space for all of this because we live in a lovely box in New York City — but a box, nevertheless.  (We don’t have a suburban den, Janet2.)  We will discuss this more in depth as the story progresses.  (We do have storage for it, thank G-d.)

Then, because there are only two degrees of separation among Jewish lesbians, a friend called to say that they were coming with one more person for New Year’s and that person knows me from Camp Wingate!!!  Another person from camp in two days?  The circles of life about which we sang around the Saturday night camp fire are now creeping me out.

Of course, I remember this person, who shows up at my door essentially 30 years later and who looks EXACTLY the same (except, sweetie, the gray roots were showing and only someone-who-know-you-when can tell you this).  Almost exactly, except that she wasn’t wearing the Gilligan-like hat that she wore every day one summer as she walked around making wry and far-too-insightful-for-a-ten-year-old comments about the life unfolding before her eyes.  It also turns out we both had strangely close, yet chaste, relationships with the same women.  But that will be for another blog entry.

So we rang in the New Year, with family and old friends and even older friends (I include the box of Wii stuff as a stand-in for Janet2).  But not before I shilled for HOSOB.  He is a painter and we are determined that his fame not be posthumous.  So, I had him prepare cards with his watercolor of SOPOBAB with an indricotherium (sp?) (from the Extreme(ly Ugly) Mammals show at the Natural History Museum) as a sample of what he could do for those of our party with children.  No studio pictures, please.  Instead, watercolors courtesy of HOSOB.  I really put on the hard sell.   I poured it on thick.  My house, my Tupperware party.  So, eat our delicious food (courtesy of POB) and drink our wine but listen to my shpiel.

Happily, we were all of an age where we struggle to stay awake until midnight and everyone wants to get home almost immediately afterward.   We had dear friends and their kids sleep over that night (who can find a sitter on New Year’s Eve?).  One of our friends is very technically adept so when the kids woke up at 7am, she got to work on setting up the Wii extravaganza courtesy of Janet2.  By noon, SOS was mastering the drums, our friends had a guitar each and I was on vocals.

What I didn’t know is that after the song (from the Beatles greatest hits), the Wii grades your performance.  I figured that, not wanting to alienate users, Wii might stop with “Don’t quit your day job.”  But no, my vocals were such that I got “human? If so, an abomination.” Don’t worry, Janet2, if you appear on my doorstep, I will take you in AND I will not sing to you because you don’t need to go even lower emotionally.  But since you seem happy now, I may send you a tape of my performance.  I am way worse than Bob Dylan or Elvis Costello, but their voices also suck.  And, I can do a mean impression of both especially Elvis Costello when he looks like he has to pee and is holding it in.

So, let’s sing together the old camp fire song, “make new friends, but the old, one is silver and the other’s gold.”  (http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/makenew.htm).  And those of our childhood are like priceless gems.

Pearl Wolfson, thanks is not enough.

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Being sick

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It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed.  This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.

At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window.  In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair.  (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)

POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs).  Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah.  (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.)  So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.

What could be bad?  Well I am glad you asked.

First, HOSOB is making the latkes.  That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook.  Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window.  This old-style, with schmaltz.  My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.

Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends.  That’s fine, we love other bird nerds.  Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr.  Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!”  He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying.  And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive.  Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation.  Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.

Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there.  HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”).  The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).

Fourth, I may be too sick to go.  And I love my family.  SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.

I’ll let you know what happens.  Now time for a nap.

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My son, the Prince

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This weekend, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I went to see dear friends who live outside the City.  The wife, M., is in the travel business so she knows how to spoil people with sumptuous accommodations.  The husband, C., is the sweetest man ever and, together they are generous with their hearts, their time and their money.   These are the kind of people that should have G-d’s grace shine upon them forever and always (not that I am a religious person or anything).

They have taken an especial liking to SOPOBAB and SOPOBAB adores them — simply adores them.

M. made sure his bedroom for the weekend was filled with presents, like Christmas morning in the movies.  Our room had a gigantic bed with matching pajamas in case we forgot ours, a gift basket and bottled water.  The bathroom was the size of most Manhattan apartments. So, this was SIX star accommodations and, because we were visiting our dear friends, it was a TEN-STAR experience.

I forgot to tell our friends that SOPOBAB said after the weekend that he slept in “luxurious comfort” (he is 8 year old and where do 8 year-olds get this vocabulary).

We kept saying, “they must think you’re royalty — a REAL prince!!”  He wondered after the weekend if he should tell them that he wasn’t really royalty, after all.  But then, he figured, there might not be as many presents or endless games of hide-and-go-seek and tag.  (G-d bless C. for running all over and watching cartoons.)  So, SOPOBAB thought he would keep his commoner status quiet.  Still, he felt a little sheepish about the ruse.

Yet, during the weekend, SOPOBAB got a little toooo into the groove of “ask and ye shall receive” when he asked that his burger be pan-fried, like in diners.  C. was braving the frigid temperatures to grill a delicious carnivorous fare.  (I was personally horrified, first, that my son would be so bold as to make that request and, second, that he would have a palate that desired pan-fried burgers, but I digress.)  I was a little concerned that C. might accede to his wishes and then we would have to send our son to boot camp to bring him back down to real life.

But G-d not only gave them wonderful hearts and souls, but “seychel” (Yiddish for “smarts” and the “ch” is a guttural German-like sound).  C. brought a pan outside and deposited the grilled hamburgers into it and then brought them into the dining room for our son.  SOPOBAB pronounced them the most delicious burgers he had ever eaten.  I had the biggest smile on my face.

A fabulous weekend getaway.  Except that our son now asks, “what if I am a real prince, only kidnapped by you like in a fairy tale?”  I think, “sweetie, most times, only us, your real mothers could love you,” but I keep that thought inside.  I merely said, “we treat you like a prince, so does it matter?”  “But, M. and C. treat me better!!”

I know he knows that that is all because they are not his parents and they can (and do) spoil him.  But, oy.  Boot camp here we come.

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A Great Party

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Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success.  It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.

One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private.  They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years.  I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me.  Crazy.

Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity.  Follow me on this one.  My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s.  (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry).  Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced.  (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.)  Blossom then married Aaron.  Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie.  The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah.  But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start.  POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”.  POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered.  I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter.  I love this family.

My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s.  Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game.  It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game.  Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.

Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera.  All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War.  They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle.  It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.

One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other.  He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight.  SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order.  Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.

SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed.  At about 3am, she got a page.  It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive.  She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.

Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding.  BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us.  I was so moved.  But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante.  But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.

My dad is such a sweet, and humble man.  When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words.  The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?”  Aaaaargh.  My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility.  Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.

We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave.  In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people.  The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again.   I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours.  Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving.  Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish.  I wish I had pictures of that.

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Dinner with Friends

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POB (partner of blogger) and I went out on Saturday night with two couples after about six months of juggling schedules.

One of the couples are the parents of our son’s best friend (BestFriendCouple, aka BFC) and the other couple are the parents of our son’s betrothed (FutureWifeCouple, aka FWC).  Forgive the identification in relation to children, but let’s be honest here, we are now someone’s Mom or Dad.  For at least half of our waking hours, our identities are in direct relation to our progeny. It is what it is.  Life never asks if you like what has happened, it just dares you to deal with it.

You may remember FWC from prior blog entries.  The dad is the Gentle Giant, until our kids get too serious and then I will start wearing body armor.  Until then, life is good.

POB and I decided to walk part of the way to dinner, along the Hudson River so we could feel the breeze should one arrive and give momentary relief to blazing hot and humid New York City.  As we walked along we saw the preparations for the next day’s triathlon in which people (of questionable mental acuity) run, bike and swim in forecasted 93 degree weather.  And the swim is in the Hudson River.  (By the way, if any skimmers in the Gulf are idle, we could use them to get the gross garbage and scum off the water’s surface.)  There were signs for the line-ups depending on your skill set:  Elite men under 35, Elite senior men, etc.  As we walked, I was looking for my category should I ever enter such a race:  “Women Far Too Decrepit For Middle Age” or “Those Desiring A Watery Demise“.

Apparently, I won’t even get a slot even as a “Hail, Mary” contestant.  I’m ok with it.  I will live longer for not swimming in the Hudson River, even with a wet suit.  There are beautiful bodies of water with a vast, healthy ecosystem (until we find out about them and then ruin them), there are bodies of water with foundering ecosystems (the Gulf, for example), there are dead bodies of water (one or more of the Great Lakes) and then there is killer water which will destroy and corrode anything that dares enter its watery slaughterhouse.  THAT, that is the Hudson River.  Hint:  it has a menacing brown color.

Because we are New Yorkers, we were hungry after our walk, EVEN AFTER discussing whether a life form in the Hudson River could mutate enough to survive nuclear holocaust and repopulate the world in a crazy-horror-flick-come-true scenario.  We NYers are a hearty people.

We arrive early at the restaurant so we can pretend that we are not middle-aged and possibly flirt with, and coo at, each other.  Since our son may read this one day and I already cannot afford the therapy that having two moms will cost, I will stop at this.

Lucky for our son, FWC arrived.  Wife of FWC (WFWC) looked very stylish (she is not yet middle-aged so it was ok).  I think she was wearing jeans that are like leggings.  On her, it worked.  But for everyone else, DO NOT TRY THAT AT HOME.  It could lead to unsightly consequences.  The Gentle Giant, also H of FWC (HFWC) is a terrific guy and bravely ordered an unpronounceable drink.  WFWC tried one that sounded like, if you didn’t like it, it could also be a spa treatment.  I was eying the cucumber slice garnish and thinking about the laugh wrinkles POB mentioned in our abortive attempt to flirt and coo.  Note to readership: “I love your laugh wrinkles” does not put one in any “mood” worth having.  Just saying.

Shortly thereafter, BFC arrive.  The husband (HBFC), who has been busy being “Dad” these last few months, gravitated to HFWC for manly, over-8 year-old talk.  Soon they were drinking beer.  Which is to say that it is primal that men, in the company of other men, eschew foofy drinks with unpronounceable names in favor of BEEHHHH (beer) or possibly even LAGGGEH (Lager).  The foofy drinks are just to show off one’s feminine side and gain points with your wife’s friends.  I still think that lesser men in the presence of four strong women would have stayed with the foofy drinks.   So, bravo to these two husbands (who are today shepherding their children to assorted events while the wives relax or go to the gym, G-d bless them).

So, WBFC and I haven’t had much time over this last year to chat.  And we sit opposite each other at the table.  We are both very opinionated and believe that everyone is entitled to hear our opinions — from the what-were-you-thinking-when-you-got-that-tattoo to why we are living the dreams of our unionizing forebears even though we are not unionized and work long hours, etc.  Our upbringings are as strikingly similar as our backgrounds are diverse.  Totally awesome.

Then we all had too much inspiration and meaningful conversation. It was time to DISH on those whom we know in common.  So, four women between 40 and 46 (old enough to know better), started sentences with “omigod, can you believe . . . . ?“ in loud voices.  SOOOOOOO MUCH fun.  The boys were probably talking about hunting because they kept ordering BEEEEHHHH or LAGGGEH.

Having had two glasses of wine — my upward limit — the rest is a blur of delicious food and vicious conversation.  So much fun that I even forgot (until writing this entry) that POB mentioned my wrinkles.

What wrinkles?

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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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And so it goes

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After four days of being free of all family and work obligations, and being totally concentrated on re-uning and having fun, life resumes. I am in better shape this week than most, having eschewed the Dartmouth “boot and rally” battle cry [Blogger’s translation: If you have drunk too much, just throw up (i.e., boot) and keep drinking and playing beer pong (i.e., rally)].

I think people are tired of hearing me talk about Dartmouth, and POB (partner of blogger) had heretofore only heard me mention it in passing and only in relation to my dear friends from there.  So, it is surprising to most (including me) that I would drone on about it.

Who said, “youth is wasted on the young”?  So true.  I wish I could go back to the College on the Hill now as a 46 year-old.  A community waiting to welcome me back after 25 years of ignoring it.  The Prodigal Daughter returned and was embraced as if no time had passed.  That is extraordinary and humbling.

But if I had to choose that dream world or my life before the weekend, Dartmouth (and the dream) loses by more than the football team used to lose to everyone (except, of course, Columbia).  I guess I am belatedly enjoying the gift given when I was far too young to enjoy it and make the most of it — four years devoted to making me a scholar/athlete/artist.  Of course, I wasted the time and am none of these things.

What this weekend did do was make me want to redouble my commitment to accessible college experiences for everyone, without the overhang of outrageous loans, etc.  Because having prosperous parents shouldn’t be the litmus test.

And so it goes.  Back to life and the mundane and magnificent.  And back to supporting my tax dollars for higher education.

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I am your mirror (just one more reunion story)

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We were at a sit-down, dressed-up dinner on the lawn in front of the library at the College.  We were sipping champagne in a beautiful setting and we were nostalgic and wistful and glossing over the really bad things that happened there.  It felt like we were in a film about British aristocracy before World War I.  My inner snob was momentarily overwhelming my otherwise egalitarian (and self-satisfied) character.

And, then . . .

And, then —

From stage left, I heard a loud booming voice breaking through my revelry, rising above the din and seemingly causing the sumptuous scenery to fall away: 

“[Blogger], I hear you have a partner!! How could I have been your roommate for a year in college and not have known you were gay? 

I think you’ll agree that I am pretty intuitive?!

So, I decided you didn’t know either.  Am I right?  I am right, aren’t I.  Yup, I knew it. 

You look great by the way.  You have a son.  Did you have it or did she or neither?” 

WHOA!!!!

And I thought my sexual orientation was just about me.  And I thought people didn’t ask about paternity and maternity in polite company.  Nah, this is reunion after all, and I am “radically” different than I was 25 years ago.

I adore this person.  And her comments were so authentically “her” that I just smiled, laughed and enjoyed the feeling of 25 years just melting away. 

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