Category Archives: Holidays

Back to School — FINALLY

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So we have been torturing our son with our rendition of the parents’ back-to-school jig made famous on last year’s Staples commercials.  Our son is alternatively amused, and a bit peeved, at his parents’ dancing around like we’ve won the lottery.

After much lobbying, we agreed reluctantly to buy our son Lunchables for the first day of school only.  Lunchables is some chemical and saline combo-fest that passes as food per the FDA.  There is a special place in hell for parents who feed Lunchables to their kids.  Of course, the mushballs that we are, we also ate dinner out and let our son have french fries since it was — after all — the night before school FINALLY starts.  He did have a grass-fed beef burger at least.  POB (partner of blogger) swears we are just going to put a salt lick in our son’s room to satisfy his salt lust; we are not sure how to deal with the grease lust.  Seriously, he would give us up in a New York minute if someone guaranteed him french fries every day for life.  No contest.

It is the middle of September and he is just now going back to school.  Now I understand it when my parents used to say — sarcastically, I assure you — that they paid private school tuition so we could have more vacation than at public school.  In 1971, when SOB (sister of blogger) started at a private school in Manhattan (where nearly all the students were Jewish), my dad had to go to school and speak to the headmaster to make sure that a teacher had to postpone a test scheduled for Yom Kippur.  Even in 1981 at our little private school, Jewish students were excused from class on the High Holy Days but school was open.  Now, schools in Manhattan give off the major Jewish holidays, as a matter of course.  A lot has happened in 30 years.  Maybe next year, the kids will have off for the festival end of Ramadan.  It is only fair.

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Our day today

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POB (partner of blogger) had a great idea this morning — go to Governor’s Island for a picnic.  Governor’s Island is a decommissioned military base island in New York harbor (right next to Ellis Island and Liberty Island) that has been turned into a park and fairground.  It is an easy subway ride followed by a ferry ride.  Ok, “easy” refers only to the directness of the route.  When on the subway or in line for the ferry, a person is subject to the sea of surrounding humanity and their insipid conversations.  (For the record, our (i.e., this blogger community) conversations are never insipid — too revealing? Maybe. But insipid? Never.)

First, there was a more-unsteady-than-elderly lady for whom POB gave up her seat.  (I was already standing.) POB asked if she wanted a seat and the woman turned to her friend and said, in a cartoonishly nasal voice, “Oh, see!! A seat opened up!!”  Poof, like, magic.  Really?  No, because a well-mannered person got up (in contradistinction to the mopes and slouches around us).  Her friend started to talk about food processing in a loud, screeching voice.

What the woman said was important and true — that if you saw how fast food is made, you would never eat it again and that most processing is bad for humans in both nutrition and the environment — but did we need to hear it in outrageous volume with a holier-than-thou tone at 11am on a holiday weekend?  And, just across the aisle, a scary-looking, tattooed dad with a beer gut (who was playing with his child by pretending to strangle him — really) was giving the child huge helpings of Pepperidge Farm flavor-blasted gold fish (hmmm, salt, chemically reconstructed “cheese” and polysorbate 60, anyone?).  Our son loves them, too, and we know we are going to a special place in hell for parents who let their kids eat this junk.  None of the kale or broccoli or grass-fed beef that our son eats will save us from this punishment.

And why DO men need to sit so wide that they take up nearly two seats?  I note that the smaller the shoe size of the man, the wider he sits.  Is this some psychological melodrama playing out?

Fast-forward to the line waiting to get back on the ferry to Manhattan.  A group of women and one man was behind us.  The man, who was overweight, and a bitchy effete garden gnome, was commenting to women passersby, “hey, do you think you could have tighter clothing?” or “do you think you could be any fatter?”  All I wanted to say to him was, “come out of the closet and stop being bitter with baggage”.  But I didn’t.  I could take him down in a minute.  The women, however, would lay me out.  One of the women had a son who was going to grow up to be the bully of his neighborhood.  He dropped a juice carton on the street and someone picked it up and handed it to her and said, “I think your child dropped this.”  I thought it was an elegant way to force the woman to deal with the litter.  She got all huffy, with heavy hip and neck action, saying to her friends, “the baby drops this and he gives it to me?” Ok, who else?  She is his mother for G-d’s sakes.  And the baby?  BABY?  Try 6 years-old, going on 12.  And mean.

Too much humanity.  I wanted to take a private water taxi followed by a cab.  I couldn’t handle any more.  But we did continue on the public transportation route.  On the subway, three 20-somethings were talking and POB and I were transfixed by the car wrecks that were their conversations and their outfits.  One was falling out of her skimpy outfit and had used eyebrow pencil to highlight her auburn eyebrows into a Groucho Marx effect.  I think she thought I was admiring her instead of not being able to take my eyes off this mobile crashing unit, so when she got off, she shimmied at me and smiled.  I was sooooooo grossed out I could barely breathe.

I took to my bed for a nap.  Oh, I forgot, once you get to Governor’s Island, it is perfectly lovely.

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Pre-High Holy Days Mayhem

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So, because POB (partner of blogger) reminds me that in “good homes” the carpets and the furniture are cleaned annually, and the windows are cleaned twice, before Passover and before Rosh Ha-Shanah, we have been in a cleaning frenzy.  Also the mice episodes gave the cleaning rituals a bit more fevered pitch this year.  Also the bed bug scare in New York had us getting new mattresses, etc.   In short, we are doing what we can to raise the retail sales numbers nationally.  Now, that is patriotism.

Our housekeeper comes on Fridays.  Our housekeeper is a wonderful and robust woman in her 60s who comes from Poland and, as she says, “knows hard vork”.   But since she is in her 60s we try to get others to the hard vork.  In this case, POB and I wanted to lay the cleaned rug down in the dining room (we had already done the heavy lifting in the living room).  This endeavor also involved cutting the mat underneath so that the rug laid properly. 

Here are the many dramas that came into play:  Our housekeeper said, “[Blogger], you are educated; I know hard vork.  Step avay from the mat and I vill cut!”  Ok, POB and I were raised to respect our elders and never to let someone older do work we could do ourselves.  We are also the “employers”, adding another level.  Also, POB is strong like you-can’t-imagine strong. 

So we are all on the floor playing out our social, economic and cultural dynamics.  The window cleaner walks in (we had left the door open for him after the doorman announced him) and sees three woman on the floor with scissors and box cutters arguing over who is cutting the mat that goes under the rug.  He asks, “where do I start?”  Really?  Really?  Is this a usual scene for the window cleaner?

We all stop.  I agree to cede the fight to POB and our housekeeper in order to get the window cleaner guy started as long as I get to move the dining room table.  Pause.  I seeing nodding and I retreat.  A little victory of sorts.

Of course, I should have known that even though I was allowed to move the dining room table, everyone would have an opinion on its precise location.  POB was the most forceful in her opinions.  “A little to the right.”  “Closer to the windows.”  “No, too much.” 

“Are you listening??” 

NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I scream in my head, but all that comes out is “Yes, dear.” 

Back in my head, I am thinking you thought we should get our windows cleaned before a hurricane.  This is not like wearing good underwear in case you are taken to an emergency room.  The hurricane won’t treat us any better.  But then the hurricane passes us and POB is right — again.

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Blogcation Year 2, Day Whatever – Too Much Information

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So, on vacation, one can lose track of days, especially when one has drowned one’s blackberry (accidentally).

Our G-d daughter and her life partner came over for a couple of days.  We gave them the downstairs bedroom (with two full baths – go figure) and POB (partner of blogger), our son and I took the two bedrooms upstairs (with one bathroom to share).

As is often the case on vacation, everyone’s toiletries bags are open and strewn around the bathroom.   I was downstairs with our G-d daughter and her partner talking, and POB and our son were upstairs so he could get ready for bed.

Our G-d daughter’s partner overhears our son’s question to POB, “Mommy, what are Tampax?”  She repeats the question to us.  I jump up and ask, “[POB], do you need help?” “Ye-e-es” she responds in a way that says I am too tired to deal with this.

So, I run upstairs, my mind blank about the “Tampax” issue.  I get to the bathroom and say (because my son is a bit of a bird nerd), “You know how birds make nests when they are ready to lay eggs?  Well, imagine that we have nests inside us.  If we don’t produce an egg, then the nest has to leave our body and we use Tampax and other products to avoid the messiness that ensues from the nest disintegrating.”

He’s 8 years old

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 3 (or 4?) — The rain has gone

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The sun came out today — first as a faint orb in the gray sky and then in all its sunburning glory.  Now, all of us summer people can go back to our pools and the beach and not swarm the already overwhelmed (and wildly expensive) sea-side towns.

One thing I did learn was that when booking a house, one has to parse every single word of the ad.  For example if it says, “ocean view”, that could mean that one bathroom in the house has a slight view of the water.  In our case, there is some water on the horizon out of our second floor bedroom.  If the add says, “water view”, it could mean the pool or your neighbor’s pool.  Or for those really wanting to stretch (and break) the bounds of truth in advertising, water view can mean this:

A view of the Montauk water tower.  Yes, we have a lovely view of the water tower from almost every window.  But no matter.  We are close enough to the beach and we have a pool and the sun — hooray, the sun — is out today.  But really, the water tower?

The other excitement of the day concerned our rental car.  I got this huge, gas guzzling Mercedes.  Why?  The rental place had no Volvos (the safest family car) and no Mercedes had ever been recalled (and the rental place didn’t have just a family sedan) but it had more Toyotas than you might think possible in such a small rental place in a small (geographically speaking) city like Manhattan.  Toyotas — cars with brakes that don’t work; accelerators that have minds of their own?  Are you kidding me?  Nope. nope, nope.  No hybrids available either.  The place did have Chryslers and GMs but until ones come are assembled by non-disgruntled workers, I will take the car with the track record and pay through the nose for it.

The problem with the mammoth Mercedes is that I can’t tell my car from the other mammoth Mercedes (plural) in any parking lot out here.  Also, the air in tires needed rebalancing and the low beam light was weak, so I had to get it fixed.  As I rolled into the mechanic’s place with my mammoth car and asked about a light change and a rebalance of the air of my tires, there were enough smirks to go around that I figured, “this is going to be expensive.”  I know, I know.  It’s a rental car.  But having a blown left low beam can be dangerous as can unbalanced air pressure in the tires (I read that this “safe” care has a roll-over risk — awesome).

I hang out and talk to the guys while they are fixing it.  It takes a lot of unscrewing parts to get to the headlights.  Maybe easier in the assembly line, but not so much when trying to change a light bulb in the left low beam.  They keep teasing me about the cost.  And I tell them it is a rental car, to boot.  They look at me as if I am on drugs. I say, “I am not asking you to fix my cruise control or stereo system!  These are matters of safety for my family and others!”  One guy says he is impressed that I am not freaking out and calling my boyfriend.  If he only knew. We continue talking about life, what matters, and what Montauk is like when the summer people aren’t here, etc.  He is married (I tell him I am, too, which I am in spirit if not in paper) and I could tell he is flirting with me.  But it was a sweet flirting, in the way that someone appreciates that you are passing the time while he is at work and not talking on the phone while you wait for a “service person” to handle your problem.  He shows me pictures of old Montauk and it was a perfectly lovely way to pass an hour (plus he only charged me for 30 minutes).  And he did a great job and now I know that I have taken all precautions to be a safe driver and that lets me sleep at night.  (And, I am going to present the receipt to the car rental place.)

Anyway, all is good and I am slowing disengaging from my Blackberry.

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Long Island — Heaven on Earth? Or the Other Place?

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My son has visited his grandmother’s graves.  They are on Long Island.  Sometimes, as parents do when they have no answers to children’s questions about love and loss, we say, “Nana and Grandma are watching from Heaven.”   About two or more years ago, I had to tell our son that a family friend — family, really — had died and — well, er, um — gone to Heaven.  “Does that mean he is buried on Long Island?” our son asked.  I responded that while some people believe that Long Island is Heaven on Earth, we in Manhattan think of it as a place to keep and honor the bodies of our dead loved ones, but that Heaven was not a place on Earth and surely not on Long Island.

Fast-forward to this week of vacation in rainy Montauk. Yes, on Long Island.  Heaven on Earth to some (not us, especially in the rain). Today is Day 3 on the road to Utopia.

For a retreat for the rich and even-richer, my experiences in the Hamptons and Montauk today were particularly democratic.  All of us thought we would be around a pool or at the beach.  But the weather is the great equalizer.  We stood cheek by jowl and vied for tickets at the local movie house or a table at the local pizzeria.  You may be a titan of industry when you are in NYC, but here, HERE, in the RAIN, don’t even THINK of trying to take THAT table in the greasy pizzeria.  I did offer a chair to a woman with a particularly large number of diamonds on her finger because the weight of them seemed to make her list to the left in a most unbecoming way.  Tragic deformities of wealth.  Good thing we are not at such risk; we will have good posture.

Julianne Moore was browsing the Montauk bookstore with her husband and daughter.  Of course, her children’s books were on display.  Since she was a lead in the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” I wanted to kiss POB (partner of blogger) to show her that women of a certain age with children can still feel love and passion, even though she portrayed some of us as insipid, mousy individuals.  Ok, some relationships, gay or straight, are that way.  But, it would be great if a major motion picture about lesbians wasn’t a feel-good movie for straight people.  Am I ranting?  Ok, so I am ranting while staying on some people’s version of Heaven.  Is this the closest I will get to the Pearly Gates?  Oh, boy, am I in deep shit.

I also went to the gym in East Hampton, because the stress of staying in Heaven while it rains was getting to me.  A woman started to talk to me in the locker room.  Apparently, even in Heaven, I have “schmuck” written on my forehead and a magnet for random strangers.  She was telling me that she needed to work out, rather spontaneously, because she was upstairs at Citarella and some woman continually bumped into her in a rude manner and then blamed her.  Apparently, she thought I was staring at her bizarre work-out “costume” (ok, she was right).  I looked around for the Court of Judgment and listened for those trumpets, because since this is Long Island, and therefore, Heaven, there must be a divine court of justice.  Hmmm.  Must be on vacation until Labor Day.  Back just in time to render judgment on me for Rosh Ha-Shanah.  My timing is impeccable.

The other thing I realized is that Long Island cannot be Heaven because I recognized some business people who said they would see me in Hell, and given their business habits, I believed that they, at least, would be THERE.

Gosh, I would love a relaxing beach vacation.  Anyone know where I can find one?

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 2 — The Shopping Expedition

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We actually shopped on the first day out.  The King Kullen which is sooooo big (by NYC standards) that it could be its own Congressional voting district.  I have this image of someone being interviewed on CNN with the caption, “Representative [John Q. Public] [(D)/(R)] — King Kullen, NY”. But I digress, clearly.

POB (partner of blogger) determined that I should be in charge of stupid purchases, since she had the master list of all that we needed. How does one live up to that standard?  How many stupid purchases could there be in a supermarket.  Ok, let’s assume that I am not going to buy pet food for a non-existent pet.  Let’s assume that I am only looking for comestibles, as one would generally find in a supermarket.

Still, I was overwhelmed by the choices for stupid purchases:

Here is the cheesoid (the cheese equivalent of a factoid), complete with aerosol canister that is bad for the environment.

Then there is the life time supply of cheese balls (really? really), that contains no natural anything so it can survive any number of natural and unnatural disasters.

Then there is enough Reddi-Whip for dessert for the entire world.  (This is actually a red herring.  I have seen more in my sister’s fridge.)

In POB’s defense, I went in search of insane food stuffs (or quasi-food stuffs) to purchase.  Some were more gross than these, but I think the managers of the King Kullen thought I was taking pictures for the competition and I had to stop.

I was especially taken with the colors of frosting on the “home-made” cupcakes.  Those colors require lab scientists to intervene in the natural order and produce them.  So, I guess the quotes around “home made” are meant to tell us that these are home made only if you live in a lab.

So, what food stuff was my “stupid purchase”?  I am not telling.  All I know is that there is no expiration date on it.

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Blogcation Year 2, Day 1

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We are at the beach and it is raining.  Happily, POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) are readers and can relax doing indoor activities.  I can always nap and blog.

POB and I read the Times.  Predictably, the news of the world’s ills twists me in knots but it is harder to stay angry and frustrated when you see and hear the ocean and feel the cool breeze through the house on a rainy summer’s day.

Just one thing, does the Ground Zero Mosque make you think of the Holy Roman Empire?  (Hint: HRE was not holy, not Roman and not an empire.  GZM is neither at Ground Zero nor a mosque.)  DISCUSS.

So, this is all we have done today.  When the rain abated a little, SOPOBAB jumped into the pool until the rains came again.

And I am good with this.  Really.

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What to celebrate on this Fourth of July

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Fourth of July is a cool holiday because we celebrate ourselves.

I feel guilty about having a barbeque on Memorial Day weekend, because we rarely remember those who have given their lives for our freedom.

On Thanksgiving, we are supposed to be grateful for turkey even though I don’t know anyone who really likes that foul fowl.

And I always think we should work on Labor Day.

Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, etc., always about someone else.

Our birthdays are all about us but no one can ever take the day off (except union workers) without guilt.

The Fourth of July is a big ego fest.  It is about us — you and me.

So, indulge!

(Did I lose track of the meaning of this day off somewhere?  Hmmm.  I need to rad a little history, I guess.  Hmm.  TOMORROW.)

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A Night at the Museum

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Last Thursday, I had the honor and pleasure of attending a celebration of the Iranian/Persian New Year at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  As we walked into dinner in the magnificently lit Temple of Dendur, I was overwhelmed by the beauty, power and the antiquity of the objects in the room.

Of course, most of the night I was thinking that I looked and felt like sausage stuffed in taffeta. I have this great dress; it looks so beautiful on someone else. Unfortunately, I was wearing it. I wore the dress a year ago and, well, I learned that strapless doesn’t work on me. Let’s just say I have too much to expect a poor little dress to hold up.  Since last year’s event was my sister’s wedding, there are plenty of photos about which I will be embarrassed for decades to come.

I had straps sewn into the dress for this dinner to avoid flashing anyone and possibly forcing them to recoil in horror and into the shallow moat surrounding the Temple.  Still, a little too much cleavage. Next time, I will wear a nun’s habit.

I also couldn’t see because my black purse is small and I had to choose between my blackberry and my glasses.  My blackberry won.  Now, I can’t wait to go back to the Museum and read about the history and customs of the Persian New Year, without the kaleidoscope effect that happens when your vision is blurred and mascara is creeping into your eyes.

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