A New York moment

Posted on March 21, 2010 by 40andover

Ok, no one is going to believe this. But I think it is clear already that I attract the bizarre and inane like mosquitoes to carcasses. But POB (partner of blogger) is my witness. (And she agrees that I have a certain magnetism that I might want to have reversed.)

A woman is walking ahead of us on our street on this beautiful spring day. She is shouting into the phone. I look over because my attention is drawn to the noise. At that moment I notice:

that toilet paper is making a paper tail from her pants.

She feels something flying around at just about the same time and looks around as she is grabbing the toilet paper.

Our eyes meet for what seems an eternity. I think of Gilda Radnor doing a 1970s Roseanna Roseannadanna (Saturday Night Live) skit about Princess Lee Radzwill (Jackie O’s sister) with toilet stuck to her shoe. Except in this case, IT WASN’T STUCK TO HER SHOE!!

I am also shell-shocked.

She keeps yelling into the phone as she grabs at the toilet paper and her slightly horrified look dissipates.

Another New York moment.

The Acupuncturist

Posted on March 14, 2010 by 40andover

I go to a wonderful acupuncturist. She knows that I don’t necessarily believe in the power of my “chi” and that I am a western-centric client. But, I am open to ways to feel better and balance my body. That’s why my acupuncturist is terrific. She doesn’t try to change me. She works with me as I am. And I have mellowed over time. I now take vitamins, fish oils, have healthy foods in my office, etc.

When I leave my office for these appointments, I tell my assistant, “I am going to get pricked like a pin-cushion.” I keep my blackberry out during the sessions — a negotiated concession from my acupuncturist — and, in response to a flurry of anxious emails, I emailed to my colleague, “do you need me to pull out the needles and run back to the office?” I was perfectly willing to do so because I am a professional first and a pin-cushion second. And I knew my phrasing would make my colleague queasy and weak-in-the-knees (for which I get a slightly perverse kick). This colleague asked me once if I believed in the good effects of acupuncture and I responded, “Nah, but it can’t hurt — too much.”

I have gotten to know my acupuncturist some, and so I need to know about her life and if she is happy. So, I have to ask, “so, are you seeing anyone?” Her response: “I still haven’t found the right person.” The use of “person” means (i) she is being politically correct/sensitive to my being gay or (ii) she is intentionally obfuscating whether she is looking for a man or a woman. But, the vibe is definitely hetero. Still, I ask, “man or woman or gender irrelevant?” because I might know someone for a shitach (a match) and I want to get the gender right. And my gaydar has been wrong in the past.

And, once, years ago, I was talking to a “straight,” ultra-religious woman who started a conversation about finding a husband (for her). In the midst of the conversation, she said to me, “how hetero-centrist of you to think that I am only interested in men!” “But you are interested in men,” I said as I was thinking something is off because she knew I was gay. “To marry, yes,” she responded.

After about a two-second pause, I realized the implications of the statement and that it was time for me to run, run like the wind. And I did. All the way home to my beloved. I am my beloved’s and she is mine. There are no ooky parentheticals or provisos to that statement.

What did this last story have to do with my acupuncturist? Nothing, really. But where I end up is rarely related to where I started, at least when I am not being a lawyer.

Life – one week later

Posted on March 13, 2010 by 40andover

Yes, to answer one comment from an everyday reader, there were sufficiently crazy things that happened in this last week, but, in my pledge not to alienate family and friends who read this blog, I must hold back. Think of a big

CENSORED

where blogs about this last week ought to have been. Maybe I will write about going to the acupuncturist. Mañana.

So, we start again with today:

When we were kids, our dad used to take us on more-or-less yearly pilgrimages to Paragon Sports on 18th Street and Broadway to get outfitted for the Spring and warm weather sports (we also did an ancillary run in late June, just before camp, but it was epic in a different way). We all grew over the winter (why do kids grow over winter?) so the prior year’s gear didn’t fit anymore.

For me, this was our family’s official opening day of Spring. Passover was religious but this was visceral. The promise of warmer, longer days leading into endless summer. I still hold on to the fantasy even though I am 45 years-old and haven’t had a summer of play in 28 years. I bet my siblings don’t remember this, but I do. My father, in his hat that looked vaguely Russian, with a dress coat and wing-tipped shoes, in a sports mecca. In fact, I would bet money that my brother doesn’t remember these excursions because he can only remember that Dad dressed him in a Mets outfit at a Mets game (in 1969 when they were the champs). But you have to remember that my dad wore wing-tipped shoes on the weekends until the mid-80s, so the man did the best he could.

In truth, since my siblings were 3 and 4 years older than me, these outings probably lasted until I was in 8th grade, after which it was impossibly embarrassing to shop with my dad. Maybe in my mind’s eye, these trips loom larger than they really did, although I associate Paragon with Dad. Also, in the 1970s, to schlep from the upper east side to 18th Street and Broadway with kids in tow was not for the faint-of-heart because Union Square was a needle park and there were many unsavory characters all around. And in these 28 years, that area transformed, so it is not like going parent-and-child into a combat zone.

Maybe today it felt like a Family Event because my son and I made the trek to Paragon, this time from the Upper West Side. My son wanted to stay home because it was raining cats-and-dogs (which is one of the stupidest expressions ever) and the wind was howling. No way we are staying in. We are going on a pilgrimage, young man. You have outgrown all of the sports gear you have. And, now that you are interested in football, hockey, baseball and basketball, we are going to get you the right stuff. Yes, sir. You may have two moms, AND you are going to have the right sports gear. Even if you NEVER use it.

My son is more of an intellectual sports fan. He likes facts and information and he likes to watch others play. So, this trip was a little, eensy, bit more about me than him. Never mind, one of the joys of parenting is that you can thrust your desires upon them and then pay for the years of resulting, required therapy.

We get to Paragon, which has gotten bigger over the years, but it essentially the same store (ok, I have been back over the years, but it is amazing how much the same it is). A young man, Vladimir, helped us get the right size baseball mitt (I got one, too), basketball, soccer ball and football. Also a solid, well-made baseball and an air pump. I inquired about oil for the glove and how long he needs to sleep with the ball in the glove under his pillow to mold the mitt. My son was browsing the sports jerseys for his favorite teams. Ok, this really was all about me.

I did not get him hockey gear because there is no way he is playing that insane sport. Oh, and, football, you ask? Only two-hand touch, thank-you-very-much. I did not bring him into this world to watch him go out on a stretcher.

I wanted to play with everything once we got home (even if doing so violated the house rules I set). He wanted to play Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the computer. Ah the picture becomes even clearer, you think.

At one point, I worried that I bought all of this gear and didn’t get my son a “cup”. Then I realized that I am the only one who will be playing with this equipment and I need different protective gear, including some for my ego, my heart and my hopes of playing ball with my son.

Look away

Posted on February 21, 2010 by 40andover

I have been pretty good about a new gym regimen since I started my new job. (My 2010 horoscope said that I should keep up an exercise schedule, and that is as good a reason as any.)

Since the global economic melt-down, I have taken to drinking wine. One glass goes straight to my inner thighs. No joke. I feel it the next day. So, I need to work out just to maintain the usual mid-40s spread.

Since going to the gym, I have been feeling much better about myself and my degeneration into older age (in our family we call it “decrepitude” because we are — er — so gentle). And I have noticed that, in the afternoons on the weekends, men have been looking twice at me at the gym (and not because I have stains on my t-shirts or my outfits are disastrous). Most people would feel good about that. But I have to tell you who is looking.

Imagine we are in the early 1980s when the Olivia Newton-John exercise outfits were popular. Imagine your relatives who were moving down to Florida around that time. Remember how they couldn’t pronounce “condominium” and kept saying “condominian” (which now sounds like a group of ten prophylactic devices)? Remember the men who wore short-shorts with dark shoes and dark socks, dyed their hair and uber-cool sunglasses? You know, the ones who drove Cadillac El Dorados.

Imagine now it is 2010, and these men have aged 30 years and wear white free spirits and white socks and they dye their hair an odd shade of red. Apparently, mid-afternoon on the weekends, the older set comes to the gym. The upside is that they wipe down the machines and don’t do many reps. The bad news is that the men think I am old enough to be interested in them.

I wear bi-focals, but generally my eye sight is good. I am graying, but I have few wrinkles. I have a little extra thickness around the middle but I still have muscle tone in my arms and my breasts still hang comfortable above my waist. Also, I am a lesbian for Goodness sake. Ok, they don’t know that last fact.

I just wish I weren’t so attractive to the 85+ crowd. Maybe once, just once, a young, beautiful woman would give me a second glance that doesn’t telegraph, “oh, you really should have taken better care of yourself when you were young. . . .” Oh, well, that isn’t what I need. I need the old men to look at me and think, “she is way too young for me.”

So, my cousin just called and I told him about this blog entry. He lamented that only really older women check him out on the street. We were laughing/crying to each other and he mentioned that this could be a schtick for http://oldjewstellingjokes.com/. I checked out this site and there are videos of old Jews telling jokes.

The internet is worthwhile if only for bringing us this website and keeping the tradition available for the younger generations. Also, if there could be a registry for “I’m too young for octagenarians”, that would be awesome.

Subway Story

Posted on February 16, 2010 by 40andover

How do I know that a business man on the subway has a young daughter?

The man is well-dressed except for his hat. It has bear ears, nose and mouth and it ties under his chin. I love a guy who has a daddy’s little girl.

Family Weekend

Posted on February 15, 2010 by 40andover

This weekend was family weekend.

Last night, POB made a huge tenderloin which didn’t seem so aggressively carnivore-centric, until her vegetarian sister (SOPOB) called to say she and her son were coming. POB’s father (FOPOB) also came over, in part, because he liked the menu. (Not only can you not fool all the people all of the time, but you can’t please them either.)

And to round out the alphabet of “OB”-centric initials, sister of blogger (SOB), husband of SOB (HOSOB) and father of blogger (FOB) also came. HOSOB got a really short haircut and looked so adorable in that way that little boys do when they get their hair cut (except he is 54 or so, but still sooooooo adorable). And not the way an older man looks cute and helpless when he puts on a hat with ear flaps (you know, the “look” that cuts one’s IQ in half).

Since having a child, it makes me happy when those whom I love have home-cooked meals. Of course, POB has to do the actual cooking — I just plate everything and set the table, except when I don’t, and then POB is overworked and I don’t deserve her. But last night I wasn’t a slouch or sloth. (Of course, I think I deserve a merit badge for good behavior, but I digress.)

My nephew didn’t like dinner and was honest about in that way that kids can be. Everyone else was polite and HOSOB seemed to enjoy the carnivorous portion of the meal especially. FOB seemed to enjoy the wine. SOB seemed to enjoy leaving (she later reported having a really sound sleep — must have been vicarious dose of triptophan from all of the food HOSOB ate). FOPOB was non-committal. Our son and nephew enjoyed being together.

Today, another generation descended. A cousin from the Catskills who studied and lived in China for 5 years came for brunch, along with her half-Dutch, half-Israeli boyfriend who went to school in Switzerland and whom she met in Shang-hai. He is now in the States, in New England. It is too confusing to figure out which of the many pairings of culture shock he is currently experiencing. He is sweet and gentle notwithstanding his inherent Dutch directness and Israeli hubris.

Also along was a brother of this cousin who traveled the far distance from the Catskills to a suburban hamlet in Massachusetts. He introduced us to his girlfriend. This was big. His girlfriend was polite, sweet and quiet — i.e., not Jewish. Hey, non-Jews have tamed our family, to wit: my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. So, really, we are scared the non-Jews we love won’t marry into our family because we are so loud, and — hmmm, how shall we say — undiscriminating about our dinner/brunch table discussion topics.

So we were loud, especially my cousin (her boyfriend), and she didn’t seem unnerved by it, even when those cousins started talking about importance of sloping leaching fields in the separation of solid waste from non-solid waste. Septic tanks and the related issues of sanitation are not approved topics of conversation at my table (even though these were favorite topics of their father z”l who was a wonderful, if controlling, human). As I was trying to stop the story (we WERE eating), his sister piped in about the variations of “spicy stomach” she and her friends had in China. Ok, ok, ok. All of this after I lectured them (again) about the inappropriateness of pictures they put on Facebook.

My dear cousin (DCOB) — an elder of my generation — also joined us. He is such a gentle soul. He is very involved in eastern traditions, medicine and meditation. He also has a tremendous collection of American folk music. I know that you are thinking Asian monk living in the splendor of secluded monastery that has access to folk music and occasional WiFi. Think again. Think yin-yang. How yang? He is a criminal defense attorney living in a large apartment complex. DCOB’s wide ranging interests and openness to new and different things was evolutionary in our family. The next generations is more free to focus on their inner muses.

Still, after 3 hours, I called SOB, who prescribed M&M — meditation and medication.

Another gym story

Posted on February 12, 2010 by 40andover

Yesterday, after a long day being charming at a conference on how to survive a bad economy (I think “pray” was the most viable strategy), I went to a nearby branch of my gym to work away the blues. This branch is located in a very expensive and fancy hotel and shopping complex. It is definitely a “flagship” branch with all of the bells and whistles and expensive amenities.

One notable amenity is the modesty areas, where one can dress and undress in private. A premium in a city where every square foot costs a fortune. Yet, it did seem unnecessary in a place where only the beautiful, the buff and the European work out and parade around. What is naked hair drying about? Naked nose-blowing? Naked blackberrying? Ok, the truth is that if I receive a message on my blackberry, I want the sender to be fully clothed. I don’t need any other image clouding my brain and destroying cells. If someone were to email me that he or she was in the gym locker room (because, like bloggers, people will write just about anything in an email), I would stop reading and wait for about a half hour until I thought the person was dressed and then continue reading.

The worst? Naked blackberrying while standing in front of the mirror.

Me? I like just being regular weird and not doing any of that eccentric stuff.

Snow Day

Posted on February 9, 2010 by 40andover

It isn’t even snowing in NY yet and the public schools are shutting down for TOMORROW. My son doesn’t go to public school but his school is nevertheless following the Board of Education’s lead. Ok, why anyone would follow the Bd of Ed’s lead is beyond me. In fact, he is in private school precisely because the Bd of Ed has no business running schools.

Since parents who are urban dwellers don’t get snow days (the subway always works), tomorrow will be a problem for child care. POB (partner of blogger) and I have to figure this out. Actually, all I want to do is stay in my jammies and watch cartoons with our son and eat ice cream and laze around, until about 4pm and THEN hand him off to a sports coach to tire him out. Of course, we do have the trampoline that is now a fixture in his room until our downstairs neighbor complains. Luckily, the guy is a midlevel associate at a huge law firm that probably makes him work around the clock. Thank Goodness for modern-day, high-paying, low quality-of-life sweat shops.

The Slug in Winter

Posted on February 8, 2010 by 40andover

Our son has no interest in going outside in cold weather. He would much rather watch movies and read books. I don’t blame him, but POB (partner of blogger) and I get cabin fever. Also, reading and watching movies is great until our son starts bouncing off the walls from lack of activity. Boys need to run around. Think golden retriever. Lots of running, for running’s sake.

Last winter I bought one of those tiny exercise-trampolines — the kind that slides under our bed when not in use (and it is often not in use). Realizing that our son is as strong-willed as she is (genetic code cannot be denied), POB brought out the trampoline and made our son jump up and down as he told us stories and whatever else came to his head. POB and I took turns taking walks outside. It wasn’t exactly “family” time, but it was the best we were going to get on a frigid winter day. (I hope Groundhog Phil was wrong and we will have an early Spring.)

It reminded me about the commercial with the parents running the kids up and down hills and then putting them on treadmills just to get them tired out. Life imitates art or art imitates life.

We live in a crowded city

Posted on February 2, 2010 by 40andover

I went to the gym again tonight as part of my new mind-body balance regimen. Who am I kidding? Myself, of course. But let me dream for another day and then crash-land into Hershey milk chocolate nuggets, take-out food and acne. For two days, I have breathed calmly and deeply, in with nourishing oxygen, out with bad energy. It started out great, until I realized I was breathing car exhaust and then started hyperventilating, but I digress.

In my karmatically balanced state, I walked into the locker room, certain I would rise above the bloggable moment. Then I rationalized even a vegan sneaks a bacon rasher every now again. I had to entertain this juicy rationalization because I have to report the bloggable moment. I walked over to the toilet stalls to the left of the sinks. At the sinks were two women — strangers it appears — one, brushing her teeth (bravo on the oral hygiene), the other shaving her underarms (obviously ANYthing can be done in public nowadays).

Let’s reflect on that. Oh, and someone was eating a power bar of some sort not 5 feet away. I guess I should have mentioned that you shouldn’t read this while eating. My bad. All that carbon monoxide I was deep-breathing to cleanse my body. Hmmmm.

I happen to know where the chocolate nuggets are stashed. . . .

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Urban Life