Category Archives: Urban Life

Chanukah Party

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We had a family Chanukah party at our synagogue this afternoon.  The kids had activities; the parents were just hanging out with only coffee and tea as refreshments.  Someone suggested that we get a bottle of wine.  The rabbi overheard and went into the kitchen and brought out red and white wine and iced vodka.  The senior rabbi produced three kinds of single malt scotch.  We had only Dixie cups and were crowded around a card table with a paper table cloth with dreidels on it.  It was a little like smoking dope in the bathroom while the high school dance is going on downstairs.

Apparently, the wine was for a party later on tonight and the man in charge got into a distemper over our poaching some of the wine, and had a bitchy, chastising tone as he grabbed the wine and said, “I am going to talk to the rabbi about this!”  Ok, so the hall monitor is ratting us out to the principal who gave us the wine in the first place.  NOW, who was going to be in trouble??  Mister Officious-Avec-Attitude came over and said, “the rabbi will go out and buy more wine so HERE.”  Ok, now I was pissed.  I say, “the wine is awful anyway, so don’t have anyone buy more of this vinegar.”  Ok, we were going to have it out, the lesbian mom and the gay man c-list event coordinator.  In the nick of time, the senior rabbi came over wearing a velvet Menorah hat and asked if anyone liked the scotch.  That diffused the brewing cat fight.  Phew.

Ok, the kids never knew what was happening, except the parents were laughing a whole lot more than any Sukkot and Tu B’Shevat parties at the synagogue.

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Taxi cab stories

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Since I threw out my back, I have taken a lot of cabs (the subway just seemed too much to handle).

Cab drivers like to talk to me.  I must have “schmuck” written across my forehead.

One cab driver starts a conversation with, “you don’t look Christian.”  Bait me, why don’t you.  So, I say, “I am not”.  “You are Jew!!”  Oy, I think, this is going to be bad and all the world’s ills are being distilled in this one moment in a cab in holiday traffic.  I say nothing.  He says, “I know you are not Muslim.”  So I respond, “Maybe I am Sikh or Hindu.”  He laughs.  He is a Christian from Egypt.  He hates Muslims.  He says all the Muslim cab drivers are terrorists.  I knew that Christians had it hard in Egypt, but he went on a diatribe against Muslims for what seemed like an eternity.  Then he says, “I don’t believe in G-d anyway.  How do I pray to G-d who makes me short and fat?” I think to say, “and with enormous earlobes” but I think better of it.  I get out of the cab, exhausted from the hatred spewing out of this guy.

That evening, in another cab, the driver asks me, “have you done all your holiday shopping?”  I respond, “I don’t celebrate these holidays.”  He says, “you are Jew!” [Now this is becoming weird.]  He goes on without a response from me, “I am Muslim and I know you are not Muslim.” So I try my Sikh or Hindu line on this guy.  He laughs, too.  I ask him where he is from.  “Egypt.”  Ok, I don’t usually get Egyptian cab drivers and in this one day alone, I have an Egyptian Christian and now an Egyptian Muslim.  So I ask, “who do you think will succeed Hosni Mubarak?”  He answers, “Mubarak’s son will, but that is no democracy, that is a dynasty like Syria or Jordan.  I would vote for Boutros Boutros Gali, but he is a Christian and a Christian head of state would never be allowed in a Muslim country.”  I mention that no one ever thought that a black man would be president of the United States.  He responds, “I live in this country and I am glad to have a job, so I do not worry about politics.  But it would be great if Mr. Obama were President of Egypt!!”

An angry Christian and a grateful Muslim. Each the opposite of what the other envisions.

The next day I get into a cab and the radio is on.  Someone is talking about global warming.  “Miss, do you believe in this global warming?” I respond yes.  “My village will be flooded in 2050!  I must buy a boat!”  Ok, no one has EVER been cheerful about global warming.  Clearly, this guy is out of kilter, just like our ecosystem.  “Where are you from?”  “Bangladesh, Miss. Do you hear of it?” “Yes, of course, but I heard on CNN that the flooding [other than during rainy season and when India opens a large dam] in Bangladesh won’t be bad until 2100,” I say, trying to be helpful and upbeat [ok, now I am in his crazy world of surreality]. I think, wow, coastal cities in the US will be flooded.  Good thing we live on the fourth floor.  Now I am crazy enough to drive a cab.

Next week I take the subway, even if I have to crawl up and down the steps.

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New York Stories – – Funny and Scary

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Yesterday:

I hopped a cab on my way home from my dad’s house (he looks good).  Judging by his name, accent, etc., he is Pakistani.  He kept turning his head to talk and I kept saying, “what?”  (More likely, “whaaaattttt?”).  It turns out that I didn’t notice (when I got into the cab) there was a woman in the front passenger seat.  Very diminutive woman, in fact.  They seemed to be having a great time.  She answered a cell phone on speaker, so I could tell it was a middle-aged woman (same age as cab driver).  Was it his wife driving with him so they could spend “quality time” together?  Was it a girlfriend?  Hmmmmmm.

Postscript:  I have thought about this further in the context of my job.  Here’s a guy who brought his wife/girlfriend to work.  I, the client, was the interloper.  Imagine if I brought my partner to a deal closing and giggled throughout.  But, then again, the cabbie probably has overheard the craziest things as his passengers chatter on cell phones, so why should he think it improper.  All I can say is, eeww.  EEEEwwww. EEEEEEwwwwwww.

Today:

Diffusion of responsibility is alive and well, 40 years after the Kitty Genovese killing (for those of you born in the 70s and later, people looked on doing nothing as the victim was being killed, believing that others would call the police).

There was a fight on the subway platform this morning and most people kept going along their ways.  One man tried to break it up and, when he couldn’t, he called out to people to call the police.  I ran upstairs where I could get cell phone reception and made the call.

I had a 911 operator on the line, describing the scene of two men fighting on the platform — actually one guy fighting; the other avoiding the fight.  But there is no way to tell who instigated the altercation.

The 911 operator asked me to identify the races of the men.  “White and black,” I said, wondering in my head if I should have said, “African-American”.  But, then, should I have said, “Caucasian”?  All this going on while I am trying to report something.  Weird, where the mind goes.  And, really, did my political correctness score really matter?  No.

An MTA guard appeared and broke it up and one guy left and disappeared into a crowd.  I told the 911 operator that the incident was over and the matter seemed to be under control.

Other people seemed to think someone else would do something.  That was more frightening than the fight itself.

Postscript:  Tonight, I told my son that I had to call 911 because people couldn’t settle a dispute with “words” and I also told him that “words” can cause fights.  Not that he should be timid; just that he needs to understand the power of words, for example, to unite a country in hope, divide a country in despair or cause a fight in New York City on a subway platform.

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Just the G-d-Awful Flu

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Since Friday, I have been felled by the flu.  I don’t have mad sow flu, or H1N1, as it is supposedly called.

I am now recovering from the usual, seasonal, G-d-awful flu.  It happens.  The non-designer, non-pandemic one.  I even had a flu shot which I have to say probably made it less horrendous than it could have been.

My sister the doctor was concerned that I was dying of the plague because I didn’t blog for days.  Yes, I had to have been pretty hard hit not to blog, or, for that matter, to pay a shiva call to my friend whose mother’s funeral I attended last week (see prior blog entry).

The flu, once medicated, is the moral equivalent of a stubbed toe.  Yet, I longed to hear my mother say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would,” as she looked into my eyes and caressed my cheek in that way that mothers do that make you feel better just by having them there.

POB, partner of blogger, has been in the trenches with our son, getting him from place to place, while I lied in bed doing the least I could do.  Really, the least I could do.  And she is a trooper (who is now coughing, because I share too much).

I took a walk yesterday because I was becoming self-radicalized watching CNN and MSNBC in between naps over the last few days.  I was woozy and thought it would be a great idea to go to the gym.  (I need a personal attendant.)  I went to the gym and did nothing except watch the people who are able to go to the gym on a Monday at 3:30pm, while I scrubbed with Purell.  Luckily the medication dried me out so much that I neither blew my nose or coughed much.  One general observation:  the beautiful, the buff and the young don’t go to the gym in the afternoon.  The older, schleppier and grayer do.

I left the gym having not sweat or done anything to shore up my sagging self and walked south for no reason (ok, no sane reason).  I went into PC Richards and Sons and looked at Plasma TVs.  I thought maybe if I bought a big plasma TV, I could tell POB that it was the delirium that did it.  Even in my delirium I knew that was stupid, yet wishful, thinking.

Friends tried to make me feel better by emailing me stories of the weird and blog-worthy.   My old friend started out his email by writing: “My dear son didn’t really do anything wrong (that’s what every parent says).”  Followed by, wait for it . . .

“Gotcha!!!”

Walk-weary, I took to my bed and resumed doing the least I could do.

Dr. SOB (Sister of Blogger), are you satisfied that I am on the road to recovery?

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The Blogger in my midst

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So, after the funeral, I decide to work from home since most banks are closed (and my clients are banks).  I return the rental car and make the mistake of hearkening back — with no one else in room — to the earlier conversation about menopause that I had with the same rental car sales assistant.   She was not pleased.  She had mentioned earlier that she has mood swings.  I notice as I stand over the counter that she still hadn’t taken her vitamins.  I decided not to mention that the name of the GPS NeverLost is a misnomer.  And, I assume I am going to get a schmuck tax on top of the usual rental car costs.  I am fine with all of it because, well, it is what it is.

I go to grab lunch and there is a woman sitting opposite me at the communal table in Le Pain Quotidienne.  She looks at me as if she recognizes me.  We hold a gaze for an extra second. I know that I don’t know her so I assume that she asked me a question and is waiting for a response.  So, I say, “excuse me?” as if she said something.  She didn’t.  I apologize.  I go back to my various devices of connectivity.

She types furiously on her laptop.  I think she is a blogger.  I wanted to say, “Hi, I’m 40andoverblog.  Who are you?” But that would have sounded like the ookiest come-on line and that was not my intention.

I surreptitiously glance over at her from time to time, trying to see what she is typing.  She catches me a few times.  I have to leave now lest she think I have any interest other than uncovering a blogger and responds with interest or revulsion, neither of which I could handle.

I inhale my food and pay my bill.

I imagine that she is thinking, “wow, she reminds me of my mother”.  I catch a cab and take to my bed.

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Credit Card Companies Charge More and Are Meaner, to boot

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I was just on the phone FOR THE SECOND TIME questioning some stupid fee charged by a credit card company. The first time I had to endure a surly response from my customer service representative — customer service in the credit card industry being the definition of oxymoron. 

This time, I was greeted with serieuse attitude coming from the Mr. Customer Service who is not the mere definition of oxymoron but is the true personification of oxymoron.

Definitely a call center in the US because no one can fake that decidedly American accent. So, there’s a silver lining — the abusive person was a fellow American and his job was not outsourced. I don’t know if I would have remained as calm (a stretch) if an American job was lost so I could be berated in this manner.

The oxyMORON reminded me that the call was being recorded as was the call from my prior excellent customer service experience. I said that I was glad it was being recorded because I would love everyone and anyone to hear the tone and manner of the customer service representatives. We concluded our business and we ended the phone call. 

I did not break the phone, which I consider a tribute to my self control.

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Taking Candy from Your Baby

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So, here I am at 7:25pm on Thursday after Halloween and I am eating candy that my son gathered on his trick-or-treating extravaganza.  I am feeling guilty, but only a little.  My son is 7 years old so it isn’t exactly like taking candy from a baby (she writes defiantly).

Halloween was its usual hell-ish experience.  As I have written before, I don’t like the holiday because of, among other things, the ghoulish costumes and behaviors, and I didn’t know what to do with the carved pumpkin except put it in the refrigerator where one would normally put ripened or cut fruit.  Leave it out for the bugs and the vermin?  Now, that’s not a plan for an urban dweller who likes to keep both nature’s jungle and the urban jungle at bay.

A major issue was my son’s costume.  He did not want to dress up and wanted a general pass on the occasion (that’s my son!!).  POB (partner of blogger) had long ago convinced me that Halloween was important (as were scooters and other toys of potential death and dismemberment) because we should stress social inclusion (but not assimilation or group think).

As you can tell POB is the intellectual in the family because I am still trying to apply these principles to daily life and parenting.  Realizing that I was still struggling, she recently restated her position in words I can understand: having two moms will be tough enough when he is a teenager, do you want to add the deficit of Halloween?  Because we are two women, our son’s societal acceptance depends on celebrating Halloween.   Ok, I get that thinking. Sort of.  My straight parents were dismissive of some societal norms and my college friends thought I was a Soviet spy.  It was lovingly meant as weird and kooky, I think.

So, Halloween it is.  It took some cajoling for our son to agree to a costume: “why can’t I be ME?” he asked. As part of the inclusion model, I did not say that a transitive verb takes a subjective pronoun and the question is “why can’t I be I?” which, while non-sensical, is grammatically correct.  But I digress.

He loves the Natural History Museum which was founded by early 20th century President Teddy Roosevelt.  So, he decided that he would be Teddy Roosevelt in the age of the Rough Riders.  We got a rough rider hat, bandana, round spectacles and I taught him to say, “bully, bully!!” just like Roosevelt.  But it was a little — how shall I say — cerebral for a 7 year-old.

Mindful of inclusion model, I tried to get him to think more commercially — work with me on the inclusion part here — and I asked, wouldn’t you like to be a Power Ranger or an X-Man?  Nah, not so much.  Teddy Roosevelt it was.

My parents would have beamed with pride and joy if I wanted to dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt for Halloween.  One generation later, I am begging my son to be an X-Man.  There is a PhD thesis in here somewhere but not now.

Needless to say, in No-Where-istan, there is no Halloween.

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Deja Vu All Over Again

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I saw my sister in the gym tonight.  Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out.  I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled.  You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights).  I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister.  I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor).  I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment).  She doesn’t flinch.  She is not my sister.  My sister would have flinched.  I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow.  Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know.  I mention some things I had written in my blog.  She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries.  But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy.  I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body.  I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969.  The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien.  Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture.  Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck.  After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

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No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

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Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness.  According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender.   (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.) 

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders.  None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2.  Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender.  Not that it matters.  But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway.  I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion.  But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”. 

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand.  Not dispositive.  No discernible Adam’s apple.  Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand).  Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive. 

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess).  But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams.  And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

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A schlepic

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schlepic (n): [pron: SHLE-pic] a journey of epic proportions (from the Yiddish schlep).  A schlepic is often measured by length and grueling effort or by short distance with emotional energy expended. 

So, according to Vebster’s Dictionary of Yiddish phrases, a schlepic can be long but complicated and frustrating travel or a short subway ride full of bizarre behavior and emotional and psychic energy.  Or anywhere along the continuum between those two points.

I had a schlepic this morning:

Although I am feeling “waist creep” — that terrible feeling that you can’t suck in your stomach to close your pants from last year — I am still a small person who can fit easily in the small space between two large passengers on a subway car.

And yet, I didn’t have to fit easily between two people in the subway car.  I was at the end of the bench next to a hand rail, a comfortable distance away from the next passenger, who had a wide berth on the other side of him as well.  Then, a large man squeezes in next to me. 

The man on the other side of him still has room to move down a little, but insists on standing (er, sitting) his ground. So the force of gravity is heading my way on the right and there is a metal handrail on my left. 

I lean over to assess the situation and see if I can ask the man on the other side to move down.  As I lean forward, I realize that I have lost the back of the seat to my fellow traveller’s shoulders.  He never looks up and he takes out a text book to read (very convenient on the subway).  The man on the other side is looking down and is wearing ear phones, so my “excuse me, sir” falls on already noise-filled ears.  I try to reach over to tap the man, because if I get up, then textbook man will slide into my already diminished space.  Of course, I had to invade textbook man’s space to tap the other passenger.  That turned out to be an affront to his G-d-given right to comfort and self-determination on the subway.   I said, “I am just trying to get a little more room here,” and his response was a sigh of disgust, as if I am the interloper.  Ok, ok, ok, how does this work?  I am being squished out of my seat and I am the interloper and troublemaker?

Many mean thoughts raced through my head.  Then rage.  Then my stop came.  No resolution.  No catharsis. No release.  Just a jackass on a train who thinks he is right.  Ok, he represents a huge demographic in our country.  Probably over 60% of the population.

Emotions and anger continue to rage as I walk up the steps and out of the subway. 

It was short, but a schlepic nevertheless.

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