One Less Among the Living

Posted on November 30, 2011 by 40andover

SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) just got back Monday night from Oregon where they were visiting HOSOB’s ill parents. HOSOB’s father, Mr. HOSOB, was in very bad shape. On Tuesday morning, SOB emailed that Mr. HOSOB died during the night.

My first thought was “Thank G-d HOSOB was there over the weekend.” Of course, it is one of those anecdotal truisms, that a person waits for the family to gather. A final blessing from the dying one to his/her loved ones.

My second thought was “Shiva?” HOSOB and Mr. and Mrs. HOSOB are not Jewish, although HOSOB has effectively converted by osmosis. Culturally, that is. HOSOB and Mr. HOSOB were, are, and remain, conscientious objectors when it comes to the existence of G-d. Still, SOB thought it was a fine idea for Blogger family to come over before HOSOB and SOB go back to Oregon for the cremation. POB (partner of blogger) and I went to their house tonight for, let’s say, a Christian Shiva. Or “chriva,” maybe.

So, what to bring to a chriva? Rugelach and a chocolate bobka, of course. You have to be born into the Jewish tribe to stomach an offering of gefilte fish. But I say, “what’s not to like about rugelach and bobka? Chocolate in cake-like creations. Something, any chriva-goer would enjoy.” Even, HOSOB shrugged and threw his head back, in that Jewish way, when he repeated my words in even mimicking a slightly high-pitched voice. So, maybe, he’s Jewish already.

DOB (Dad of blogger) also came. He brought Hebrew prayer books in case we really wanted to have a service. “What’s the big deal about a minyan? [Mr. HOSOB] wasn’t Jewish anyway, so we don’t need ten people to say Kaddish.”

STOP.

Logic? NONE.

But DOB loves HOSOB like a son and wants to comfort him in the only way DOB knows how. And it touched all of us. I bet there were ten yarmulkes in DOB’s pocket, if necessary.

We did the usual things that are done at shiva (even though this was a chriva). We got teary-eyed at times and laughed at other times. We toasted Mr. HOSOB’s life and his memory. We told stories and looked at pictures of SOB’s and HOSOB’s wedding, when Mr. HOSOB was still strong and his eyes twinkled with joy.

Eventually, POB and I had to go home and HOSOB, SOB and DOB had to go out for a bite.

DOB, at his age, usually goes to very sad shivas. This was an upbeat chriva (although all of us are heartbroken for HOSOB). So, he was probably very pleased with his first chriva experience. Which misses the point, in that way that old people do, but every death makes us grateful for each elder that abides among us.

To my dearest HOSOB, may your father rest in peace and his memory be a blessing for us all. We will always remember him.

~ Blogger

It absolutely gets better

Posted on November 23, 2011 by 40andover

As a girl (in the 1960s and 1970s), I was fearless, self-confident and wholly comfortable with my body. That is, until I became a teenager. Then, as quickly as a flip of a switch (or so it seemed), everything changed.

Aside from the raging hormones that could have alone turned me into an alien, I had unfamiliar feelings and longings. And I didn’t fit neatly into the role of a 14 year-old girl who had to wear skirts (dress code) to school. But, generally, I liked the way I looked. And I liked the way other girls looked, too.

Except, I was supposed to be looking at boys. Once I realized my “mistake”, I knew “fitting in” was something I would have to study, like any other subject in school. And I figured it would be hard, like Biochemistry (yes, I was precocious at 14), but I was smart and a good student. So, I thought, “I could do this”.

It was harder than Biochemistry and you couldn’t learn it from a book. My high school girl friends were “into boys” in such a natural, innate way. I withdrew into myself because I knew that this difference was too basic and I couldn’t fake it. I wouldn’t make close friendships because I had this secret and this unease about where friendships ended and romance could begin. I needed to keep people at bay. Invisibility was my goal when it came to talking about boys, what you did with boys, make-up, etc. Just blend in.

All through high school on Saturday nights, I used to take long walks around the East Side so my parents didn’t know that I was friendless or weary of feeling like the outsider. Only years later, did I learn that someone else was doing the same thing because she had the same issues, except her route was different enough so that we never bumped into one another. We would have recognized each other because we knew each other from camp and Hebrew School.

Inside, I was confused and sad and I knew, just knew, that my troubles were my fault. How could I fix something that I couldn’t even talk about? I medicated with food and alcohol. Brilliant. I added significant weight gain to my problems. And nothing makes teenage life worse than being fat. Now I was a liability to be around if you wanted to talk up cute boys. I was less than background; I was avoided.

I remained heavy through my college years. I was still struggling with wanting to be straight and not wanting to deal with this horrid, scary secret. On campus, a right-wing newspaper printed the names of the members of the GSSG (Gay Students Support Group). I was secretly grateful that I was too scared to join. I remained anonymous but I saw the effects of being “outed” on some of my friends. What happened to them confirmed my every nightmare. “Out” meant parental disapproval (and worse), no chance of having children and discrimination. I wanted my parents to be proud and I wanted a family. But I also wanted love. What did I do to deserve this fate? I had to have done something so unspeakably wrong to be exiled to a long and lonely road.

But sometimes the desire to feel whole can make a person go to crazy extents. During college, I kept trying to put myself in situations where I might meet lesbians but only at a distance. Two girls giggling in a bathroom piqued my interest, but I stayed in the background. Invisible. My comings and goings seemed mysterious enough so that my friends assumed that I was a Soviet spy meeting my handler. No joke. They still tease me to this day.

When I was graduated in 1985, I resolved to live a double life – try to marry a man and have an emotional (or romantic?) relationship with a woman. I had a hard time keeping up with the lies about why I was a no-show with my college friends or why I spent so much time with a particular woman when my mom would ask. I was a handful of shards of glass, each reflecting a portion of me, but not adding up to the whole.

I joined a gym to relieve some of the stress of my life and because I simply got sick and tired of literally wearing the weight of my troubles. I joined a gym to stop the “you would be so much more attractive if you lost some weight”. I really channeled my anger and fears into exercise. I was angry at G-d for making me gay and I was fearful of what would happen if I acted on those feelings. Maybe you can imagine how sweating buckets can calm you down and make you so tired that you needed to adjourn those quandaries until the next day. And, the next day, and so on. I used work-outs at the gym to avoid my issues. The upside was that I was really getting into good shape.

When I got thin, the family’s mantra “you are so thin and pretty now, I am sure the boys are knocking down your door!” returned. In truth, I tried boys. There was one lovely man I came close to marrying. But he sensed the issues that lay right under the surface and called me on them. “Do you need to sow some wild oats or should we just not have female housekeepers?” And then, “should I wait?” “No,” was my anguished answer. (“If only you were female,” I thought.) G-d bless him and his family forever. (He has a lovely wife and two adult children now.)

In New York City in the 1980s, there were still no positive images of lesbians, let alone images of feminine lesbians. What was I thinking throwing away a solid relationship with a wonderful man? But, he and I both deserved to find our heart’s desires and soul mates. At least he did; I couldn’t see how I was going to meet someone. I didn’t want to be with a butch woman; I was a woman who wanted to be with a feminine woman. They were invisible (unless they were on the arms of butch women). I was looking for a hypothetical feminine, pretty, Jewish (not essential), well-educated, funny and slightly neurotic lesbian. Whoa, tall order. I figured I would be alone for the rest of my life. If it sounds sad, you can be sure that this is an understatement of how I felt.

Somewhere, on the other side of town, was a woman in a relationship who was wondering if she would ever meet her soul mate, her heart’s desire. We would have recognized each other if we met because we knew each other from camp and Hebrew School.

If I was going to leave a relationship with a wonderful man because of this “girl thing”, then it was high time I started gluing the shards of my life together. Even though my father’s “I would welcome him as a son-in-law” echoed in my head and threatened to push out my brains through my ears, I tried to be open and honest with my family, my friends and, yes, me. And that required coming out.

My told my friend NYCFOB (dear NYC friend of blogger) in a cab, “you know my boyfriend John? Her name is [girl’s name].” I could see her brain working; a lot now made sense to her. “It changes nothing between us,” she said simply. She gave me a gift of a lifetime – in those few words, she said to me: “I am your friend even if you lied to me because I get that you thought it was necessary. And I don’t care about the gay thing.” Then, “who else knows?” She needed to know whom she could call and with whom she could shriek about some serious scoop. I still think she doesn’t know that we know that she has the biggest heart and a wellspring of love and acceptance tucked beneath a New Yorker’s veneer.

As for my parents, let’s just say that their rejection was hurtful and ugly, although it had a happy ending. Imagine a nice Jewish girl whose grandparents were the pre-World War II remnant of Russian Jewry, and parents who were poor children of immigrants of the Depression Era. That means I was raised to need my parents’ approval on a daily basis. Imagine that nice Jewish girl being cast out. The gym was my haven. I could sweat and lift weights and expel some of the anger and hurt I felt. As I processed all the changes and charted a rough course for my life, I started not to want to be invisible or ignored anymore. I had arrived – 115 pounds, toned body, good looks. I was ready to fit in and conquer all social settings – gay or straight.

So, I joined a hip and groovy gym. It is a rule of life that if your gym is hip and groovy, you will work out in a sea of tall and beautiful women in that blond, willowy way with perfect gym outfits. I wasn’t ready to be “out” because I still preferred ambiguity. Secretly, I wanted cute boys to talk to me as some sort of vindication of my sexual appeal – that men might want me even if I wanted women.

The muscled, handsome straight (and hell, even gay) guys talked to them and not to me. Even the trainers didn’t pay attention to me. I was still invisible. I know it doesn’t make sense, but nothing relating to body image, sexuality, and desire has anything to do with logic. It was probably because I was too scared that if I came out, there was no going back.

Life got a lot better over the years. I realized that you have to be a little out in order for people to find you. Family hurts healed (with my mother’s wanting to ride on our synagogue’s Gay Pride float and my father’s making a huge stone sculpture of two women with a child). I had good romantic relationships (and some horror shows, let’s be honest). I was happy. I had friends. I was an up-and-coming lawyer. I found my groove.

Still, the gym was complicated. Working out made me feel strong, in control and let me expiate work anxiety and stress. I started to understand that maybe I didn’t fit in because, for me, the gym was not my primary social outlet. I went there to get sweaty and release endorphins. Ahhhhh. Still, I wanted to be noticed. I know, I know. It doesn’t make sense but it is what it is.

At Rosh HaShanah evening services in 1996, I was living the quintessential lesbian drama – my present girlfriend sat to my left and my ex-girlfriend sat to my right. I was looking up at the ceiling, finally introducing myself to G-d. (This alone should have wiped away my sins for the year.)

In the midst of this bad movie, I heard a singing voice I recognized. I turned around and I saw her. She was my best friend at sleep-away camp when we were 10 year-olds. We went to Hebrew School together through senior year at high school. I thought, “she is too cute to be gay”. It’s that internalized homophobia ingrained in many of us who came of age in the 20^th century and, no matter how we try, it still sometimes slips out. (And I had very attractive exes.)

I looked for her after services, but she had left in a flash. Ten days later, at Yom Kippur service, I was carrying the Torah around the synagogue during a ritual where the Torahs are marched around the sanctuary. I saw her again. POB (soon-to-be partner of blogger). I knew somehow that we were living in parallel bubbles that “kissed” ever so slightly over the years. We were both in relationships and just looking for friendship.

Our friendship was deep and supportive. We leaned on each other when things got hard in our relationships. We pushed each other to re-invest our emotions in those long-term relationships. Nevertheless, our relationships ended between 1998 and 1999. In spring of 2000, we realized that we were each other’s intended ones. We fell into a happy rhythm of life together and started to think about having a baby.

Still, the gym was an important part of my life. Sometimes we would go to the gym together after work, around 8pm. We didn’t work out together; we needed our separate areas at the gym. I was working out the toxicity of life as a young partner in a law firm; she was just getting a fitness work out.

Then my mother had a recurrence of breast cancer. I needed a punching bag and boxing gloves. Our gym had those. I watched others and then just copied them. Tears would stream. The rings on my fingers under the boxing gloves cut into my flesh. I was bleeding and I was punching G-d as hard as I could. In summer 2002, POB and I had a little boy. In January 2003, my mother died. I needed to punch out my unspeakable pain and sadness, but with newborn and two working moms, there was no time for the gym.

2002 through 2008 were rough years. Setting aside various economic and professional upheavals (which don’t matter much in the end, anyway), POB’s mother’s chronic illness worsened to a point that hospital stays on respirators were not uncommon. Ultimately, she died. Our son presented with some developmental issues, which are resolving (something for which we are grateful everyday). There was much joy and happiness, of course, in those years, but joy and happiness don’t make for interesting writing. And besides, as a neurotic, urban-dwelling Jew, it is my cultural duty to emphasize the gut-wrenching, the embarrassing, the bizarre and the ooky.

When our son was six years old, POB and I were able to clear some personal time in the family schedule. I chose to return to the gym.

What a difference six years makes. My first day, I was in the locker room and to my horror I discovered that I packed form-fitting running tights that go down just below my knees and a geeky t-shirt that stopped at my waist. Two things to note: I couldn’t remember when last I shaved my legs, and if this outfit looked good on me, I wouldn’t need to go to the gym.

Now, our son is 9 years old. He is 70 pounds and still jumps in my arms when I come home, so I need strong leg, stomach and arm muscles so as not to end up in traction. Now, I do sit ups and pull-ups.

I hate pull-ups but I do three sets of three (sometimes four). And all the gym boys think it’s really cute that a gray-haired, middle-aged lady can do unassisted pull-ups. No, joke — I get compliments, fist pumps and high-fives from male trainers and regular gym rats. And they give me technique pointers. And I know that some of the women are watching me. They are not checking me out; they are wondering how they could try a pull-up when no one is looking. At long last, the “buff and beautiful” (even the trainers) notice me and talk to me. It took some gray hair and a few pull-ups to be the belle of the gym. Of course, now I don’t need that kind of attention. At 47, I have lost some elasticity and agility, but age has given me determination and self-confidence, and, yes, helped me negotiate a comfortable detente with my body.

And now I am visible at the gym? The gym gods must be crazy indeed.

So, this Thanksgiving, I am grateful for my life, my family and my wholeness. It does get better.

~ note from Blogger: Special thanks to the Soeurs for editing and remembering and loving me, in all my guises.

Typical Sunday

Posted on October 23, 2011 by 40andover

Another typical day on the road to Utopia . . . .

SOS (our son, source of sanity) has grown into a teenager (notwithstanding that he is only 9 years old) and his idea of Sunday cuddling is watching TV on the same bed as me, seemingly miles apart. As a Jewish mother in the true sense of the tradition, I am not happy unless I am holding a finger, a toe or a hair of my child. In truth, I am only happy when I have an iron grip about his mid-section to keep him close and away from the dangers in . . . um . . . er. . . our safe home. WhatEVER. There are wilds out there SOMEwhere.

He would really rather play that be smothered by his mother (hey, I put the “mother” in smother, I thank you to remember). Ok, that is healthy. To a point. Ok, it is healthy, but hard on a mother.

Still, I crave time with him. So, in preparation for family dinner where wine must be served, I say, “Dude, come with me to the wine store?” Because it is Sunday, the only open (and good) wine store is a half-mile away. “Can I take my scooter?” “Sure”. I put on my running shoes. He is going to scooter and even though he knows to stop at crosswalks, I must sprint after him. Yes, I am a prisoner of my tradition. Actually, I accept and revel in my tradition of over-protection. So, sue me. Or, rather, just know that I have provided for a therapy fund for SOS in our wills.

So, I am sprinting after my son as we go to the wine shop. THANK G-D for the crosswalks and red lights.

Thereafter, a lazy Sunday afternoon commences (not really: I am reading work-related documents and POB (partner of blogger) is cooking her guts out).

For dinner, the usual suspects come over plus POB’s father (FOPOB) who was enticed by the apple pie POB made (from the apples of the apple-picking extravaganza). You mean, FOPOB, you wouldn’t come otherwise? And you wonder why I wouldn’t let you have more than two helpings of the pie. No, no, no, no. Nothing is going home with you, bud, until you come here just for the sake of being with family.

DOB (Dad of blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), and HOSOB (husband of SOB) round out the dinner group. We talk about Occupy Wall Street, the GOP, Obama, Libya, Syria and whether Rick Perry “swings both ways”. As to the latter, if he weren’t so virulently right-wing (at least now) we would not even raise the issue of how he likes to have his fun. But, you do it, you live with it.

So, 3.5 wine drinkers, two bottles. Before dinner.

Thank G-d for food. And the apple pie. Food hath charms to soothe the socialist drunk. (No, HOSOB, I am not ONLY talking about you. I include DOB and me in that group.) Mostly because SOB kept lubricating the conversation with the Merlot.)

OH, Cousin Gentle!! OH, Cousin Birder?? We needed you.

And, there is a mess in the kitchen that I must clean. I love and hate POB’s cooking.

And the Best Daughter Award Goes to . . .

Posted on October 9, 2011 by 40andover

SOB (sister of blogger)!!!!!!!!!

Yes, SOB wins for endurance beyond the mortal realm.

[POB (partner of blogger), SOS (our son, source of sanity) and I were in various states of contagion and nursing various infections and maladies, so we really couldn’t risk getting DOB (dad of blogger and SOB) sick.]

Yesterday, SOB sat with DOB in synagogue for the last 3 hours of Yom Kippur, enduring his endless commentary while trying to shoosh him because he no longer whispers and has old-person-yell-in-quiet-places syndrome.

SOB even sat with DOB through Yizkor (the service remembering dead loved ones) as DOB flipped through the prayer book and pronounced the service (using his old-person-yell-in-quiet-places voice) “a bunch of crap”. (In truth, he mourns my mother every day and says Kaddish for his parents and brothers, so he doesn’t really need a special service to remember.)

I get DOB’s point. I can’t sit through Yizkor because it doesn’t reach my abiding pain. I am a little like DOB that way. Except I don’t go to the service and whisper at the top of my lungs.

After three hours of DOB containment, SOB, together with HOSOB (husband of SOB), took DOB out for Japanese food. He complained about the food and the service. In his later years, he has become even more impatient about service, and his previously polite manner has become rude when trying to get the attention of the waitstaff. SOB is the picture of calm in these moments, as I have witnessed in the past. I am not.

I know, I know, he is 91. But this is not his last glass of wine or piece of sushi. I have faith that he will be at SOS’s Bar Mitzvah in 4 years. And at the very least he will hang around for POB’s and my wedding in 2012.

How do I know all that happened yesterday? Because SOB and I spill our guts to each other and give each excruciating play-by-plays so that we have a collective memory.

But the real reason that SOB gets the Best Daughter Award? Even though she was pushed to the limit of sanity, she did not yell, “Ok, Dad, if you don’t like dinner or the service AT THE RESTAURANT YOU PICKED, either be quiet or stick a crow bar in your wallet and pay for it!”

And SOB had lunch with him today, too.

Yes, she is a saint.

The Sum of our Lives

Posted on September 19, 2011 by 40andover

Don’t ask why I had reason today to meditate on the meaning of life and death, legacy and detritus. For the purposes of this entry, please just accept that I did.

Much of the meditation happened today on the Cross Island Expressway, the Long Island Express Way, the Throgs Neck, the Northern Parkway and any number of other main arteries in and out of New York City. Given the timing and the traffic, there was much time to ponder (and outrage that the tolls got to be so expensive). Another story for another day when I am musing about driving as a contact sport.

After the mourning, and the tearful yet loving remembrances, comes the task of disposing of a deceased person’s worldly possessions. Remember that bumper sticker, popular in 1980s or 90s, that adorned really expensive cars, “He who dies with the most toys, wins”? Did the people in those cars think that they would be buried with the stuff?

Actually if that kind of acreage weren’t so expensive in this part of the country, that would be a great idea and soooo much easier on the rest of us. No one would have the task of reducing it all to cash for the benefit of the heirs.

I don’t believe that “stuff” is the sum of our lives. But it does bog down the survivors in details that make us forget those we mourn and celebrate the lives they lived.

What I learned today:

If you believe that “stuff” is the sum of your life, just ask an auction house what you are worth and the answer will freak you out.
Things that carried enormous sentimental value or were mementos of wonderful experiences now become “stuff” to be sold off for distribution in accordance with a last will and testament.
If you want someone to have something when you die, give it to them in your lifetime, so you can see them enjoy it. That someone may not be alive when your executor tries to carry out your wishes.

If you love your family and friends you will have only two nickels to rub together at the end of your life, because you will have given the rest away during your life time. POB (partner of blogger) wants to time it just right, so we have EXACTLY two nickels, lest people say “they didn’t have TWO nickels to rub together!” (What would I do without my own personal reality check?)

Sunday Dinner

Posted on September 11, 2011 by 40andover

FOPOB (father of POB (partner of blogger)) is a hard guy to pin down. He doesn’t like to “commit” to coming over for Sunday night dinner when he is in the City (and not at his beach house). This weekend was no exception: he wasn’t able to say yes or no when asked again yesterday. He’d let us know. Ok.

In fact, he let us know by coming over at 3:15pm, unannounced. That’s so early even for MY dad who would come at 9am, if we let him. That’s ok. I couldn’t even emerge from the bedroom until 3:45pm. Then I felt guilty and let POB escape to the kitchen. At 4:15pm, FOPOB was itching to watch the Giants game. And in a slightly-passive-but-really-overly-aggressive move, I told SOS (our son, source of sanity) to keep FOPOB company, believing full well that SOS would get bored within 5 minutes and start trying to convince FOPOB to change to either Nature or Discovery channels. And it would drive FOPOB nuts.

You think that wow I can be awfully mean sometimes. Yes, yes, I can.

Somehow, despite my best-laid plans, SOS started to get into the game. (My son: the child who went from worrying about the euro crisis to watching people gratuitously concuss each other in 48 hours. I am having whiplash and I will remind him of this indignity until the day I die or the guilt kills him — whatever.) The Giants versus the Redskins. The Redskins? Really? Do we still have teams with humans (in this case, Native Americans) as mascots? Haven’t we progressed as a civilization? Oh, wait, that is my way left-of-center whine. I am a centrist now. I digress.

FOPOB was impatient at cocktail hour (6pm) because the Redskins (pause, take a deep breath) were beating the Giants. And, because HOSOB (husband of SOB (sister of blogger)) and CB (cousin birder) were talking about bird nerd things that even a loving and adoring sister-in-law and cousin could not possibly abide. SOB was seeking shelter in the kitchen with POB, leaving me to referee the “boys”.

So I threw out random things, like the blue inner feathers of a mallard and the way hummingbirds make their calls with their feathers, to bring the conversation within normal nerd parameters. Nothing doing. DOB (Dad of blogger) rather adeptly tried to steer the conversation away from what could have been mortal boredom (did I mention how much I adore HOSOB and CB?) by musing about the difference in conversations he had when he was our age 20 years ago. OK, DOB, that was 40 years ago when you were our age, but who is counting. Yes, it was just after the 60s and you were wearing mustard colored bell bottoms and Mom was wearing floral halter tops, “hostess” pants and Elvira the Vampiress make-up, but I am sure your politics had sound bases. Still, he had a good point.

FOPOB, who had a moment to shine, instead said flatly that the conversation was boring, he’d rather watch his team lose and did anyone realize that Casablanca was on TV tonight? I poured everyone more wine. DOB mentioned he liked it and I told him it was NOT Trader Joe’s $3.50 special Merlot. “Really?” DOB was genuinely surprised. I excused myself to the kitchen where POB was hiding out. I asked POB to kill me before SOS ever had to have this conversation with me.

Thank G-d Cousin Gentle arrived. And time to eat. FOPOB wanted to take dinner-to-go but we locked the door. SOB had to take a call from the hospital. SOS wanted to run back and forth from the dinner table to the TV in our room to watch the football game. I considered Crazy Glue to keep him in his chair but I settled on the Evil Eye of Doom and Despair that I inherited from my mother that kept us in line. It is amazing how a few moves of the facial muscles can subdue a child. It worked. Luckily, I also still have the brute strength in my arsenal, if necessary. But only for a little time more.

At the beginning of the meal, we toasted the many sides of the family that were present. We toasted our good fortune in being together. We remembered the victims of the attack on our Nation 10 years ago.

At some point in the conversation, we started talking about the different sources of the Bible and how women may have been writers. HOSOB asked what I knew about this. So, of course, I held forth, but with a caveat. I started with, “Unencumbered as I am with fact or knowledge about the subject matter . . . .” Cousin Gentle was impressed that I said this. I was shocked. I thought this was an implied caveat in any conversation in our family history because clearly Uncle Loud, Cousin Gentle’s father and DOB, would have otherwise been mute for most of their lives.

After that, someone complained that the chicken was salty. Someone wondered about having added marjoram (a spice I still don’t understand) to the quinoa dish. FOPOB wanted to take dessert to go (keep trying, dude) in order to watch Casablanca at home on his ginormous TV.

So, we were deep, we were shallow, we were loving, we were honest. . .and in so doing, we gave meaning to the statement:

WE ARE A FAMILY.

I love you all.

Why clothes shrink

Posted on September 8, 2011 by 40andover

There is a time-release formula for medicine, right? (I don’t really get it but the commercials say it.)

There must be a time-release formula for shrinkage in clothes. Otherwise, how could clothes that fit me for 10 years suddenly, SUDDENLY, be snug?

Clothes also get really, really, heavy over time. Tonight, at the gym, when I was doing my awesome pull-ups, I felt like someone attached a kettle bell to my body, as I tried to complete my three sets of three. What’s that about, huh?

And, have you noticed that the labels have teeny, tiny print? What, they are saving on ink?

My clothes and I are going into counseling with a fitness trainer on Saturday. We have to work this out; we have had way too many years together to break up now.

Wait, I can’t hear you. Let me put my glasses on.

Posted on September 6, 2011 by 40andover

When you were a kid, didn’t you think, “Wait, I can’t hear you. Let me put my glasses on” was one of the most bizarre comments your parents and grandparents ever said?

Glasses are for seeing. Not for hearing. But now I get it. I really do hear better with my glasses on. And not only that — I hear only certain tones of voice. Disappointment, nope. Irritation, nope. Boredom, nope. Frothy exuberance, yes!! You may deduce then that I do not hear sounds that often. Brilliant, isn’t it?

Not that I need glasses. In fact, with the help of ginormous magnification, I am typing without my bifocals, which I can’t seem to find anywhere.

Yes, sir. I am the female version (ok, uglier female version) of Brad Pitt in that media debacle about the reverse-aging man. Except my chestnut brown hair with auburn highlights is gray.

But I learned today from a questionable site featured on Yahoo that some scientist (and possibly of questionable moral rectitude) determined that as we “mature” we no longer break down the hydrogen peroxide that forms in our hair follicles. So, the hydrogen peroxide bleaches our hair white. And, to think, from Marilyn Monroe to Lady Gaga, they tried for the so-blond-it-is-almost-white look and I, for one, now get it naturally.

I bet you wondered why I am rambling on like this. Answer: I am losing my mind, of course. It is still probably in my head, near where my glasses are perched, which is why I couldn’t find them until now.

Tomorrow I am going to wear a hard hat and ear plugs to keep my brains in place. And I will try not to sneeze.

Like a Hurricane

Posted on August 29, 2011 by 40andover

Our newly re-acronymed child, SOS (source of sanity) needs to go back to TLP (the little prince), at least for a little while.

On Saturday night, we hunkered down after checking in on all local relatives who might need help. TLP wondered why we couldn’t camp out at the beach like his cousin, his aunt and his other grandfather (not my dad). (In fact, to add insult to injury, we made him come home from visiting them at the beach in anticipation of the hurricane.)

They aren’t camping actually.

In fact, they didn’t intend to “camp”, since they live in a perfectly lovely house in East Hampton. We tried to explain that Hurricane Irene could cause downed power lines and flooding, which would then lead to “indoor camping” by necessity and not by choice.

TLP thought it would an important manly experience, except he forgot that he is a (little) man who likes his amenities, let alone “essentials” like TV, computer access, running water, flushing toilets, etc.

You get the picture. He knows what he wants until he realizes that it is not at all what he wants. Until that eureka moment, he has the determination of . . . of . . . well, POB (partner of blogger). Genes are a boomerang.

It is ok that he is not so self-aware of his lack of earthiness. He is only 9 years old.

Sunday dragged on and on. TLP couldn’t really focus on the usual mind-numbing TV because he wanted to go back out to the beach. The hurricane washed out our week at the beach, at least initially. When the owners of our rental called to say that the power was out and there was flooding on the property, TLP became inconsolable. Ok, ok, ok, ok, his entire life up to this point has been a vacation. It is I, I, I, I, I, I, who needs a vacation. Me, me, me, me, me. (It may be important to note that I am ranting here and not TLP. I can see how you might be confused.)

POB needs some time away, too, but she has had the summer off so, this year at least, a week at the beach is more tradition and less a sanity-saving device.

I had already started looking at other options. Of course, anything west required a plane and airports were backlogged. Going south was clearly a non-starter since that was the trajectory of the storm.

Northwest, maybe. Lake George. Aaah, the Sagamore. I loved the Sagamore years ago, even though tennis whites were required on the courts and I had to buy clothes in the gift shop. What does a New York Jew know about tennis whites? Oh, yeah, Wimbledon. But that is in England. Oh, wait! These people descend from those who came from England. Ahhhh.

I called the hotel and they had available condos, etc. So, maybe they allow lavender on the tennis courts? After all, these are trying economic times.

I took down the information and said I would call back, because I needed to confirm with POB that she was ok with all goyim all the time at a WASPy retreat. POB has some of that blood line in her so I figured her first question would be ask what would there be for us to eat, because clearly she understands the differences in the traditions. We don’t drink martinis and we don’t eat honey-roasted bar nuts (we eat healthy, raw nuts). Clearly, we would starve. In fact, she did ask, and I looked at her with the “after all these years, you think I can’t read your mind” look. In a calm, but slightly hurt voice (intending to get some martyr points), I told her about the condos with full kitchens that we could stock up in case we couldn’t recognize any of the food.

I guarantee you the first thing anyone at the Sagamore would think upon seeing our family is not, “oh, Jews”. Especially when they see my accidentally too-severe Janet Napolitano (US secretary of something) style of haircut (thank you, IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) for drawing that parallel). In fact, I was betting on an upgrade to the furthest and possibly nicest available condo on the property. We would get the privacy we want and, if they were particularly freaked out, I planned to ask about Shabbat services. Hell, they would offer in-condo dining, absolutely free. Grand slam homer for a patched-together vacation, if you ask me.

My delusions of vacation were interrupted when I called back to book the reservation. In the 6 hours between my calls, Hurricane Irene had hit them hard. That area was not supposed to be really affected. I felt bad for my gloating over the dyke-Jew plague I was going to bring on them. So, we’ll go there sometime soon, when my hair grows out and we will pay full price. It is the least we can do.

Ok, no vacation plans. And the boy who earns the acronym TLP is inconsolable. So, today, Day 3 of When Havoc Struck The Blogger Family, we set out to the train museum in Danbury, Connecticut. POB and I decided we needed a road trip and we needed to ease TLP into the staycation reality. He was happy and POB and I were relieved to have him immersed in something. And the trains were pretty cool, I have to say.

Tonight, we got word that our rented house will be in reasonable shape on Wednesday. TLP is over the moon. We are all relieved as well because it is good to get away. Still, we have tomorrow.

Using some of my martyr points, I have cleared a Blogger mental health and physical wellness morning tomorrow, which means I get to run and look at the river for a while before we all have lunch. Then, on to preparations for the delayed vacation.

I am thinking of showing TLP pictures of the damage caused by the hurricane and some pictures from Tripoli so he understands that life is not always a vacation. I just don’t know when is the right time to introduce reality into a happy (and privileged) childhood. I don’t want to scar him, but I want him to be grateful that we and none of our family was irreparably harmed in a natural disaster that claimed lives and livelihoods of so many. I want him to have empathy, but I don’t want him to be afraid of what life throws in our path. I want him to learn to “roll with it”. I want him to understand his good fortune. Maybe these are not 9 year-old thoughts and ideas. Maybe that is too much to put on someone so young.

Parents out there: HELP!!!

Chopped Liver

Posted on August 26, 2011 by 40andover

Since POB (partner of blogger) has been “at liberty” this summer, she feels the need to explain the incredible discounts she gets on everything she buys. I absolutely don’t care. I trust POB with my heart, our son and our bank accounts. It is her meshugas (craziness).

A typical conversation:

“I bought these pants but since they are last year’s color, I got them for $40 and you always need another pair of khaki-colored pants. I know I have three pairs now, but the others don’t fit me anymore. . . .”

“If the others don’t fit you, then you only have one, which you bought. So, you needed it. They look great.”

“I didn’t really need it [air quotes], but they are good to have.”

“Why are we having this conversation? I am really glad you have something that fits and looks great on you.”

“But it was a good deal.”

“This is your meshugas, right? I am here so you don’t look like you are talking to yourself, right?”

[Mean, but loving look in my direction.]

********************************************************

Last week, I noticed that POB’s roots were growing in a little.

Remembering her meshugas, I say to her, “Please don’t try to save money by not getting your hair done regularly. I am committed to your blond hair.”

You might think because I am a girl, I can get away with saying that to POB, whereas a guy couldn’t. WRONG.

“Are you trying to say my hair looks bad?”

Aaaaargh. If only we can rewind the tape in life, I would have said, “I see your roots. Make an appointment with your colorist.” Instead, I had to backpedal with, “what’s important is how you feel.”

POB thought about it for a moment. “After we get back from vacation, I’ll get it done. Who am I going to see until then?”

WHO? WHO? WHO?

“Really, is that your final answer?” Oooops, I guess POB forgot I would be seeing her. What am I? chopped liver?

Thank G-d she joined me on the seventh rung of Hell. Otherwise, it could have been a “situation”.

What is even better is that the appointment is this afternoon and POB had already had reservations on the Jitney in from Long Island. The only issue last night was whether SOS (our son, source of sanity) was staying with his cousin and aunt out at the beach or coming back with POB. (SOS is coming home, thank G-d.) There is a hurricane coming after all.

After the hurricane passes, POB and I are going discuss elevating my status to paté.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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