Category Archives: Aging

do over

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I just got back from a family trip to Rhinebeck for a barbeque hosted by my first cousin and his wife.  I drove Aunt Betty, DOB (dad of blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), POB (partner of blogger) and our son, TLP (the little prince).  Cousin Gentle arrived by train.

I need to have a do-over because the journey was not epic — nothing grotesque and peculiar happened.   No blog material.

First, I picked up the rental car and it had GPS and EZ Pass.  And, I got an extra 10 percent discount because, well, I just looked like I deserved it.  I found a parking spot on my street.  I was able to come upstairs, read the Style section of the Times and watch a pre-recorded Phineas and Ferb episode (I must admit that I was watching for my own pleasure; TLP was doing something else).

We got on the road within 10 minutes of our planned departure.  I had three copies of the directions (one for each row, so everyone could follow along).  We didn’t even put on the GPS.  We didn’t even make a rest area stop.  2 hours door-to-door and no traffic.  DOB didn’t do anything terribly outlandish and he didn’t even mind staying more than 20 minutes after arrival.  So, SOB’s and my $1,000,000.00 bet about the time that DOB would say, “well, all you lovely people. . . .[it is time to go]” was for naught.

It was like taking the Stepford family out for a drive.  I kept glancing in the rear-view mirror to make sure I recognized the passengers.  Yep.  They belong to me.

Also, Aunt Betty flew in for a week of seeing people and family (no family are not people) and we all wanted her to have her full of the ganza mishpocheh (the extended family).  DOB did start singing his usual set of 5 of the most annoying songs ever sung (if they are sung all the time), but SOB and I could just walk away.  HOSOB had to endure it.

Of course, I learned some things of note about the ganza mishpocheh.  First, Cousin GS does not hold back.  Not one thing.  Not one thought.  If he has something to say, he will say it, good, bad, ugly, inappropriate, whatever.  That is why I love Cousin GS, he speaks his truth, which can never be reconciled with the events as anyone else sees them, and he makes me seem like a diplomat.

We had time to visit with our cousin who is living with brain cancer and his wife and kids.  He is a different man than I remember.  Of course, he is.  His speech is labored, he is partially paralyzed, but his eyes sparkled, especially when he played with his kids.  He is more interested and interesting now.  My last in-depth conversation was about how he was going to conquer the world financially.  In truth, I was a bit put-off, but he was young and cocky.  Now he seems happy just in the world and views treatments as a necessary evil.  I have to say, though, I wish he were still that cocky 30-something year-old and not the 36 year-old living with brain cancer.  No one should learn about life this way.

It was a great occasion, where people were happy to be together and comfortable being their truly imitable (not inimitable) selves.  (I think at POB’s and my wedding, we are going to have an extended Blogger family imitation extravaganza.)

TLP played with cousins he only just met (the grandchildren of my first cousins).  They were fast friends.  It was sheer joy to see.

The barbeque was one of those occasions that we will all remember years from now and be forever grateful we made the schlep.

But, still, what is there to blog about?

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Disconnected

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It is Saturday morning. POB (partner of blogger) went to the gym at an ungodly hour that would shame me if I were susceptible to being shamed.  TLP (our son, the little prince) is subjecting me to Pokemon and Bakugan while there is a perfectly good Phineas and Ferb show on Cartoon Network.  I love Phineas and Ferb, in fact I DVR the show for POB and me.  TLP is only sort of into it.  (Ok, enough back story for a different blog entry).

My blackberry ran out of juice just before it was my turn for torture in the name of fitness.  This meant that I was going for a run without any telecommunication devices.  POB and I had to plan ahead and decide when and where I would meet her and TLP for a picnic in Central Park after the run.

Old style planning.  Never-heard-of planning for an entire generation of children.

I walked out of the house, feeling strangely like I lost an anchor.  No, not an anchor; actually, a ball and chain.  No, not exactly, a ball and chain; more naked.  No phone, no texting capabilities, no internet.  It is okay if I were actually naked; hey, it is New York, no one would notice.  Except that I need a sports bra.  That is totally non-negotiable.  Good thing the naked feeling was metaphoric and not actual.  (Am I digressing?  I really can’t tell anymore.)

As I set out, it is just the open road and I.  Ok, and city traffic, too, until I get into Riverside Park.

I was running, with a gusto that comes from sticking it to the Man.  I cannot be reached.  No one can find me.  Ha!!  I am untethered.  Wait.  I am the Man (or part of the Man)!  Oh, shit.  I am (part of) the Man and I can’t find me.  Existential nightmares start slamming my brain, even some too weird for Sartre, Camus or Ionesco.  The Man is not so bad.  Gee, I miss the Man.

Then, what if I get hurt?  What if POB or TLP gets hurt and I cannot be reached?

I have to stop running because my hyperventilation has caused cramps and shortness of breath.  See?  This wouldn’t have been so bad if I had waited for the Man to get powered up and put it in my back pocket for the run.  Now, my family is in need and I am turning blue. I am in the Wilderness of Riverside Park.  Actually, there is a cafe within view.  Ok, Wilderness is a relative term.  In New York, if there isn’t a latte available within 3 blocks, that’s wilderness.  No lattes at this cafe, so I am in ABJECT WILDERNESS.

Wait, what do I hear?  A voice?  As in vox clamantis in deserto (a voice cries out in the wilderness)?  Is this the moment of my spiritual awakening?  (And I am dressed like this?)

Turns out, someone was yelling at me, “Stay in the runner’s lane!!!”

Ok, no spiritual awakening, no kindness of strangers, no nothing.  And I am unconnected to everyone.  And I cannot even post about this on FaceBook.  The horror, the horror.  Even Dostoyevsky was able to get out Notes from Underground.  Me, I got nothing.  No iAnything.  No RIM at the edge of the corporate drain.  I have my driver’s license, money and a credit card.  I could buy some minutes from someone, but who would believe my story?  The cops would be called and then I would have to explain my circumstances, and inevitably the response from the officer would be, “you own telecommunication devices and you willfully left them home?”  “Officer, yes, I did it willfully but not maliciously — call it, semi-youthful hubris.”

Ok, I can’t breathe from the stress.  I am gripping my heart.  Vagrants think I am giving them the “strong” sign and they pound their hearts back.  Really, really?  I am probably having a stress dream and I will wake up.  Then I stagger past a long line of people waiting for an opportunity to kayak in the Hudson River even though there was a warning about life-threatening sewage in the water.  Ok, even I cannot come up with this stuff.  I am awake and my family is in peril and the police are no help and my fellow citizens want to go boating in nuclear waste.

Exhaustion sets in.  How will I make it to the appointed meeting place for the picnic.  Thank G-d for taxis.  I am sweaty from my run/freak-out but he smells like he ran a marathon.  At least I know I am not stinking up this cab.  I get out a few blocks early to air out.  Really.  Seinfeld did not lie.

I arrive at the pre-arranged meeting place about five minutes early.  I am already apoplectic about the things that could have gone wrong that will upend the rendez-vous.  (How DID we survive without this crazy connectivity?)  I imagine that POB got a call about her father, my father, her sister, my sister or brother or our nephews.  Disaster has struck.  I am clueless on 96th and Central Park West.  What was I thinking not waiting until my phone recharged?  That was sooooo selfish of me.  My family is in need and I am standing on a street corner like an idiot.

And . . . tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. . . THEY ARE LATE.  They are always late, I tell myself trying to believe it.

I see them across the street.  They are smiling and waving.  We all hug and kiss and walk together into the Park, to look for a picnic site.  POB says, “you look exhausted!!”  I say it was a hard run.  We smile and hold hands as TLP runs slightly (did I say slightly) ahead to find a good place to plop down for a picnic.

I ask POB, “do you have your iPhone?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“No, reason. No reason at all.”

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Life unscripted

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TLP (our son the little prince) was cuddling with me one morning a few days ago and he was staring at the swaying branches of a tree outside our window.

“Whatcha thinkin’ buddy?”

“The summer just flew by.   Time goes really fast.”

I think, my 9 year-old son has an old soul.

And, of course, I felt a song coming on .  .  . Joni Mitchell .  .  . ♫And the seasons they go ’round and ’round —–♫ I am interrupted.

“Ohhhh, Eeeee-Mom, please, not that song agaaaaaain??!!“

Ok, so I think, he has a old, yet non-mushball, soul.  Also he knows I start to weep at: ♫Now the boy moves 10 times ’round the seasons . . . .♫  And it is only 7:30am and before my second cup of coffee.  An intervention is necessary.

“Well,” he continued, “at least we are going on vacation next week.”

Ok, now he is back to being a spoiled NYC kid.

“Buddy, YOU have been on vacation since you were born.  You are just changing locations for a couple of weeks to keep Mommy and me company while WE are on vacation.”

Thank Goodness he morped back into a regular kid.  If he hadn’t broken my sentimental downward spiral, I would have arrived at the office, grabbed my assistant’s box of tissues, put in a DVD of family photos and disintegrated into a puddle.

Thanks, bud, for keeping it real.

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Though ‘round the girdled Earth they roam, Her spell on them remains.

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This is part of the Dartmouth anthem.

CAFOB (California friend of blogger) is staying with us and I feel blessed by 30 years of friendship.  Even after months of no contact, our conversation starts up again with, “as I was saying”.  No beat skipped.  It is the best of what Dartmouth offers: enduring friendships arising out of a small community. (There is the underside to the Dartmouth experience, but let’s leave that, for now.)

CAFOB just left our house for another liaison with same “unavailable” guy (I have the name, phone number and address now, phew). I kept opening the door while she waited for the elevator to make sure she had money for a cab if she felt she needed to come back tonight, to make sure she knew where she was going and to make sure she knew her “friend” would take care of her.  And finally before I closed the door for the last time, I made sure she would tell him I knew where to find him and that he should be afraid, very afraid.  I don’t care if we are all nearing 50.  Adults are simply children in expensive clothes.  So, I worry.  Sue me.

I am grateful for the friendship that are etched in ♫ the granite of New Hampshire that is made part of us ’til death.♫  And the granite of New Hampshire does indeed keep ♫a record of [our] fame♫.  I like to think that line of the anthem refers to our triumphs in things that matter — love, enduring friendships, and healing the world.  (Tim Geithner, ’84, we expect a lot.)

CAFOB, I’ll be waiting up until morning when you come back.  No guilt. No pressure.

 

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It’s raining, it’s pouring

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Today is a wet, wet day in New York City.  We don’t need the rain, but the rest of the country does.  This is what happens when you mess with Nature.  Nature messes right back.

We did a drive-by to visit DOB (father of blogger) and had brunch.  The usual comfort food: bagels, nova scotia salmon, cream cheese.  Of course, because POB (partner of blogger) did the food run, there was no matjes herring or white fish salad.  Really?  There wouldn’t have been enough food had I not held back.  This, in my mother’s (may-she-rest-in-peace-her-memory-be-for-a-blessing) house?  Ok, so I do a self-serving calculation and determine that most people Mom and Dad knew are dead so there is no one to talk about the fact that there wasn’t enough food.  But if these people are Heaven, do they know and is Mom embarrassed?  Exhaustion sets in just from the emotional and tribal toll this takes on me.  I have just enough energy to text SOB (sister of blogger) who is on call at the hospital “Drive-by successful, taking nap.”  I get a text back, “strong work.”  Nothing like elder sister approval, in the absence of my mother.  I am happy, if hungry.

I should not have given the task to POB.  When we started to date, her parents had to buy more food because I would gnaw at the antique table.  If there were left-overs, her mother instructed that they be passed to me so I could Hoover it up.  POB has come a long way.  She has food crises (what if an army comes knocking?) but sometimes she forgets about the joys of matjes herring (no cream sauce) and white fish salad.  I love her and frankly I don’t need so much of the comfort food since it occludes the arteries, however, deliciously.

Then, there are those rainy day tasks we have all planned, like scan photos into the family archive.  I look at some, and then sigh.  Rainy days, with their poetic sorrow, only magnify my feelings when looking at long dead family members when they were young, strong and undefeated.  I remember them this way.  Not the later pictures when time and disease did their violence.  I can’t look anymore. Nope, going through family photos is NOT a rainy day activity.

I need to hug and kiss my child.  Will he remember POB and me as strong and solid?  Or will later pictures of when we are frail form his lasting memory?  I guess, as long as he remembers the love, it’s ok.

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The conversation turns, updated

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My conversations turn, invariably, to how does [insert issue] affect me?

So, as we were remembering Cousin Bernie (see prior blog), SOB (sister of blogger) and I started talking about buying cemetery plots.  Actually, we have been talking about it since Cousin Gentle told us (over dinner, of course) about his trip to visit his plot.  He even did a video that he showed us.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45bMpw5CByM  SOB and I think that this video captures the humor, the eccentricities, the sweet zany-ness and the bonds of our greater Blogger clan.    We could easily see ourselves doing this, too.

SOB and I weren’t sure whether the location of our remains mattered much, assuming our souls go to Heaven (or the other place).  But we don’t know about the transportation system for souls visiting each other across the vast universe.   TLP (my son the little prince) would probably imagine a train system.  Ah, I knew Soul Train http://www.televisiontunes.com/Soul_Train.html would find its way back into vogue.   What if SOB and I wanted to see Mom or Dad or our grandparents?  Would it be a schlep?

So, just in case, we may need to be buried somewhere along the Long Island Expressway (traditionally a Jewish stop on the road to Heaven) to be close to our family and as well as an easy drive-by visit for the living.

This is very complicated.  Should we buy a large plot so we have space between us and the neighbors?  Or should be huddle together because it could get cold at night.  I might bring a sweater under my kittel (funeral gown) just in case.

Also, what with perpetual care?  TLP is our perpetual care.  Weren’t POB (partner of blogger) and I good mothers?  Certainly good enough for him to make sure that the eternal resting places for our bodies are properly maintained.  And that goes for Aunt SOB and Uncle HOSOB (husband of SOB), too.

Dear TLP, you may have to give up your day job in order to tend to our graves and show gratitude for all we did for you in our lives.  And when you do win that Nobel Prize, you’ll bury near us so we can qvell and brag to the other mothers in our section of the universe.  It is the least you could do, my sweet.

Ok, maybe I will get cremated.

 

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RIP, Cousin Bernie

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Cousin Bernie died yesterday,

Cousin Bernie wasn’t really my cousin.  But I didn’t find out that Bernie wasn’t related until my mother’s shiva.  Trust me, that’s when you learn everything about everybody, whether you want to or not.

It turns out that Cousin Bernie was the cousin of Betty, one of my mother’s closest friends from college.  Betty and my mother married two brothers, so Betty was my Aunt Betty by the time I was born.  Cousin Bernie also was (for time enough to have two children) the husband of Blossom, one of Aunt Betty’s and Mom’s other close friends.  For the record, Aunt Betty’s only successful match was Mom and Dad.  The rest were, shall we say, short-lived.

Not only was Cousin Bernie, and therefore, his wife Susan not my cousins, but Blossom wasn’t, and Blossom’s second husband, Aaron, wasn’t and his third wife, Marjorie, wasn’t.  All of which I found out at Mom’s shiva.  And Marjorie was the only one who asked POB (partner of blogger) if we were having a child by a known donor or unknown donor.  You mean she asked that and she wasn’t even related???  You have to admire a woman who picks up the beat of the Blogger family.  No boundaries, ever.

What makes them my family is more important than blood or marriage.   They are related by love.  And if not, love, then time.  After a few decades, even my mother, who would cringe at Bernie’s cursing like a sailor (he was one, in World War II), loved him even though he divorced Blossom and swore in front of her children.  Family is family, however it is constituted.

And so my heart is breaking for his wife Susan, Aunt Betty and Bernie’s kids.  Bernie, my Mom, Aunt Betty, Uncle Willy and my Dad were among the generation that bridged the divide between immigrant children and Americans.  They were the generation that fought in the war that American won.  They all put their foot on the gas pedal and roared into the American dream.  They laid the foundation for my generation’s successes.

And they were characters.  In his later years, Bernie was a caricature of himself.  And we lovingly laughed at his meshugas (craziness).

He used to be president of the New York Runner’s Club.  I ran in one of the New York City Corporate Challenges and, as I crossed the finish line, Bernie was there to hug me.  I said, “Bernie, it is great to see you!” He said, “[Blogger], is that you?”  So, in fact, he was hugging any sweaty, young woman who would hug him back.  “I won’t tell Susan,” I said as I kissed him.  At the next family function, OF COURSE, I told Susan.  Bernie’s response: “Jesus Christ, all of these f*%$ing young beautiful, sweaty women!! What the hell do you want me to do? Wave? How else would I get anyone to hug me. [more profanity].”  That was Bernie.  (You should know that he hit the jackpot with Susan.  He knew it, too.  To use his parlance, he would have been a schmuck to do anything untoward.)

I drove Bernie and his wife Susan to Uncle Willy’s unveiling a few years back. Bernie called and said he hadn’t seen Willy in a while and would I include them in the Great Schlep.  SOB (sister of blogger) and I didn’t know whether he remembered that Uncle Willy had died.  So, during the Great Schlep, we asked leading questions intended to elicit some acknowledgment that Uncle Willy was dead.  We were afraid that Bernie who had a defibrillator and pacemaker in his chest might go into cardiac arrest if he thought he was actually going to see Uncle Willy and then we pulled up to the cemetery. Thank G-d, he knew.

We saw Susan and Bernie at Dad’s 90th birthday party in October.  He looked frail. He was cursing about all the doctors he needed to see and how he had no more room in his schedule.  He also was singing the praises of prune juice as an elixir he recently discovered.  Cousin Bernie never changed.

I just called my Aunt Betty to express my condolences and I started reminiscing about the prune juice and the cursing and the doctors.  She has buried a son, a husband and countless other loved ones.  It was good to hear her chuckle as she mourns another loss in our greatest generation.  As we mourn right along with her.

Rest in peace, Cousin Bernie.

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Just Give Us Something to Talk About, part two

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Blogger Note:  My friend, formerly known as SPOBFOB (slightly paranoid about being associated as friend of blogger) is now SNOBFOB because I understand, after further consultation, that she is only neurotic about being associated with me.

I remembered yesterday, as I was accosted on the subway by a sea of tattooed flesh, that SNOBFOB and I also discussed the state of (un)dress in the City.

We didn’t specify guidelines for appropriate body coverage and so I throw the following draft regulation out to SNOBFOB and to the community in general for comment:

Regulation:

At all times in public spaces, a person should cover 50% of one’s body (and those of such person’s unemancipated minors) if one’s BMI (body mass index) is over the VPT (visually pleasing threshold).  A VPT is determined as the minimum amount of body coverage that a reasonable person over the age of 45 would require not to reminisce about the good ol’ days. It is only a violation if the body coverage is so below the VPT that it could reasonably cause a reasonable person over the age of 45 to have an IHR (involuntary heaving reaction).

All in all, a public safety crisis that must be addressed immediately by Mayor Bloomberg. Imagine if a subway car full of people had IHRs. Not a pretty sight. In fact, I might have an IHR just thinking about it.

 

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The bet

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DOB (dad of blogger) came over for dinner.  We were without reinforcements.  And SOB (sister of blogger) and I had the bet.  SOB said DOB would sing Sholom Aleichem within an hour of arrival and I bet that it would be well before then.

About one-half hour into the visit, DOB was in the bathroom for too long and, well since he is almost 91, I became concerned.  “Dad, are you all right?”  “No problem,” he shouted, “just a little [insert scatological issue].”  I had to call SOB at the hospital about intervening events that might either delay the bet or give me an automatic compassionate win (depending on the judges).

SOB was adamant that the bet was still on.  SOB is tough, but loving and caring.  So, the bet was still on.

With DOB back in the living room, we discussed certain issues relating to the pain, tightness and possibly a little blood relating to the unnamed scatological issue.   I think, “this is sooooo not what I bargained for.” But time was running out.  I thought, “how will I explain to POB (partner of blogger) that I literally bet the house on whether DOB would sing Sholom Aleichem within the first hour of his arrival?”  This would not go over well.  POB might even cancel the wedding and kick me out with a frying pan, like Felix Unger’s wife did to him. Determined not to be a divorcee on a 1960s TV sitcom, I became desperate.

Desperation propelled me into action, even though I know that the final accounting between SOB and me on these types of bets will be at the gates of Hell.  [As an aside, SOB claims that she engages in this kind of infantile behavior to make sure she goes to Hell with me because she would miss me too much if she were in Heaven.  Haven’t I a wonderful sister?]

With little time left, DOB starts singing “Happy Birthday” to TLP (our son, the little prince) to whom we have sung happy birthday ad nauseum.  However, DOB never tires of singing random songs like, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” or “Yes Sir, She’s My Baby”.  In what can only be described as a Hail Mary play, I say, “well, that is better than singing Sholom Aleichem!!”  And, G-d bless DOB, he starts singing at minute 58 and 45 seconds.  I call SOB at the hospital, “I won because even though I affirmatively coaxed him into singing it, there was a whole lot of information beforehand that was unnecessary for the non-doctor child to know!!”

SOB, a saint of a woman, wanted to come and save me.  I said, “no, but we will call this a draw, ok?”  She agreed.  What an awesome sister.

POB asked, “why did you have to call your sister twice?  She usually reads things on your blog and then you discuss.”  I didn’t want to tell POB how close we came to financial ruin at the gates of Hell (of course, she’ll be in Heaven, hanging out with our Moms).

A typical Sunday night chez nous.

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Aleichem Sholom

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A point of clarification on my last blog entry about SOB (sister of blogger) and DOB (dad of blogger) and the documentary they saw on Sholom Aleichem:

Sholom Aleichem was the great Yiddish writer/playwright’s nom de plume.  It is a Yiddish variant of the Hebrew “shalom aleichem,” meaning “peace be with you”.  The correct response, is “aleichem shalom.”

Shalom Aleichem is also a song for the Sabbath (check out this video): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72wDlNi3fJs

(Translation: Peace unto you, ministering angels, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.  May your coming be in peace angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He. Bless me with peace, angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He.  May your departure be in peace, angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He.)

It is relevant, in some miniscule way, to this blog entry.

Today, SOB took TLP (our son, the little prince) to have lunch with DOB and then see the movie, “Cars2.”  TLP was telling SOB and DOB about his favorite parts of camp and he mentioned that Shabbat services was a Friday high point.  Now, there is a totally irreligious reason for this:  TLP gets an extra snack of grape juice and challah.  SCORE!!!! 

Unfortunately, even though no one even mentioned Sholom Aleichem for almost 7 full days, DOB immediately launched into his off-key rendition of “Shalom Aleichem” in full voice for the, er, um, benefit (?) of all within earshot — other patrons of the diner and assorted vermin hiding to get away from the cacophony.

So, two irreconcilable desires derive from this episode:  One, we all agree never to mention anything about Shabbat ever again in DOB’s presence, even the innocent references made by TLP.  The other, is to see how quickly we can trigger the song in DOB at any time and all the time.  The first option would save our sanity but the second option has a slightly mischievous appeal even though it would be tantamount to mutual assured destruction.

SOB and I are dutiful and loving daughters.  Which do you think we chose?  The latter of course.  And, to make it even crazier, we bet on it.  With each other, we only bet in the millions of dollars so we are always going for broke.  It seems appropriate since we are betting on our sanity and that of DOB.

DOB is coming for dinner tomorrow night.  SOB has to work, so I have the advantage.  I might meet him downstairs so that I trigger it even before he crosses the threshold. I am the evil younger sibling.

But, SOB needn’t worry about transferring assets so quickly.  There will always be new bets, even more cynical and macabre bets, long before the Final Accounting is due.  (And, as I understand, Hell doesn’t take cash or credit cards.)

But until then, hum with me:  ♫ Sha-lom a-lei-chem, mal-a-chei ha-sha-reit, mal-a-chei el-yon, mi-me-lech ma-l’chei ha-m’la-chim, ha-ka-dosh ba-ruch hu. . . . ♫

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