Mother’s Day

Posted on May 10, 2010 by 40andover

Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one. The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes. Ok, I am living in the past. The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic). And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes. This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”. SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out. POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out. POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair. Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world. Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner. Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day. The warning was clear: be there or be talked about. Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year. In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level. Grandnephews and nieces are not invited. However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited. So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news. FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration. Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family. Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner. Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most. He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB? Two family gatherings missed. I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest. You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today. Yes, I did. But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid. Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog. Ooooops.)

My birthday weekend

Posted on May 2, 2010 by 40andover

So, it started in an annoyingly jaded New York way, “I was rushing to my acupuncturist and simply had to stop to take these photos”.

Here are the photos. As POB (partner of blogger) says, in New York, the rich live cheek by jowl with the homeless, and projects exist side by side with luxury condo buildings. So, on one of the first beautiful days of the year, restauranteurs put tables outside and voilá, amid the downtrodden and the garbage:

So, trite but still so unbelievable.

I wonder if the needles hurt more because I was late. Also, my acupuncturist is now a black-belt in karate. Ok, a little Jekyll-Hyde drama unfolding. But I digress. Ok, maybe I won’t digress. Now that I think of it, what am I doing having a black-belt shove needles into my nerve endings? I did have a particularly prickly acupuncturist session. More thought must be given and a full review is necessary (in another entry).

Dinner followed with my “adopted” daughter and her partner. My daughter went to law school against my better judgment and sounder opinion. Still, she seems to love it and, watch out, she will be a formidable adversary. Still she makes a fabulous chocolate birthday cake. Look and weep:

On the bright side, if you are her adversary and she cleans up the courtroom floor with your argument, she might bake you a consolation confection. Just a thought.

So, my brother came in for the weekend to see my dad. BOB (brother of blogger) had not been in town for over a year. He had planned to come in during the September High Holy Days, but contracted swine flu. So, we gave him a pass on that trip, without asking for the lab results (if you’re family, we don’t ask for proof of illness).

I was not looking forward to re-ordering my birthday weekend, but in the end it was fabulous.

BOB came solo — without wife and kids. While we missed the full family complement, I think he was able to relax more. BOB was dream uncle for my son. They played ball and watched sun bathers (my son’s idea) [see prior blog about his MoMA visit] and just did that male bonding thing that is not always so possible if you have two moms.

We gathered the extended family who lives in Manhattan for dinner. True to form, HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and one of our dear cousins got into a food eating contest. At one point, one of our younger cousins took away the plates and forks but still there was salmon left uneaten. Not wanting to dirty another fork (cleaning that fork expands our carbon footprint), I told HOSOB to use the serving implement. Others thought I was joking. HOSOB knew I was serious and, such a sweet and wonderful guy, he listens to me even though I am not his wife, SOB (sister of blogger):

Of course, I had to take a picture for the family archives.

I am not so sure what BOB thinks of the odd antics of the evening. I would like to think that it was just like riding a bike — that he felt at home with the volume and the rhythm of an evening with the ganza mishpocheh (the extended family).

My birthday wish? To have my brother, my sister-in-law and their boys laughing around my dinner table at Sunday night dinners (with pictures), so that, years from now, we can say, “remember when we used to have dinner together on Sunday nights?”

Ok, maybe it’ll be fifteen years from now, when my nephews (by then, young men) move to NY and drag their parents, kicking and screaming, in tow. (A new agenda item at our weekly family meetings.) Wishes take time, I know.

But it was so great to be together again, if only for 36 hours. Mom z”l was happy.

And because up until that moment the evening lacked a (bloggable) weird twist, SOB handed me a copy of her Last Will and Testament, so I would have it for safe-keeping. So, I signed up for the Hemlock Society because it seemed a natural progression.

We ARE weird.

My Gynecologist, Dr. Jew

Posted on April 26, 2010 by 40andover

No joke. My doctor’s last name is Jew.

If only his first initial were A., it would be “A. Jew, M.D.” That would be the culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

Except that Dr. Jew is Asian.

Actually, that makes it a satirical culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

The whole point of the visit was to talk about hormone replacement therapy. I am not loving some of the effects of aging and since, in this day and age where we think we can cherry-pick out the good from the bad and have it all, I think why not ask? And besides I read about it in the New York Times Magazine. The article says it is safer now. Ahhhh, the Times. The word from on High. I know, I know, I know. Think Valerie Plame scandal. Think slanted reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War. Ok, so the Times is almost as reliable as a comic book.

Dr. Jew was so very gentle and courteous when he suggested to me that doctors tend not to base their medical judgments on New York Times Magazine articles. They like to rely on clinical tests and multi-year studies, like the kind you find in the New England Journal of Medicine. “That rag mag?” I thought, but did not say aloud.

Look, I get my news from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. So, it isn’t a stretch for me to get my medical information from comic books. Thank G-d I am not a doctor.

And Dr. Jew? He is a good (Jew) doctor.

Dear Brother-in-Law,

Posted on April 11, 2010 by 40andover

Yes, we were impressed with your preparation of all those vegetables for SOB (sister of blogger) [see yesterday’s blog]. I know she was working in the hospital this weekend and you, the dutiful husband, prepared dinner for her again tonight instead of your both coming over for Sunday night family dinner. (Remind SOB that she scored so big when she met you.)

Because we want you to feel included, I am sending a picture of the food you could’ve had if you had come to dinner tonight. This is not a competition. No sirree. It is just that we missed you and we wanted you to know what you left on the table, so to speak. I made sure that we didn’t clear away the main course before dessert so you could see the full array: wild salmon, rice, and roasted asparagus. Followed by a delicious fruit selection of strawberries, melon and grapes. There was even ice cream if asked. Ok, this is a competition. And POB (partner of blogger) outdid herself.

So, maybe next time. We did miss having everyone together but FOB (father of blogger) and COB (cousin of blogger) rounded out our dinner table. (And ate your portions.)

Mwa, mwa (big kisses) to you and SOB,

~Blogger-in-law

The Circle Game

Posted on April 4, 2010 by 40andover

My friend’s father passed away gently the other night. He had been chronically ill for three years and then, as it often happens, he deteriorated at a rapid and startling pace.

I read his obituary. I was stunned. The jovial, good-natured man I remember from my college years and my friend’s wedding was a marine in WWII. The things he saw at such a young age could have shattered a person forever. And then he joined the FBI, in counter-intelligence. He must have had a gun, although this image is totally incongruous with the person I remember. Maybe he was the slightly rumpled government agent, world-weary yet a never-failing optimist — the quiet hero of our dreams and aspirations. Maybe it doesn’t matter. All I know is that my friend loved and respected her father and that makes him a hero.

He had sparkling eyes, was upbeat in nature, liked talking to people and was so proud of his daughter. In my mind’s eye, I remember him as sitting with other parents at some graduation party, beaming and happy. Of course, we, the graduates, were in a constant alcohol stupor and so the rest of the memory is a little vague. Was it at the party my parents threw in one of the condo communities near the campus? Those of you who might remember, please correct me if I am wrong.

A person lives an allotted number of years on earth and then, if you believe, abides in the hereafter. A person also lives through that person’s impact on us — whether by DNA or nurture. Whether good or bad, it is inescapable. My friend resembles her father and, like her father, is kind and loves a good laugh. He lives on in her (and her siblings) and her children (and their children). I hope that my friend feels the portion of her dad’s soul that he put in her as he left this world. I felt that happen when my mom died and she is an everyday part of me.

The hard part is after the rituals of death, when the world keeps moving and the carousel of time keeps spinning. It is just brutal.

120 is a stretch, but I won’t accept any less than 90

Posted on March 15, 2010 by 40andover

My dad is 89 and 5 months. As with young children, so, too, with the aged, the months matter. 89 is different than 89-1/2 which is different from 90. The body ages as rapidly at that age as kids develop between the ages of 6 months and 3 years-old.

Today, after seeing my son’s Spring Festival performance, my father experienced chest pains, elevated blood pressure and dizziness and presented with a pallor suggestive of serious heart failure. He had to be taken by ambulance to my sister’s hospital. Of course, I knew that it had to be serious in order for my father to expose my son to this episode. Still, as a mother, I thought, “you couldn’t catch a cab outside?” Imagine my thinking my father should grip his heart in a state of distress and schlep out to Amsterdam Avenue to go to the hospital lest my 7.5 year-old child be exposed to trauma. The power of motherhood is that you think these thoughts. Fortunately, my psychotic moment gave way to remorse and the knowledge that if I didn’t repent, my mother — in Heaven — would send a lightning bolt to warn me to tread carefully. (Our Seder theme this Passover is “where is there evidence of a loving G-d in the Hebrew Bible?”; however, wrath of G-d or Mom can really keep a person in line.) Of course, my dad would never subject his grandson to trauma if he could avoid it.

My dad is ok. I called my son (through his baby sitter’s cell phone) to tell him that Grandpa is okay. “I was worried about Grandpa, E-Mom,” he told me, “but I really did a good job in the play!!” I want to cry because my son can accept (and yet not understand) the simple and the complex simultaneously and in the same priority, in a way only children can (as long as they feel safe).

My dad has low thresholds of pain and discomfort so I thought this was one of those false alarms. Still seething slightly from having my son subjected to an emergency, I kept in “radio-contact” with my sister, the doctor, who was in the ER with Dad, but I didn’t drop everything and run to his side, as I had done so many times before. Then, all of a sudden, I thought, “I am being selfish and petty and he will die.” As I was about to run up to the hospital, my sister called to say he was being discharged and it was something, just not a heart attack (even though my father is technically in heart failure).

I called Dad about 45 minutes later. He was discombobulated; he hung up on me and then when I called back he didn’t realize what had happened. I called my sister, who called him. I waited. I called again. He was fine and he said, “I just spoke to POB [partner of blogger]. FOPOB [Father of POB] asked me to tell her that [insert random information].” Ok, all is back to normal. My Dad is my Dad.

SOB [sister of blogger] is calling BOB [brother of blogger]. Maybe he should come visit sooner rather than later.

When my Mom died in early 2003 at age 76, I made my father promise he would love until 120 (like Moses). He would just have to make up the difference. Life is unfair that way. But I am starting to understand what that entails. My father always tried to be there for his children, even if it wasn’t always what his children wanted or demanded or expected. That is the way — we are the parents we always wanted to our children and our children will be the parent they always wanted to their children, and so on and so on. Neither our parents nor we will be the parents that our children wanted. That is the human condition.

If I relieve my Dad of his promise, will he think that he is dying? Will he go more quickly because his promise is forgiven? How can I tell him it is ok to let go when I really don’t want to lose him? And it is not time for him to let go. Life is more constrained than it was, but it is not the end game yet.

So, now I hope he makes it to 90 in good health. Ok, Dad, just 90. 120 is negotiable. But less than 90, that is a deal-breaker. Are we clear?

Dear Mom

Posted on March 6, 2010 by 40andover

Recently, I have welcomed some friends to the unfortunate club of children who have lost parents.

The finality of it all. And the guilt that life must go on. I remember how hard it was to breathe sometimes.

What I don’t dare tell them is that after 7+ years, the snapshot I hold of you in my mind — white-haired wig, tennis sneakers, slacks, blouse (Dad didn’t like you in turtlenecks) and an Eddie Bauer or J. Crew woolen zip-up sweater — is getting a little vague and dimmed as time goes by. I have razor-sharp memories of many, many things — throughout the years and especially during the month before your death — but the sound of your voice, Mom, the sound of your voice, exists only in my imitation of what I remember of it. Has that become the memory and is your voice lost to me?

You are still a force in my life. I was recently at a company retreat and there were over 300 people I didn’t know. I just pretended to be you — the way you would walk into a room and find ways to meet and really talk with — well, up to then — strangers. My mantra, “just be Mom,” enables me to work the room but never like you, the master. You had a way (mine is diluted with Dad’s bluntness) of making people feel, as if when talking to you, no one else in the world existed and you had all the time in the world to chat. And they were right, you remembered everything and you were interested in them and what made them happy or sad and, if they seemed lonely, then — whether they liked it or not — they had to come to every holiday at our house. I feel that way, too, about people I meet, but sometimes my directness (ok, Dad’s genes again) turns them off.

To be fair to Dad, life in the fast-paced world of corporate law (and its diminishing economic rewards) make bluntness a relevant and useful tool. I try to do it á la Larry King (I know, I know, you stopped watching him once he started interviewing headline catchers and hangers-on), with a directness that is a little self-effacing but gets the point across. You see, Mom, I realize that since you died at an age a full 25 years younger than when your parents died, that I cannot rely on the fullness of time for people to come around. In truth, that is a cop-out. I am not as patient as you. And although I believe in the goodness of people and their senses of fundamental fairness, I have a more cynical streak. Since you died before the invasion of Iraq, you are just going to have to trust me that some Republicans and those who are leaders of the military-industrial complex are beyond redemption.

But then again you missed the heady days following Barack Hussein Obama’s election as the 44th President of the United States of America. That would have lifted your soul. The sheer promise of America in those moments would have made your eyes well with tears. He has been attacked and stymied at every turn, but, Mom, he is a transformational leader for our country and our generation. When I see the political machinations going on, I have to dig deep and believe as you that what is true and right will prevail.

Wow, after all of this, I guess you’re not so fuzzy after all. Even though the picture of you is getting fuzzy, you live on in my mind, my heart and my soul.

I really appreciate this talk. And I appreciate your stopping by in my dreams. When I am sick, could you remember to say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would”? That always helped. Even your grandson needs to hear me say it “just like Grandma would’ve” when he is sick. And I totally get it. You never want your child to hurt even the teensiest bit. Maybe that is why you hang around, to ease our pain.

Ok, I am not ready to dive in the with the “G-d thing” but I believe that your life force abides. That’s as far as I am willing to go on the “everlasting” subject. You are going to have to win me over on that one. This is going to test your patience. (I was never the easy child.)

I love you. Now I am remembering that you did have a few cashmere turtlenecks, notwithstanding Dad’s preference otherwise, under your sweaters. (We still wear them.)

Love,

When my son is an Olympian

Posted on March 2, 2010 by 40andover

On Sunday night, we gathered for the usual family dinner. This time, we ate out, courtesy of Dad who stuck a crowbar in his wallet and sprung for the bill. It was my (older) sister’s 50th birthday. It was literally the least he could do. I did the least I could do as well by merely showing up. At least our son made a card.

Our son mentioned he would rather be watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. Ok, he doesn’t get the tact award. My cousin asked our son about what he saw and learned from watching the Olympics. He said that every night, he and I went over the sports that were too dangerous for him to try. My cousin asked what sport he could try and he answered, “curling”. My cousin leaned over and asked me in a sidebar, “how long do these prohibitions last?” to which I responded quite emphatically, “until I am DEAD!!”

Bottom line, my son will never make the skeleton or the luge team, as if they are sports anyway. They are kamikaze runs. Have you noticed that the winter sports are REALLY dangerous? Just ask any insurance agent whether some of these athletes can get life insurance. Ok, maybe Lloyd’s of London will insure these athletes. But then again, Lloyd’s insured the Argentine fleet against the British navy in that not-so-recent unpleasantness over the Falkland Islands. (Remind me why those islands mattered enough to risk lives?) Then again, Lloyd’s behavior seems quaint in the wake of the global economic collapse created by a few 25 year-old derivatives traders and short sellers. But I digress.

Curling isn’t really an option, either. It looks like “extreme housekeeping” with those hot iron and the brooms. And my son, a chip off the ol’ block that he is, knows gornischt (nothing) about housekeeping.

and the years spin by . . .

Posted on March 1, 2010 by 40andover

How do you know you’re getting older?

1. You are willing to spend a small fortune for an ounce of magic wrinkle-erasing moisturizer.

2. You pass by the General Nutrition Center and drop $150 on mind and body rejuvenating vitamin packets.

3. You see a picture of yourself and you say, “I don’t really look like that. I’m younger.” Which may make sense — if you are on a planet other than Earth.

Yep, I did all of these things. Maybe I just go for the full body lift. I am sure that I can get a good volume discount from some cut and paste doctor somewhere.

Look away

Posted on February 21, 2010 by 40andover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Aging