Visiting Day at Day Camp

Posted on July 14, 2009 by 40andover

Today is visiting day at day camp. Ok, it is visiting dinner, really.

I still remember my parents coming for visiting days when I was at sleep away camp. I remember the summer my mother went gray. It was 3-1/2 weeks since I had seen my parents and I wondered who were those odd people waving at me. Maybe it was my mother’s gray, my father’s checked pants and white shoes combo or the red keds (the really wimpy kind — not the now-preppy-cool kind) my mom wore. It was probably the whole picture that made me weak in the knees.

Luckily, my son saw us this morning so the trauma should be muted. More later.

Grandma, Mom and me

Posted on July 13, 2009 by 40andover

So I am not only becoming my mother, I am becoming my grandmother.

You may remember seeing old Jewish ladies like her. They had heavy accents and would offer you a “gless of tea in a kup” (because in the “old country” tea was served in glasses, but “vee know that here, in Amerrrica, dahlink, vee poot tea in a kup”).

They carried heavy shopping bags full of things. In fact, those shopping bags were so ubiquitous that they were called “Jewish luggage”. Which gets me to my point. This morning, I couldn’t seem to find any of my fancy shmancy bags in which to shove some of the daily detritus of my life. I spied a small Dean & Deluca shopping bag (note to self: remind family that this is not a eatery for recessionary times). So in went my blackberries (yes more than one), gym clothes, bills I need to pay, etc. Off I went to my fancy shmancy job at my fancy shmancy office with my shtetl style bag.

Some things must just be in our genes. From generation to generation. . . .

Tattoos

Posted on July 13, 2009 by 40andover

I hate tattoos. I think they mar an absolutely amazing work of evolution — the human body. It also must hurt. And, ink in the skin can’t be a good thing. But, tattoos are everywhere, even on 60-something people who didn’t get them in the military.

So, now I try to look at them instead of looking away. What do they say about the person? They must be clues to a person’s identity or life story. Or am I giving people too much credit?

I must read up on this because if there is meaning in these tattoos, then there is a whole new level to people watching.

Being the other mother

Posted on July 11, 2009 by 40andover

I am not my son’s biological mother. My partner is. There are distinct advantages to being genetically irrelevant: no worries that the less-than-stellar genes I carry (recessive, of course) will transfer to my son. I can say that he is adorable and that he is smart, because I have nothing to do with those. The down side is that I don’t see my mother in him and she was such a positive life force.

I live the nature/nurture debate. I think humans are born hard-wired and nurture doesn’t change that. Nurture can create a safe, loving, encouraging environment so that a child’s better impulses, desires and dreams can flourish. That’s my job. It is hard sometimes because there is something about the biological connection that is primitive and similarly hard-wired.

I worry about my place in my son’s life. I have a piece of paper — court ordered adoption. I am legally and financially as responsible for him as is any biological parent. But that is no bright line upon which to stake my parental claim. Certainly if family were decided based on “blood” relations, I would lose. Court order sounds strong but it is paper and in “rock, paper, scissors,” I would lose to the scissors. So, it can’t be that strong.

I know I love him and he loves me. That’s the tie that binds. The rest shouldn’t matter. But until love is the litmus test for family, I am glad I have the piece of paper.

Losing my mother — 6.5 years later

Posted on July 10, 2009 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

Tomorrow is your grandson’s 7th birthday. You died one day shy of his being six months old. That means today is 6 and 1/2 years since you died. I can’t believe it. There is no “moving on” after your death; there is only “moving with” your memory and wishing you were here. Next to the computer is a picture of you holding him after his bris and I am sitting with you on your left. The person on your right (unseen in the photo) said something tremendously stupid because I can see it in your eyes. But I know that look — you were measuring your response to an inane statement. In fact, I have that same look on my face in the picture. Genes are amazing things, except you would have responded with something perfectly diplomatic but to the point. I would have responded like Larry King did when he interviewed Jean Harris (who killed the Scarsdale diet doctor), “so, you’re a murderer”.

You live in me and as I age I look more and more like you. This comforts me. But I need for your grandson to know you or know about you, so he can appreciate the remarkable person who was his grandmother.

I tell him about you all the time. I use those Yiddish phrases that you used with us when you cupped our punims adoringly. Sometimes, I tell him what Grandma would have said if she were alive because I want him to have a sense of you. So if he does something funny or wonderful or if he needs comforting, I tell him what you would have said to him if you were alive.

A few months ago, we were all in a cab after visiting Dad. I buckled up and put your grandson on my lap and “strapped him in” with my arms forming the “Grandma grip” (which he knows comes from your legendary strong grip on your children’s arms when crossing streets). The cab stopped short and everyone else went flying (though, thank G-d, no one was hurt). Your grandson was safe in the Grandma grip. That is the image of you I want him to carry with him — the strong, protective love that endures even though you are in Heaven.

I wonder if you would like my blog and would send the link to all of your friends. I wonder if you would comment. You would probably send me direct tweets that said, “be nice” in that slightly chastising way you have. You would worry about Sarah Palin’s daughter being so young to have had a child and tell me to be gentle about that. But, you needn’t worry. I, too, feel that the world is too much upon her. It is her mother who makes me crazy(ier).

Mom, this is not getting easier. And I know you would say to me, “my poor little tsatskele, if I could have this sadness for you, I would.” And that’s the catch: so much more to mourn.

Another bus experience

Posted on July 10, 2009 by 40andover

I’m on the M5. So far nothing totally gross to report. But then again we’re only at 59th Street. Ooh, some prospects for the freak show just got on. We’re waiting, we’re waiting . . . . A whole block and nothing. What gives? No one is on the phone uttering the immortal line, “Yeah, I’m like on the bus” or “I went to my gynecologist and . . .”. Is this NY? Is this public transportation?

Ah, a woman on her cell phone. Phew. I thought I was transported to Oz (or worse, Kansas). The previously reported contestants for the freak show disembarked without incident. Oh no, how will I handle near-gentility in a New York bus?

Ok, a man got on who could have been Bachelor No. 3 on the Dating Game or a swinging guy in a 1970s moving about a singles building complex starring Julie Newmar. Leisure suits, over-sized glasses brushed-back hair. Maybe “Love, American Style” (ok, you need to be in your 50s to remember that). Not a natural fiber on him. Phew, New York has not failed me.

Ok, Grace is raining down on me. A man who is eating salt water taffy is trying to get it out of the crevices of his teeth without using his fingers. The facial contortions are remarkable.

Ah, now more action — homeys with some neck action and attitude being bothered by everything. I best not be in their sphere of space although it always extends as far as the next person so somehow it can be inconvenient. That neck movement coupled with the facial contortions of taffy man has really made this trip interesting. “That’s right” plus a lip-smacking sound implying disgust plus a neck jerk and an eye roll.

Other important questions raised on this ride: Why do grey haired white men think they can get away without shaving for a day or two? How do women with scary nails take their metro cards out of their wallets without scratching the operative strip? How do they wipe their tooshies without creating scar tissue?

My stop. More another time.

More transportation experiences — you gotta read this

Posted on July 9, 2009 by 40andover

Now with the economic downturn, I don’t travel so much (if you discount the epic sojourns below Manhattan everyday).

Recently, I was travelling and stayed in a ni-i-i-i-ice hotel (as in ahhhhh, this is like 2006).

Coming home was a hassle. Because of weather and work I had to change my flight constantly (actually, my assistant who has the patience of the Muslim equivalent of a saint changed the flights constantly).

I was tagged by Homeland Security precisely because I changed flights so many times in a short time period. I was put into one of those orgasmatrons (for those of you who saw the movie, Sleeper) that works like a fully body glaucoma test (spirts of air all over) and then all of my belongings were tested for trace explosives. A woman with gloves literally aired my dirty laundry as she looked for trace evidence. The episode reminded me of the time I was maybe 7 years old and my great aunt Fanny held up “panties” (that word makes me shudder to this day) that she bought me as a GIFT. A gift of panties from your great aunt Fanny is not something from which one recovers. Ever. I wondered whether there was a stress counselor on premises. For me, it is a worse horror show than Wife of Chucky. But I digress. So everyone around saw what I wore on my trip. No fancy lingerie so it was not THAT kind of trip. Yet, I am not sure if I am ok with everyone’s so quickly getting bored with the display and moving on with their lives. No garter, no crowd, I guess is the lesson I learned.

There was a woman who refused to take off her bangle-like serpentine
bracelet. She was in the middle-aged, over-tanned white woman demographic.
Her answer was that she travels so much, if she kept taking it off, she
would have to bend it to the point of breaking. When the security officer asked if she would take it off for $1,000,000 she said that she had had a gold version and she took it off because she had a gun pointed to her head and that now she downgraded to silver. Ok too much information and totally non-responsive. She saw my stunned look and mistook it for the horror of what happened rather than the horror of having to know so much about her life. So, she started to go into detail and so I had to say that I had all the information I ever wanted about her bracelets.

Eventually, I passed the checkpoint with those stellarly trained TSA personnel. Same people who, in 2002, made my then 74 year-old mother with metastatic breast cancer (and looked it) take off her wig. Because a dirty bomb would have been under her wig.

Finally I was able to proceed to the departure lounge (a misnomer, but for another blog entry). Ok, there is a guy openly, unashamedly and unabashedly reading a girlie magazine. Not Penthouse or Playboy, but cleavage is wildly evident on the cover. But wait, it’s a woman! It is San Francisco after all. This is not a gay/straight issue (it can’t be because I am gay). This is a generational issue. This is an I remember Stonewall and life in the closet and you don’t generation gap issue. I do know (because I hold on to some pretense of hipness) I am not supposed to use a pronoun which presumes a gender designation but, REALLY, if you want people to get it right then wear a gender tag. Like, “Hi, my gender is ________.” Oy, another digression. The good news was that at least I didn’t have to worry about guys doing guy things when they see scantily clad women. I’ll leave it there. And yes, I have seen that on planes, airports and even sitting on the sidewalk in Manhattan, so don’t get me started.

Chocolates, PUH-leeze

Posted on July 5, 2009 by 40andover

So my partner and I celebrated ten years together by packing up for two nights/one day at a hotel in the city (no names, but it is in Tribeca and has the word Grand in the name). I bet it was meant to be a groovy, gritty and cool hotel. It was a little like being on the set of CSI: Whatever, where they all work in the dark. Obviously no one old enough to need bifocals has anything to do with these shows (other than Horatio who doesn’t have to move his body — just his arms to lift his sunglasses on and off his face). Is that why the guy on the original CSI had to leave? Maybe if someone turned up the lights. . .. But I digress. So, this place is so dimly lit that a normal person could walk into a wall or a draped wall, in this way too groovy place. The rooms had the same lighting issues. Oh, I get it. Eco-friendliness. Nah, not eco-friendliness on purpose. Dark, gritty cool — that was the intent. The rooms were tiny and had this post-apocalyptic decor. There was a sad goldfish in a stark bowl in the room because apparently rental pets soothe a person who is staying in a Mad-Max-Beyond-Thunderdome room.

The staff was young and beautiful. Clearly the only two criteria. Experience and manners, well, those are so old-school. Also old school are adequate lighting, cheery decor (which can be chic as well — think Design Within Reach) and chocolates with turn-down service. The economy is bad, I know, and I could give these people a few hints on customer service that might increase the rate of repeat customers. Hint no. 1: don’t scrimp on the chocolates.

turn the positive into negatives — or vice versa — whatever

Posted on June 25, 2009 by 40andover

My fabulous college friends without whom life would not be as rich and fulfilling, came up with the TNP principle. Turn Negative into Positive. In order to get my friends to read my blog, I need to focus not on the peculiarities of human existence but on the good of the human condition. So I shall (for a moment and then discard in favor of the usual cynicism). I have noticed a politeness on NY’s subways that I hadn’t notice before the economic crisis (maybe people are starting to believe that karma is in fact a boomerang — stop, I am being cynical again). On at least three occasions since March or so, young people have offered to give up their seats on the train if I wanted to sit down. I gently and appreciatively declined all offers because contrary to my obviously enfeebled looking state, I AM a ROBUST 45 year-old who can play a very physical game of invasion of the aliens with her 7 year-old. (Note to self: consider hair painting — the new name for highlights — to cover the gray, or as my college friends endorse, take a brown Sharpie to my hair and voila!) Ok maybe this is not what my friends thought of as TNP. I’m trying. Change is a 12-step process. (Ok, 11 step because I am asking NO ONE for forgiveness, at least not for my cynicism. There are too many other topics and bad traits for which I need to ask forgiveness.)

Urban life doesn’t need to be anonymous

Posted on June 24, 2009 by 40andover

40 years ago, NY was a small town in many ways. If my mom and I were out doing errands or whatever, and Mrs. Moorestein or Mrs. Freeman or Mrs. Graham were on the street, there was no way that we passed them by without stopping and visiting and I had to show my best five year-old manners. And they scared me because they were ADULTS with booming voices. As of two years ago, Mrs. Moorestein still lived nearby my father and we hugged and kissed when we saw each other. We had been neighbors for decades.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Aging