Nine of Us, Thirty Years and Going Strong

Posted on August 17, 2011 by 40andover

I often write about my college friends. (See http://40andoverblog.com/?p=942 Us, in a Rear-View Mirror and http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2418, one of the many posts about our 25th college reunion.)

We nine friends have sustained each other through ups and downs in our lives.

One of the Nine, CAFOB (California friend of blogger) is staying with us for a few days. Another of the Nine, NYFOB (New York City friend of blogger) emailed about what CAFOB was up to. I emailed back that CAFOB was staying downtown some place that night.

NYFOB emails back: YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW WHETHER SHE IS SEEING THAT CRAZY GUY? OMG! NOOOOOO DETAILS???

NYFOB was soooo right: I failed in my obligation to question her comings and goings with the detail and precision (and techniques) of a seasoned New York detective.

There are some rules we Nine live by: “you do it, you live with it” and “if you want to dance, you pay the fiddler” (both courtesy of the now much-mellowed DCFOB (DC friend of blogger).

In other words, CAFOB had a responsibility to spill her guts and break all confidences about the — hmmm — liaison. And it was my responsibility to enforce the rules.

Utter and total failure. I am sensing a group visit and intervention being planned.

Luckily, POB (partner of blogger) was available and got the whole story. POB says to CAFOB, “You have a choice: you tell the Nine or I will tell the Nine. Choose wisely.” Sad things can wait; juicy gossip among us must be revealed with great dispatch.

I love that POB enforces the laws of the Nine if I am not around. POB is a true life partner.

Thank G-d for that Haven, No-Where-istan

Posted on August 15, 2011 by 40andover

For those who don’t remember, I established the sovereign nation of No-Where-istan (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1404;http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1425; http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1432; http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1541; http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1586; http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1599; http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1756; http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1870; and http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2001).

This evening, it is a much needed refuge. POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince) and I were playing a trivia game about ancient civilizations. He was beating us handily. (Tragic that I lack the factual knowledge to keep up with my 9 year-old.) If you answer correctly the question posed, you keep the card. The one with the most cards wins. There is a wild card where you can take a card of a person of your choice. TLP got the wild card twice and the first time took one from my winnings. The second time, he also took a card from me. I said all in good fun, “That’s not fair!! Take it from [POB]!! Look at all the cards she has!!” TLP responded, “I have to favor my biological mother.”

The crash you just heard is my world in pieces. And I had to keep going with the game. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and POB must have said something to TLP. TLP was very sad and felt horrible.

I said, “Sweetie, I am very sad but you need to be able to be honest and open with your feelings, and you need to be open to the response as well.”

We all hugged and I whispered, “I love you more this minute than last, and I will love you more a minute from now. Why?”

TLP responded, “because love always grows, Emom.”

“That’s right, buddy.”

It is the thing we say when I kiss him good night. Sometimes those rituals are more soothing to the adult than the child.

He is now listening to an audiobook about Darwin and evolution and reading a book about trains (multi-tasking seems to work for him). I am sitting in our living room, with my guts kicked out and tears streaming. I can never be his biological mother. But it never occurred to me that I would love him any different.

Now, as this is the second time he has said this, it occurs to me that he loves me differently, and in a lesser way. I know he is processing our nouvelle famille nuclear and that time will tell all. I have to give him that time.

But right now, I am grateful to live in that comical creation in my head that allows me to set the rules of love and life (and health care) along with a national flag and stamp.

And, a mythical place where loving a little boy with all my heart doesn’t break my heart.

It’s raining, it’s pouring

Posted on August 14, 2011 by 40andover

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.

The conversation turns, updated

Posted on August 11, 2011 by 40andover

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.

RIP, Cousin Bernie

Posted on August 8, 2011 by 40andover

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.

Our Trip to Philly

Posted on July 31, 2011 by 40andover

The six of us set out yesterday morning for the City of Brotherly Love: POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), DOB (Dad of Blogger and SOB) and me. Three generations. One car. Four sets of directions.

DOB sat up front will me. HOSOB and SOB took row two. POB and TLP were in the third row, practically a full block away from me in the driver’s seat. In fact, the car was so huge, that I entered New Jersey and Pennsylvania a solid two seconds before they did. I was surprised the car didn’t take diesel and we didn’t have to park with the trucks at rest stops.

As soon as DOB got settled, he offered me some hard candy. You know, the kind that old Jewish ladies carry in their pocketbooks for decades and old Jewish men have in every pocket of every jacket they own. Those candies. I make it a point not to eat anything that I think may be older than 9 year-old TLP. I declined. SOB, ever the intrepid one, said yes. She took one for the rest of us, because she knew DOB wouldn’t stop offering until someone said yes.

DOB read every sign out loud from the Lincoln Tunnel to Elizabeth, New Jersey. But he didn’t sing. And SOB was counting on having him sing to see just how crazy I would get. SOB finally asked DOB, “Dad, doesn’t that sign remind you of a song? Like, ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again?'” SOB was soooooooo trying to win our bet about how quickly, how much and what DOB would sing. Of course, that kind of cheating is only allowed when I do it.

Soon after Elizabeth, New Jersey, there was a multi-generational bathroom emergency. So we stopped at a rest stop that was named for someone whom I am sure would be horrified if he/she were still alive. As SOB and I walked into the women’s room, our faces already had the scared-and-disgusted-look in anticipation of what we might see in the stalls. We caught sight of each other and laughed but we didn’t have the camera to record. Our looks were not in vain. Nasty. Nasty. Nasty. POB yelled out a helpful, “Use your hamstring muscles, girls!!!”

As I left the bathroom, I noticed the medical waste dispenser with a sign that said, “For your sharps”. I made SOB go back in with a camera and take a picture. When she sends it to me, I will post it. SOB is a doctor and always optimistic: “it must be for insulin”. Really, SOB? You run an ICU in an urban hospital. Are you kidding me? If only the needles were for insulin . . . . We beat it out of there.

We were soon back on the road with traffic, narrow lanes and fellow travelers seeking to go 70 mph in work zones. Of our four sets of directions, two were written, and two were saved on handheld electronic devices. No GPS with the automated voice. No map. Still we had six or seven different opinions on the way forward. TLP (the only child) offered constructive critical questions, like: “Emom, are both hands on the wheel?” “Did you signal long enough to practice safe driving?” “Are we there yet?”

Rules: Always have a diversion for your child. Always have a bona fide map. iPhones and blackberry screens are tooooo small and, with two sets of directions, there is no agreement on the correct exit until after we have passed it. In fact, even when we were within one block of the hotel, no one could make out the directions, and ended up back on the highway and in a traffic jam. One hour later, we got to the hotel. And all the time TLP is asking, “did we get lost?” AAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaargh.

When we arrived, I had to go to the gym, sit outside for a bit and then nap. No sightseeing. I knew I couldn’t sit outside the old Custom House anymore when men dressed in Revolutionary Era clothes tried to show kids how to hold fake bayonets and march like militiamen. I met SOB and DOB as we were all on our way back to the hotel. DOB couldn’t really handle that much sightseeing. His stamina and physical stature have declined markedly this last year. Still, I think he enjoyed the trip.

DOB doesn’t hear very well and therefore can’t follow conversations so closely anymore. And over dinner, the restaurant music included “The Girl from Ipanema”, and HOSOB and I were trying to remember the woman who sang the original with Jobim. DOB didn’t remember the song, so he just started singing something else that he knew, “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess. But The Girl from Ipanema was still playing overhead. HOSOB started singing a combo of “When Johnny Comes Marching With the Girl From Ipanema . . .” . Then TLP abandoned singing the Louie Armstrong part of the duet with DOB, and chimed in with “La Cucharacha”. (Not sure why.)

The rest of us started to lose our minds a little. SOB and I took pictures of each other’s exasperated, disbelieving looks. POB retreated to a happy place in her head where her family was not re-enacting a scene from a psychiatric ward.

As we were walking back to the hotel, everyone was amiable and quiet. TLP was holding DOB’s handing, HOSOB was holding SOB’s hand and I was holding POB’s hand. Unwilling to let a wound heal, I started to sing the “Ants Go Marching Two by Two, Hurrah, Hurrah,” to see if I could get a rise out of SOB. She was engaging in willful deafness.

This morning we went to the Franklin Institute, which is worth a return visit. It took us a few tries to leave Philadelphia and at least one electronic device conked out after the second escape attempt. We went a little too far on 295 North (or East, whatever), and had to stop for food and directions at the Frying Skillet, a real trucker stop in Bordentown, New Jersey. Everyone looked at our posse of three women, a child, middle-aged guy and nonagenarian, who were tattoo-less and looked every bit like effete New York liberals that we are. (What kind of lettuce is in your house salad? Just what’s been out on the salad bar that looks like wilted spinach? Hmmmm. Pork, bacon and burgers are the house specialties? I guess I’ll have a grilled burger. Oh, ok, pan-fried in a skillet is fine.)

On the way back, TLP and DOB had quite a sing-along. I wanted to press an eject button but I was the driver.

We powered through and all were safely deposited at their doors, happy to have had an adventure and even happier to be home. Safe and sound and exhausted.

Philadelphia

Posted on July 29, 2011 by 40andover

We will go, young and old . . . .

It is in fact biblical. Tomorrow, three generations of the Bloggers are piling into a van, headed for the City of Brotherly Love, for a 36-hour frolic and detour. We usually travel to funerals, weddings, art openings and cemeteries. This is the first excursion just for the sake of it.

The cast: DOB (dad of blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince) and me. We will be reprising our infamous roles from prior epic sagas:

The driver: me.
The co-pilot: DOB (G-d help us all; I will tweet if we end up in one or the other Carolina).
The back-seat drivers: SOB and TLP.
Coffee and snack provider extraordinaire: POB.
Bird Talk: HOSOB and TLP.

No one bought tickets for me at any of the museums tomorrow, because everyone assumes (rightfully so) that I will take to my hotel bed upon arrival. SOB kept emphasizing that there was a spa at the hotel. I can take a cab to any number of spas in New York City. So, the hotel spa isn’t so much a draw, as it is a consolation prize.

POB is getting the directions in case there is no GPS in the van/truck. I wonder whether it is considered a car or a truck for parking areas at rest stops.

I am bringing breath fresheners and sedatives. For a family excursion, these are travel necessities, right along with deodorant, a change of underwear and toothpaste.

More tomorrow.

Mad Vow Descends on New York — And How Wonderful It Was!!!

Posted on July 25, 2011 by 40andover

It was overcast. It was pedestrian. It was a long line on Worth Street. I bet a few wondered if they could get their driver’s licenses renewed while they waited. It was spectacular. It was thrilling.

It was a jumble of emotions.

It was, except for the lines (and that it was a Sunday), so unremarkable in its normality, that I wanted to cry for joy. Yet a whole community celebrated standing in line for a marriage license — something that everyone else, until now, took for granted and, frankly, groused about. Young and old, of every nationality and race, same sex couples stood on that line. Four couples with whom we are especially close took their vows yesterday. We couldn’t find them. G-d bless texting and emails because we all knew we were there somewhere standing as witnesses.

Even Samantha Bee and Jason Jones from the Daily Show were on hand to mock the events. That is how you know you have arrived.

Some sang and danced around and under the rainbow chupah (wedding canopy) [see above shot, looking up].

There was a lone protester. He said terrible things that TLP (our son, the little prince) asked about. TLP also asked why I said, “Shame on you!!” to the protester. I told him that the protester used bad words and is spewing hate in the name of Jesus who was a man of love. “Well, E-Mom, maybe it is because you and Mommy won’t be married until June.”

G-d bless TLP. He thinks the problem is that we are living in sin. But all will be ok once we get married in June. In fact, he told some people on the subway who got married, “don’t worry, WE are getting married in June!!!” Yep, the whole family.

Take-Out Take-Away

Posted on July 18, 2011 by 40andover

From age 21 to 44, I lived on take-out food.

In the beginning, it was cool to order during a late-night at the office especially since I couldn’t afford to eat that way if I were actually paying for it. Then I had dreams of eating tuna fish out of a can over my kitchen sink if only I could be at home at dinner time. And then I realized that I never had time to be in my kitchen, much less clean my kitchen, so I really wouldn’t want to eat anything in there. The dream remained, even though interrupted from time to time by reality.

At some point, I was living with someone who cooked (pre-POB (partner of blogger)) and the food was good but hard on my digestive track. And before the days of blackberries and remote access, I had to go to the office with my intestines in a twist. So, as a matter of honor and sacrifice to my colleagues, I was forced to stay late and eat Shun Lee and other take-out so that I didn’t smelled of garlic or other spices anymore than anyone else. In typical blogger family fashion, it was, in fact, the least I could do.

When POB came along and beepers were available, we would work long hours, meet at the gym, have a little falafel and hummus with hot sauce that tested our abs of steel — in a slightly different way. We learned that some days were more — how do you say? — microbial than others. But these are the sacrifices we make to “have it all”.

Then came TLP (our son, the little prince) and there was no time for sleep, let alone cooking or even eating. Exhaustion won over hunger every time, except when we absolutely, positively needed energy. “Don’t talk with your mouth full” became “don’t-sleep-with-your-mouth-full-because-I-am-too-tired-to-do-the-Heimlich-and-I-can’t-stand-the-smell-of-whatever-you’re-eating.” As many of you will remember, love is an emotion that is felt but not expressed when you have a newborn.

Then, came the Great Recession. Time for family and friends. Time for hanging out. Time to have our families over for Sunday night dinners. POB decided after a while that she would rather cook than order another dinner from Saigon Grill (and we were supposed to be boycotting them anyway for labor violations). So, she started cooking. And she didn’t stop.

And the take-out stopped and the cook-in began. POB cooked, I cleaned. When she needed to prove a point, she dirtied every pot and utensil in the house. Point taken and respect paid. Harmony restored. Paradise, momentarily lost, was regained. A possible script for a Sunday night movie, although no one is dead or psychotic — yet. (I’ll get back to you on this.)

Tonight, these many years later, we are companionably cobbling together dinner from the fridge — cold carrot soup with cumin and lime, quinoa with tomatoes, onions and black beans, a salad and some wine. A perfect repast for a hot summer’s night. And our kitchen is cozy (yet cool thanks to air-conditioning) and inviting.

Take-out was my food source for over 20 years. I don’t miss it at all. And now we have a kitchen in which I would eat tuna out of a can just to be home with my family.

And to think, she still wants to marry me next year.

The bet

Posted on July 17, 2011 by 40andover

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.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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