Category Archives: family

Post-Script to The Kids Are All Right

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I recently ranted (what else is new) about the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” the first film about a lesbian family to come out of a major movie producer (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2559).

Apparently, for the under-30 crowd (and maybe my own age-group), the lesbian sex scene is not so bizarre.

Ok.  I get it, in every marriage, sometimes you need to change things up to keep it interesting, but I still stand by my lament: for the first major motion picture about lesbians and their kids, there couldn’t be a little romance?  It IS Hollywood, after all.  And it isn’t like the movie didn’t push the outer edge of the believability envelope in other ways.

How about throwing a bone to the hopeless romantics in the crowd who still love and adore their spouses?

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Sunday night dinner with the family

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As usual, SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of blogger), DOB (dad of blogger), COB (cousin of blogger), POB (partner of blogger), Blogger and our son have dinner together at our house on Sunday nights.  Our son calls the crowd, the “Regulars” (as in, “[Blogger], are the Regulars coming over this weekend?”).  Often, after a funny story told by one of the assembled family, our son sometimes says to me, “[Blogger], why don’t you blog about that?” (Put that under the category of “Kids Say the Darndest Things”.)

Fresh Direct was scheduled to deliver groceries between 4pm and 6pm.  DOB came at 4pm; Fresh Direct came at 6pm.  In fact, as DOB ages, he is coming earlier and earlier.  I think that is why restaurants offer early bird specials — the elderly set factor in so much time to get where they are going that, even though they intend to eat dinner at 6:30pm, they arrive at the restaurant at 4:30pm.  So, if my rough calculations are correct, in just five short years, when DOB is 95, he will be showing up at brunch time.  So we will have to have new menu options by then.  Fair warning.

As I said, the Fresh Direct delivery came at 6pm.  In our house, we play FDF (Fresh Direct football), which means that I throw non-glass groceries to our son, who runs it into the kitchen where POB puts them away.  Sometimes, I follow in pursuit for a two-hand touch tackle.  For glass (and milk), I do a pass off and our son runs it in.  Less yardage but the quarterback can’t always pass.  Sometimes, the vegetables look a little mangled and bruised if the pass is incomplete, but it still tastes fine.  POB is unconvinced but keeps her opinions in the “if looks could kill” category.  That works because I just look away.

SOB and HOSOB were at the house while we were playing FDF and SOB was a guest quarterback for a few clutch plays.  I could tell she was a bit overwhelmed by the number of boxes and volume of foodstuffs that required cooking and preparing.  SOB and HOSOB have been married for only a few years and, before that, SOB mostly lived alone and out of prepared food cartons.  Even now, their refrigerator is a little post-apocalyptic (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2355 for pictures).

The expression on her face as she looked at the Fresh Direct boxes suggested that she found this somewhat foreign cultural activity charming and said to HOSOB pointing to the now empty boxes, “Groceries. [pause.]  Groceries.  We should have groceries, too!”  (Dear SOB, most people buy groceries.) 

HOSOB, looking a little scared, said “What would we do with them?”  Oh, sweet, HOSOB, you and SOB can do nothing with groceries.  You need to stick with what works — take-out.

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Bill’s and Hillary’s redemptive moment

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From what I read — how can one avoid it — the details of Chelsea’s wedding were better kept secrets than, say, our troop deployments in Afghanistan (thanks, WikiLeaks).

Good for them. It was Chelsea’s wedding and not a media event.  The Clintons, who have a love-hate obsession with media, kept it real.

Chelsea was the star of the show (and NOT Bill or Hillary).

I, for one, am glad not to know all the details.  I am neither family nor friend AND I don’t care what the bride wore or who was/was not invited.

I do wish Chelsea and her husband much happiness and joy in their lives together, as I would wish any newlyweds (whether or not the union is recognized by the laws of the several states).

But, Bill, really, don’t you feel a tinch bad about the Defense of Marriage Act?

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Parenting Skills (or lack thereof)

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My son likes to play the lottery.  He is 8 years old.  Ok, he likes us to play the lottery for him.  Which we do every month or so.

Why? If he wins big, he reasons, then we don’t have to work, or travel for work, and then we would get to be together 24/7 and end up killing each other.  (He doesn’t think about the last point.)

He has another reason.  He is endlessly fascinated by the rub-off function of finding out whether you win and by the incomprehensible instructions.

He has been winning some and we let him keep his “profit” — we take back the principal and he gets to put his winnings in his piggybank.  I have been thinking about teaching him about the cost of money — interest, exit fees, prepayment penalties and premiums — as well as keeping track of his losses so that we get repaid all of our principal before he takes a profit.  Real world stuff.  Most of my friends think I am nuts.

But I really want him to know that there are losses associated with the lottery and that he could lose more than he makes.  He needs to know that this is really not a feasible game plan for a self-sustaining future.  Also, because he is too young to have learned the lesson, “if it is too good to be true, then it is, and you need to run as fast as you can in the other direction.”

I have been thinking about how to introduce this subject without sounding like the Grinch who takes pennies from a child.  Then, the other day he asked, “what is addiction?”  We asked him why he asks and he said that on the back of lottery tickets, they write about getting help for gambling addictions.

Ok, a cool piece cardbard with potential prizes hidden all over has now spurred my 8 year-old to ask about addiction.

My son opened the door to the conversation.  POB (partner of blogger) and I walked across the threshold and gently talked about it.

So the biggest asset in the my parenting skills? My son.

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Wednesday Date Night with Friends

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I arrive early.  A possible stolen moment of mindfulness and relaxation out of a harried day.  But this is New York City, where quiet was expunged from the lexicon long ago.  And I am a consummate New Yorker so I must email something to somebody.  And so I did, to POB (partner of blogger) and FOPOBAB (friends of POB and Blogger) who were joining us for dinner.  Witness my descent into madness.

—– Original Message —–
Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:00:35 2010 [I am 14 minutes 25 seconds early, standing outside a pulsating restaurant]

A hopping place we picked. Such an active bar scene that if you were here early I wouldn’t be able to tell. I am sweltering outside listening to Dancing Queen (they pipe out the music for the pleasure of the passersby). I am trying not to sing along.  I wish there were drag queens around to dance with. My inner 20-something

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:03:45 2010 [3 minutes and 10 seconds later]

Cabs are so plentiful I want to hail ALL of them.

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:08:58 2010 [5 minutes 13 seconds later]

Men’s fashion is getting pushed to the limit. It is only ok if [husband of FOPOBOB, who always looks fabulous] would wear it. That is my litmus test.

Can you tell I am overwhelmed by the bar scene raging inside. Ok, a couple with a two year old are considering coming into the restaurant. Mean, evil parents. Toooo much. I am going to try to take a picture surreptitiously. [Unfortunately, I was unable to get my blackberry camera in focus quickly enough]

Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:10 PM [one minute two seconds later]

I am going inside. I am brave.

No one would seat me even though we had a reservation.  We ALL had to be there.  I had visions of being in a suburban steak house located in a mall where they say, “Ma’am, if you have a seat after your party has arrived, we will call you.”  And then you wait to hear, “Blogger, party of four!! Blogger, party of four!!”  Ok, I CAAAAN’T GO THERE.

We all arrive and sit down and everybody is chatting and happy to see each other.  I turn to the wife of FOPOBAB and ask, steeling myself for the answer, “how is your sister?”  [note: her sister had cancer].  I knew it was gutsy. 

Although time seems to evaporate when we all get together, it has been quite a few months and ANYTHING can, and does, happen.  I see the look on her face. 

Pause.  Pause.  Momentary out-of-body-experience.  Back in my body and wishing it lacked a mouth.

“She died.” 

[Why do I forget that I have a big S on my forehead for SCHMUCK?]

“We’ve seen you since then but we were with the kids, and I couldn’t go there.”

“Some hors d’oeuvres?” I say.  NO, NOT REALLY.   She tells me a hilarious story that happened as her sister literally lay dying that involved a nun.  There is humor in these moments.  I remember with my mother.  And if you been there, you can very comfortably listen and laugh along.  Because those stories help those still alive cope.

Meanwhile, POB and husband of FOPOBAB are talking about something else.  There is a break in the conversations.  I decided to catch up the others on our conversation. 

I turned to POB and said, “So, I asked about [wife of FOPOBAB]’s sister and she is dead.  But still we both have our appetites.  And, as you know, I have schmuck written on my forehead.”

Silence.

I turn to my friend and say, “in the future, just text us “worry” or “cry” and you fill us in on the details later.  Ok?”

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A Bar on the Side of the Road of Life

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Our goddaughter is in the midst of taking the bar exam — a two- or three-day hazing ritual — so that some day soon she will have the dubious honor of practicing law with a license. (In our family, many consider themselves lawyers even though actually allowing them to be licensed would be tantamount to yelling fire in a crowded theater.)

Any way, back to our goddaughter.   She’ll do fine.  She is smart and capable.  And those are not even prerequisites — have you looked at who gets admitted to the bar?  And then what percentage of those also get put behind bars (at penitentiaries)? 

Anyway, my sweet, I can’t wait to welcome you to the club.  Just remember, it is just a bar on the side of road. 

Life is bigger, wider and better than any heights of any profession.  I know you know that.  But you also know that, as I am in loco (LOCO) parentis in the State of Blogger, I must tell you anyway.

POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and Blogger) and I love you and POLTB (partner of lawyer-to-be) VERY, VERY, VERY much.

~ Blogger

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Sisters

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SOB (sister of blogger) and I walked our dad (FOB — father of blogger) to Fairway on Sunday after brunch with POB (partner of blogger) and our son. 

FOB is doing great, but he is aging.  SOB and I walked back uptown.  She was going home to write a chapter of a medical book and I was going to find a neutral place to read and comment on documents.  SOB offered that I could work at her house but we both knew that two couches in the living room would call our names and we would lie there and chat about stuff and then take out the Shrine — the picture album that SOB keeps of our mother — so we could have a long, cleansing sob.

With this in mind, we both decided that trying to work in the same room, or apartment for that matter, was not a good idea.  So, SOB walked me to the cafe at the gym where I was going to set up shop.  She sat for a moment and, of course, since the Shrine was mentioned, we had to have a moment about how long Mom had been gone and all that has happened in that time.  

SOB left me to work, but kept emailing me, “Are you still working?” every five or so minutes.   I am 46 and she is 50.  I don’t think we will ever grow up and I am grateful for that.

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A Gym Moment

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I stopped off at the gym for 20 minutes of cardio (how does someone with a family find time for more).

I bumped into my sister (one of the things I loved about the City being my hometown).  She was on her way to the locker room to take a shower.  Not a bead of sweat on her.  And every time I see her, I think cows sweat, men perspire and women glow.  But, SOB (sister of blogger) has a sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes but no glow on the skin (other than the fabulous skin courtesy of our mother’s genes).

She passes me again as she leaves and I am on the recumbent bike, sweating.  SOB remarks, in that genuine way that only an utterly charming, yet clueless person can pull off, “Wow, you’re sweating!  Isn’t that wonderful!” as if this a discovery of an as-yet-unknown by-product of exercise.  Being the doctor, her knowledge comes from the results of clinical trials reported in the New England Journal of Medicine (that mag rag, as I’ve named it) or CHEST.  CHEST is really a medical periodical and not a late night pay-per-view show.  Only doctors don’t see the irony of the logo on the t-shirts distributed at conferences: “CHEST” written right across, well, er, the chest! OK, I digress.

Back to SOB.  I have seen her exercise and I can confirm that she never experiences sweat as a by-product of exercise .  She does the least she can do.  It is remarkable.  She should be able to deduct her gym membership as a charitable contribution on her taxes.

Our memberships in the same gym give us a common point of reference.  For example, the other day, I asked SOB if she saw the young woman with the BIG curlers preening NAKED in front of the mirrors.  I see this woman every time I go to the gym.  She has fake boobs and fake hair color and wears “come hither” panties as she struts in front of the mirror.  We had a communal “EWWWW” moment.

A sister-bonding moment.  Worth paying a lifetime membership at the gym.  And more.

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The horn of plenty in the midst of the dust bowl

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Last night I was in an expensive, still trendy, restaurant and the place was PACKED. 

Maybe everyone there was entertaining out of town guests like I was.  

Maybe that’s why it is hard to understand the true nature of our economic problems and how close we still are to the precipice.  Because we all thought economic Armageddon would look like something out of “Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome” or some other post-apocalyptic film.

Maybe not everyone in the Great Depression were like Ma or Pa Joad. Or, for that matter, like my parents and grandparents, TGFOB (two generations of family of blogger). Barely getting by, barely enough food to eat.  Hey, I am not suffering like them either because I am eating at this restaurant, too, but I am constantly gripped by the fear of homelessness. (I love the freedom that 25 years, coming out as a lesbian, and being in a loving relationship afford.)

I overheard a group talking about the burden of taxes. I thought, DUDES, you’re still earning money.  No one realizes that it is dumb luck that we are not like Ma and Pa Joad or TGFOB.

This reminds me of the conversation I had at my 25th college reunion with a guy who — how do I describe it — was not so much a friend but from time to time over for years we had the “benefits”.  In our first conversation in more than 25 years, he mentions the European bank taxes and complains that they unfairly punish him.  I couldn’t hide my disgust at his words (and at my own poor judgment so many years ago) and said maybe a little too firmly (and with a lot of “edge” to it), “Suck it up. There are people here without jobs. There was a lot of collateral damage and innocent people were punished for the stupidity of a few so if all it costs you is a few extra dollars, then pay it and feel lucky.”  (I

By the way, I feel really lucky, and I am scared every day that my luck will run out.  In the meantime, we eat out every now and again.

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The Monday Morning Blues

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My sister resembles my father in the way she gets out of bed in a happy mood.  My brother resembles my mother’s father in the way he gets out of bed (or did when we were kids) in a less-than-kind or communicative mood.  I am in the middle:  I am low energy, slow motion and hit the alarm six or ten times before staggering out of bed.  That is why lawyers’ hours in NY — in the office by the crack of 10:15am — work for me.

POB (partner of blogger), who wakes up at 5:30am, takes our son to school.  But today, she had to wake up even earlier to catch a train for an out-of-town meeting.  

I had to take my son to school.  That meant that I had to start slamming the alarm at 6:00am.  (For most of the year, the sun has not risen at 6:00am so in my book it is still the middle of the night.) 

Clearly, POB is a blessing in my life because our son would be a truant if I were responsible for getting him to school.  AND she made coffee for me.

In bizarre proof that gene replacement therapy works by osmosis and hypnotic suggestion when kids are asleep, our son is just like me in the mornings.  Which makes POB even more of a ROCK STAR.

We soldiered on through getting dressed, eating breakfast, washing up and brushing teeth.  (I am talking about both of us, here.)  Neither of us could talk but we grunted as humanely and endearingly as we could.

I dropped our son off at school and arrived at my office at the crack of 8:15am.   I need a nap now.

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