Apple Picking

POB is SOS’s school class parent.  Which means I have to show up to events.   Not so terrible if these events are in the city.

But today, oy, today, we had to schlep to Warwick, New York to pick apples. We could have just gone to the supermarket and got apples.  No, we had to go where THEY live and then kill them ourselves by picking them off the trees that are their life blood.  Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday — go apple-killing with my son.

More to the point, going apple-killing meant that we had to drive (read, get lost) through the great, yet incomprehensible, state of New Jersey.  The Neverlost Lady didn’t even try.  We crossed the George Washington Bridge and she just rebooted and said, “Destination?”  Really, Never-Lost Lady, can’t you even feel bad about leaving us to figure out how to get to Route 4 while we are driving at 60 mph?  No hesitation or guilt in your voice?  Even a “recalculating route” would have been gentler.

So, almost immediately inside the border of New Jersey, we were not only abandoned by Never-Lost Lady, but we were left with POB’s directions-from-hell coupled with her fierce determination to be right.  SOS kept asking, “are we lost?” or sighing, “we should have never rented a car; we should have asked someone from the class to take us.”  SOS was becoming the source of my INsanity.  I say to SOS, “we are a team, Buddy!! And a team member never abandons the team when things don’t go as planned!” The smart-aleck that he is, he says, “what if you didn’t get to choose your team?”  OK, KILL ME NOW.  IT IS NOT EVEN 10:30AM.

We actually arrive on time.  And then I am SOS’s hero.  Almost everyone is late because of traffic or getting lost in New Jersey.  (Really, I didn’t know New Jersey driving was so tricky?)

After everyone gathers, we go to pick Fujis and Macouns (which I kept calling Acuna Matata, from the Lion King).  SOS is in charge of yelling and screaming and running around.  POB is in charge of chit chat.  I am in charge of picking the apples.  Oh, cruel life.

AND, I have to carry that sack of apples all over the orchard.  Just sayin’.

After the kids had screamed (I would like to think it was a joyful noise, but the ringing in my head thinks otherwise), we sat at picnic tables for lunch.  One father, the uber-WASP who heretofore had shown no emotion, said in a relieved tone, “It is so good to see that other kids are just like mine!”  Oh, dear man (with names that, but for the absence of “Cabot” or “Lodge”, are OLD LINE and formidable in that one can forget the order of the names, since no one name stands out as a first name), you can emote with us.  We’re Jews.  We emote over anything or at least tell you to stop complaining.  But I digress.

I was soooooooo finished with the day that at 2:30pm.  When POB said we could finally leave the picnic table where non-driving spouses were sucking down whatever fermented liquids were available, I ran to the car.  “Hold it in!! We can find a restroom on the highway!!!!”  I yelled helpfully.  We were taking back one of SOS’s classmates and her mother.  The only traffic?  When we passed our house to drive to theirs.  Of course.  But it was sort of a captive play date.  I learned about the appeal of Zac Efron to young girls.  I learned that SOS is quite gallant; he told his friend to look away from the signs for the Hustler Club on 12th Avenue in the 40s.

When we got home, I remembered what one of the mothers whispered in my ear, knowing it was my first time at an apple picking outing, “make sure you have a full bottle of wine at home.  At least.”

 

 

And the Best Daughter Award Goes to . . .

SOB (sister of blogger)!!!!!!!!!

Yes, SOB wins for endurance beyond the mortal realm.

[POB (partner of blogger), SOS (our son, source of sanity) and I were in various states of contagion and nursing various infections and maladies, so we really couldn’t risk getting DOB (dad of blogger and SOB) sick.]

Yesterday, SOB sat with DOB in synagogue for the last 3 hours of Yom Kippur, enduring his endless commentary while trying to shoosh him because he no longer whispers and has old-person-yell-in-quiet-places syndrome.

SOB even sat with DOB through Yizkor (the service remembering dead loved ones) as DOB flipped through the prayer book and pronounced the service (using his old-person-yell-in-quiet-places voice) “a bunch of crap”.  (In truth, he mourns my mother every day and says Kaddish for his parents and brothers, so he doesn’t really need a special service to remember.)

I get DOB’s point.  I can’t sit through Yizkor because it doesn’t reach my abiding pain.  I am a little like DOB that way. Except I don’t go to the service and whisper at the top of my lungs.

After three hours of DOB containment, SOB, together with HOSOB (husband of SOB), took DOB out for Japanese food.  He complained about the food and the service.  In his later years, he has become even more impatient about service, and his previously polite manner has become rude when trying to get the attention of the waitstaff.  SOB is the picture of calm in these moments, as I have witnessed in the past.  I am not.

I know, I know, he is 91.  But this is not his last glass of wine or piece of sushi.  I have faith that he will be at SOS’s Bar Mitzvah in 4 years.  And at the very least he will hang around for POB’s and my wedding in 2012.

How do I know all that happened yesterday?  Because SOB and I spill our guts to each other and give each excruciating play-by-plays so that we have a collective memory.

But the real reason that SOB gets the Best Daughter Award?  Even though she was pushed to the limit of sanity, she did not yell, “Ok, Dad, if you don’t like dinner or the service AT THE RESTAURANT YOU PICKED, either be quiet or stick a crow bar in your wallet and pay for it!”

And SOB had lunch with him today, too.

Yes, she is a saint.

 

Al Chet

The “Al Chet” is a commual confessional said ten times during Yom Kippur.  (There is also the silent, personal confessional said ad nauseum, so it isn’t as easy as it sounds.)

For the Al Chet (guttural “ch”), each line starts with:  “For the sin we have committed before [G-d]” and then gets pretty detailed:

under duress or willingly; by hard-heartedness; inadvertently; with immorality; openly or secretly; with knowledge and with deceit; through speech: by deceiving a fellowman; by improper thoughts; by verbal [insincere] confession; by disrespect for parents and teachers; by using coercion; desecrating the Divine Name; with evil inclination; by false denial and lying; by a bribe-taking or a bribe-giving hand; in business  dealings; by eating and drinking; with proud looks; with impudence; and on and on.

After every few, we Jews ask: V’al kulam Eloha s’lichot, s’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu (For all of these things, G-d of forgiveness, pardon us, forgive us, let us atone.)

Generally, I really dig in deep when it comes to the sins of pride, speaking ill of someone, improper thoughts and eating and drinking.  Ok, impudence, too.  And, ok ok ok ok, taking G-d’s name in vain.  But as a general matter, I am comfortable that the other sins are not mine in particular although on Yom Kippur we stand as a community and “own” these sins as a group.

Still, while the confessional is detailed but it is easy not to connect with the words on the page.  So, at our synagogue, during Selichot (the prep holiday for the Ten Days of Sorry), our synagogue congregants write down sins for which they seek atonement.  [a side note:  just the “Ten Days of Sorry” comment is going to be a BIG issue for 5773 if I last so long.]

Some of the “al chets” were: littering, not recycling, abusing substances, infidelity and unprotected sex.  While this may be ground-breaking in an Orthodox shul or a church, in our synagogue serving the gay, bisexual, transgendered, intersex, queer-identified community, their families and their friends (the printing is getting soooo expensive) with a social justice mandate (as if being home to everyone and literally his or her Jewish mama isn’t social justice enough), these “al chets”, too, have become rather mundane over 20 years.

But there was one “al chet” that stuck with me:  for the sin that I have sinned against G-d by maligning Orthodox Jews.

Whoa!!!!  That stopped me in my tracks.  I used to greet Jews with a kippah (skull cap) or a sheidl (wig) as fellow travelers seeking a good, meaningful life.  I learned over the years that one doesn’t inherit religious or ethical principles.  So, a child with a yarmulke can be as good or as evil or as somewhere-in-between as the rest of us.  Yet, they wear a costume of piety.  I have learned first hand about how some kosher, Sabbath observing, “pious” Jews are not ethical, moral or righteous. 

I have been crushed, disillusioned and personally harmed by the nefarious, immoral and dishonest deeds of those parading as pious, even those who are called “rabbi”.  And not because they object to my sexual orientation (there is no prohibition against lesbians in Torah).

As a result, I do deal with Orthodox Jews with greater suspicion than I do others.  And that is wrong.  The good and right thing is to assess each person according to that person’s merits.

It all comes down to a derivative of the golden rule: Don’t judge a book by its cover. 

For the sin that I have sinned by maligning all orthodox Jews on account of a few pretenders AND wanting to rip off their Yamulkes or sheidls, Eloha s’lichot (G-d of forgiveness), pardon me, forgive me, let me atone.  But if the person deserves it, I want the Heavens to clap with thunder and the angels to blow those crazy little bugels, ok?
Wow, Yom Kippur is over by less than two hours and I am soooo cooked for next year. .  . . . . .

Rosh Ha-Shanah, 5772, Day One and Two

Too much contemplation Wednesday night left me with a pounding headache Thursday morning.  Since I am an adult, no one can force me to go to synagogue services.  And this, THIS, is the only advantage of adulthood.  The rest of the time I am desperately trying to reverse time and go back to my days at Camp Wingate.  But, being able to skip out on synagogue is a BIG advantage of adulthood and may even be worth having to earn a living.  I think that says more about my feeling about going to synagogue than anything else.

I stayed back as POB (partner of blogger) and SOS (our son, source of sanity) went off for morning services and prepared the house for our traditional family luncheon.  Attendees: FOPOB (father of POB), SOPOB (sister of POB), NOPOB (our nephew), DOB (Dad of Blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), Cousin Gentle, CB (Cousin Birder), and Uncle Larry and Aunt Roz.

I knew that the world was different that day because Uncle Larry and Aunt Roz came early and DOB came late.  Assuming that therefore DOB was dying in front of an ER somewhere in the city, I made SOB call DOB on his cell phone to make sure he was alive.  SOB reminded me that if DOB didn’t answer, it could just be that he didn’t hear it.  DOB has perfect hearing, he asserts, because his doctor hasn’t told him otherwise.  I posit that DOB just doesn’t HEAR the doctor telling him he is deaf.  You can see how this conversation continues in one of those endless loops that runs through every family gathering.

DOB arrived as SOB and I were having this crazy conversation, a sort of anxiety induced cocktail with a garnish of dark humor.  So, we established that he was alive but we could not have a verdict on his deafness.  Nevertheless, all were accounted for and we toasted each other and the world in all its wonder and goodness and hoped that these would triumph over the evil and despoliation. DOB liked the wine even though it was way more expensive than he would ever buy.  He won’t admit it, but I know he does like our wine more than the $3.50 Trader Joe’s rot gut that he thinks is suchabargain (Jews say that phrase like it is one word).

We ate, we drank, we opined, we nodded off, we relaxed.  NOPOB stayed over and I fell fast asleep in my clothes.  POB had to deal with two rambunctious boys.  The take-away is that the new year is one day old, I am already soooo in debt to POB.

Today we went to the Museum of Natural History because it was clear that our two young charges could not sit through a second day of services at synagogue.  Ok, I couldn’t either.  POB is strong, strong, and could do it.  Really, she can.  She could also crawl across a desert if necessary. But we have learned to decline certain invitations, including both Survivor: Sahara and Survivor: Synagogue.

I did feel guilty passing all the Yamikazes (pronounced like Kamikazes, the Japanese suicide pilots, except they are Jews who wear skull caps) — with their families on their way to synagogue, but I figured there were enough suffering Jews in the world and I didn’t need to be one of them, at least not today.

Still, the museum was no picnic.  We needed to stay interested when all we wanted to do was nap during a movie at the Planetarium.  But, nooooo, the boys wanted to see the permanent exhibits of the Planetarium, the Hall of Bio-Diversity, the Hall of the Ocean Life (with the ginormous whale), and the Gift Shop.  At any point, I could have lied on the floor and created the “snoozing mammal” exhibit.  They do need some modern soft sculpture there.  Did you ever notice that there is never enough space given to the sloths and their species?  Ok, sloths are boring, but they do nap in the craziest of places.

I nap in the craziest of places.  I do the least I can do.  And I move slowly (for a New Yorker).  Aha!! I am the missing link between human and sloth.  Rosh Ha-Shanah brings such break-throughs in personal growth and self-knowledge.

Wishing everyone a Yom Tov and — why not? — a Good Shabbas. . . .

~ Blogger

 

Like a Hurricane

Our newly re-acronymed child, SOS (source of sanity) needs to go back to TLP (the little prince), at least for a little while.

On Saturday night, we hunkered down after checking in on all local relatives who might need help.  TLP wondered why we couldn’t camp out at the beach like his cousin, his aunt and his other grandfather (not my dad).  (In fact, to add insult to injury, we made him come home from visiting them at the beach in anticipation of the hurricane.)

They aren’t camping actually.

In fact, they didn’t intend to “camp”, since they live in a perfectly lovely house in East Hampton.  We tried to explain that Hurricane Irene could cause downed power lines and flooding, which would then lead to “indoor camping” by necessity and not by choice.

TLP thought it would an important manly experience, except he forgot that he is a (little) man who likes his amenities, let alone “essentials” like TV, computer access, running water, flushing toilets, etc.

You get the picture. He knows what he wants until he realizes that it is not at all what he wants.  Until that eureka moment, he has the determination of . . . of . . . well, POB (partner of blogger).  Genes are a boomerang.

It is ok that he is not so self-aware of his lack of earthiness.  He is only 9 years old.

Sunday dragged on and on.  TLP couldn’t really focus on the usual mind-numbing TV because he wanted to go back out to the beach.   The hurricane washed out our week at the beach, at least initially.  When the owners of our rental called to say that the power was out and there was flooding on the property, TLP became inconsolable.  Ok, ok, ok, ok, his entire life up to this point has been a vacation.  It is I, I, I, I, I, I, who needs a vacation. Me, me, me, me, me. (It may be important to note that I am ranting here and not TLP.  I can see how you might be confused.)

POB needs some time away, too, but she has had the summer off so, this year at least, a week at the beach is more tradition and less a sanity-saving device.

I had already started looking at other options.  Of course, anything west required a plane and airports were backlogged.  Going south was clearly a non-starter since that was the trajectory of the storm.

Northwest, maybe. Lake George.  Aaah, the Sagamore.  I loved the Sagamore years ago, even though tennis whites were required on the courts and I had to buy clothes in the gift shop.  What does a New York Jew know about tennis whites?  Oh, yeah, Wimbledon.  But that is in England.  Oh, wait!  These people descend from those who came from England.  Ahhhh.

I called the hotel and they had available condos, etc.  So, maybe they allow lavender on the tennis courts?  After all, these are trying economic times.

I took down the information and said I would call back, because I needed to confirm with POB that she was ok with all goyim all the time at a WASPy retreat. POB has some of that blood line in her so I figured her first question would be ask what would there be for us to eat, because clearly she understands the differences in the traditions.  We don’t drink martinis and we don’t eat honey-roasted bar nuts (we eat healthy, raw nuts).  Clearly, we would starve.  In fact, she did ask, and I looked at her with the “after all these years, you think I can’t read your mind” look.  In a calm, but slightly hurt voice (intending to get some martyr points), I told her about the condos with full kitchens that we could stock up in case we couldn’t recognize any of the food.

I guarantee you the first thing anyone at the Sagamore would think upon seeing our family is not, “oh, Jews”.  Especially when they see my accidentally too-severe Janet Napolitano (US secretary of something) style of haircut (thank you, IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) for drawing that parallel).  In fact, I was betting on an upgrade to the furthest and possibly nicest available condo on the property.  We would get the privacy we want and, if they were particularly freaked out, I planned to ask about Shabbat services.  Hell, they would offer in-condo dining, absolutely free.  Grand slam homer for a patched-together vacation, if you ask me.

My delusions of vacation were interrupted when I called back to book the reservation.  In the 6 hours between my calls, Hurricane Irene had hit them hard.  That area was not supposed to be really affected.  I felt bad for my gloating over the dyke-Jew plague I was going to bring on them.  So, we’ll go there sometime soon, when my hair grows out and we will pay full price.  It is the least we can do.

Ok, no vacation plans.  And the boy who earns the acronym TLP is inconsolable.  So, today, Day 3 of When Havoc Struck The Blogger Family, we set out to the train museum in Danbury, Connecticut.  POB and I decided we needed a road trip and we needed to ease TLP into the staycation reality.  He was happy and POB and I were relieved to have him immersed in something.  And the trains were pretty cool, I have to say.

Tonight, we got word that our rented house will be in reasonable shape on Wednesday.  TLP is over the moon.  We are all relieved as well because it is good to get away.  Still, we have tomorrow.

Using some of my martyr points, I have cleared a Blogger mental health and physical wellness morning tomorrow, which means I get to run and look at the river for a while before we all have lunch.  Then, on to preparations for the delayed vacation.

I am thinking of showing TLP pictures of the damage caused by the hurricane and some pictures from Tripoli so he understands that life is not always a vacation.  I just don’t know when is the right time to introduce reality into a happy (and privileged) childhood.  I don’t want to scar him, but I want him to be grateful that we and none of our family was irreparably harmed in a natural disaster that claimed lives and livelihoods of so many.  I want him to have empathy, but I don’t want him to be afraid of what life throws in our path.  I want him to learn to “roll with it”.  I want him to understand his good fortune.  Maybe these are not 9 year-old thoughts and ideas.  Maybe that is too much to put on someone so young.

Parents out there:  HELP!!!

 

 

Chopped Liver

Since POB (partner of blogger) has been “at liberty” this summer, she feels the need to explain the incredible discounts she gets on everything she buys.  I absolutely don’t care.  I trust POB with my heart, our son and our bank accounts.  It is her meshugas (craziness).

A typical conversation:

“I bought these pants but since they are last year’s color, I got them for $40 and you always need another pair of khaki-colored pants.  I know I have three pairs now, but the others don’t fit me anymore. . . .”

“If the others don’t fit you, then you only have one, which you bought.  So, you needed it.  They look great.”

“I didn’t really need it [air quotes], but they are good to have.”

“Why are we having this conversation?  I am really glad you have something that fits and looks great on you.”

“But it was a good deal.”

“This is your meshugas, right?  I am here so you don’t look like you are talking to yourself, right?”

[Mean, but loving look in my direction.]

********************************************************

Last week, I noticed that POB’s roots were growing in a little.

Remembering her meshugas, I say to her, “Please don’t try to save money by not getting your hair done regularly.  I am committed to your blond hair.”

You might think because I am a girl, I can get away with saying that to POB, whereas a guy couldn’t.  WRONG. 

“Are you trying to say my hair looks bad?”

Aaaaargh.  If only we can rewind the tape in life, I would have said, “I see your roots.  Make an appointment with your colorist.”  Instead, I had to backpedal with, “what’s important is how you feel.”

POB thought about it for a moment.  “After we get back from vacation, I’ll get it done.  Who am I going to see until then?”

WHO?  WHO?  WHO?

“Really, is that your final answer?”  Oooops, I guess POB forgot I would be seeing her.  What am I?  chopped liver?

Thank G-d she joined me on the seventh rung of Hell.  Otherwise, it could have been a “situation”.

What is even better is that the appointment is this afternoon and POB had already had reservations on the Jitney in from Long Island.  The only issue last night was whether SOS (our son, source of sanity) was staying with his cousin and aunt out at the beach or coming back with POB.  (SOS is coming home, thank G-d.)  There is a hurricane coming after all.

After the hurricane passes, POB and I are going discuss elevating my status to paté.

do over

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?

Disconnected

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.”

Life unscripted

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.

The bet

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.