With apologies to those who know the meter of this song — I only absorb it from pop culture”
T’was the eve of Christmas day,
I have been wallowing in old and recent pictures of the family. You know, the end-of-year auld lang syne thing, except without the drunken protestations of undying friendship.
Jews, as a rule, are not innately happy, because if you are happy, then the Evil Eye will visit some horribleness upon you and your loved ones. Preventing the Evil Eye from coming is hard work when you’re up against all the Yuletide cheer. It requires devotion to cynicism (which is extremely difficult this time of year — as you may remember, even Ebeneezer Scrooge gave in to the Yuletide cheer), remembering every lost loved one, predicting doom and gloom in the New Year, and staying up nights thinking up disaster plans if your family is suddenly homeless.
While I was protecting my family and the world from imminent disaster (say Keynahora — don’t ask why, just say it) by tearing up while looking through photos of my mother of blessed memory (don’t worry, no bringing in the Joni here), I noticed in the pictures that over time, the muscle tone in my arms went from “awesome” to — er — “pretty good for middle-age”. I decided that I needed to return to arms — not to “awesome” but — to “omigod, your arms don’t look like they belong on a middle-aged woman!” I determined that if I said “keynahora”, the incantation said by my grandmother right after she kissed the mezuzah and put money in the pushke (box for charity) enough times, no harm would come to my family if I indulged in a little narcissism.
Turns out I didn’t need to say “keynahora”, kiss anything or anyone because the Evil Eye got the last laugh.
Background: I have silvery hair, and have taken to “glamming out” a little (earrings, lipstick, scarves, jewelry) to balance the harshness of “going gray”.
TWICE tonight at the gym, men who are easily 20-25 years older than me were checking me out. I noticed they tried to meet my gaze and I looked back to see if they needed something. Seeing that they were holding my gaze, I turned around to see if there was someone else intended for the gaze. Just my reflection. Uh oh, I think. I am gray but I could be your daughter. Eeeeeewwwwww. Besides, you are at the gym either because you were too speculative in the last years and need to continue to work (greed is a boomerang) or you are just here to check out the women (shame on you because, statistically speaking, you have a wife at home with sagging arms). In either case, I don’t date MEN — and therefore men on social security — and I am married (as much as one can be in New York) to woman with whom I have a family. And does Medicare pay for that Viagra?
The other thing I noticed is that all young women (gay or straight) have tattoos just above the cracks of their tushies, and they make sure those tattoos are visible to all by wearing revealing gym wear. (I can look.) You can tell the non-straight girls because they are doing military pull ups and the really hard kind of push-ups. And some don’t even have that ooky muscled-up with no breasts look. But I digress.
The harsh truth that hit me is no girl was even glancing in my direction. So, what I am saying is that women may gender-bend, but they don’t generation-bend, although I look fabulous for 50 (I am 46-almost 47).
So, I didn’t need protection from the Evil Eye. I need protection from REALITY.
It takes all kinds of crazy from all kinds of people to make New York City a unique human experience. A key to survival in this city is to think you are less crazy than at least one other person. And if all you can do is feel less crazy than a raving lunatic, well, then, you only need to walk a few streets in either direction to find a more subtle version of crazy. Of course, you don’t always have time to search for a less lunatic, but still crazier, person.
Here’s is what I mean:
If you are running late in New York City, the best way to travel is by subway. Of course, the impulse is to take a cab because it should be faster since it is a door-to-door trip. But there is always traffic in this City. Yet, what did I do yesterday morning when I was running late for work (as I often do)? Yep, I took a cab. And I was surprised and frustrated that there was no magically clear avenue for the cab to zip down. Even more irritating was that my driver was a traffic magnet. Who drives down Broadway from the upper west side to midtown at 9:15am? And, adding insult to injury, he had been a cab driver for years (I asked). Still, I wondered why taking a cab didn’t miraculously reduce the time it takes to get to my office. Crazy is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
Realizing this, I had to find someone very quickly who was more crazy than I.
But I am in the backseat of a cab stalled in traffic a few blocks above the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. Agitated, I looked all around me. There were the odd assortment of passersby but no one crazy enough to be crazier than I. I felt a cold sweat come on. In my head, I was screaming: I cannot be the craziest person in this City!!!!!
Then I saw a homeless man standing in front of a former bank branch doing his Yoga stretches in the sunshine. He was breathing in deeply as he moved his arms in arcs above his head and down. Then he did the stretch with an arched back (something that has a name that contains the word dog?). All I know was that he was breathing in deep, cleansing (ok, it is New York City, so not so cleansing) breaths and seemed to be calm and happy. Ok, he is a crazy, homeless man because if you are homeless you simply cannot be serene and happy unless you are crazy. And, according to the great philosopher Forrest Gump, crazy is as crazy does.
So, I was less crazy that morning than the man on the street. And some days, that is the best you can do.
Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success. It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.
One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private. They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years. I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me. Crazy.
Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity. Follow me on this one. My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s. (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry). Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced. (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.) Blossom then married Aaron. Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie. The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah. But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start. POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”. POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered. I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter. I love this family.
My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s. Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game. It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game. Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.
Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera. All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War. They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle. It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.
One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other. He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight. SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order. Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.
SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed. At about 3am, she got a page. It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive. She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.
Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding. BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us. I was so moved. But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante. But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.
My dad is such a sweet, and humble man. When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words. The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?” Aaaaargh. My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility. Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.
We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave. In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people. The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again. I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours. Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving. Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish. I wish I had pictures of that.
What, you don’t have a retirement coach?
Wait, you’ve never heard of a retirement coach?
Where do you live? Really, you live on the planet Earth?
Ok, I made it up. That’s what I call my financial adviser. Because, why would I need a financial adviser if not to help me retire as soon as possible and preferably before my death. Otherwise, a financial adviser would just cause me pain every time I followed her advice and lost money. But, if I call her a coach and I still lose money, then it feels like a competitive sport where I put on my “game face” and try to overcome my losing score to make my coach happy. You would think every financial adviser would pay me to convince their clients to think of them this way.
The bad news is that I have to give up my dream of retiring at 62 to try my hand at stand-up comedy. The good news is that I am healthy and can continue to work until I die.
I was in Orlando, FL, for a month these last few days. It felt like the End of Days.
First, swarms of insects that are called “Love Bugs”. Why? Because they are always in pairs, attached at their rear ends. Ok, I need to ask that again, but the answer is weird. Why?
I don’t know why insects attached at their butts would be called Love Bugs. Maybe, “Push Me Pull You” after the Dr. Seuss creature. Or, Fred and Ginger, since one of the insects does everything the other one does, only backwards (but probably not in heels).
The Love Bugs SWARMED-the-place-it-was-so-gross. And they looked wasp-like and menacing even though they apparently don’t bite. There was no place to sit without swatting away battalions of them.
Here is another crazy thing. Adults are dressed head-to-toe in Disney wear. Even the Mickey Mouse ears. Middle-aged people walking around with those things on, even though their own children are not. I guess if you are at the Disney attractions, a person (not I, because I am the living, breathing Grinch) could get caught up into it. But we were in a hotel conference center that was not near the Disney attractions. Still, I saw Mouseketeers of every age.
I can’t show a picture of the Mouseketeers wearing their Mouseket-ears, but imagine Annette Funicello but not cute, pretty or young.
I am sooooo happy to be home.
Further reinforcing my hypothesis that older people progressively allocate more time to traveling and invariably arrive early, our fathers came for 6pm dinner at 4:30pm, which coincides with the time-honored “early bird” hour. Which makes one wonder whether restaurateurs named, rather than caused, the phenomenon.
I don’t know about other Jewish families, but the first dinner after the Yom Kippur holy day involves comparing Yiskor books (books of remembrance for those who have died) and book plate honors (having someone’s name put in a prayerbook) from the various synagogues to which various members attend. It is a morbid combination of “Bingo”, “Wheel of [Mis]Fortune” and “Celebrity Match-ups”. I like to think of it as “Did You Remember to Name that Dead Person?”
My dad was upset that he forgot to list POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom (z”l). I said, “Don’t worry. You’ll remember next year, Dad. We had her covered.”
I mentioned that we also covered several uncles and cousins and he mentioned a few we forgot and also the grandparents. Oooooh. Darn!!! Missed that! Harumph. We need to have a huge list for next year, even if the dollars pile up (wait, you thought it was free?).
But we had a book plate put in a prayerbook for Dad’s 90th birthday. SCORE!!! (POB is sooooo awesome.)
POB’s father and our son were watching the football games. The other Jews shrugged and then started to talk about concussions and debilitating diseases, as a way of showing interest in the football game.
Then SOB (sister of blogger) wanted to take out the old family pictures so we can mount them on poster board for my Dad’s birthday party. We all got a little teary-eyed about how young and vibrant everyone looked and how most are now gone.
So, to recap: we have talked about death, destruction and death again. Just what Jews need to work up an appetite.
POB made a delicious dinner, over which we discussed the importance of building that Islamic Cultural Center right where they planned it and argued about the meaning of life, chaos theory and the mysteries of the universe. It got rather heated when we were contrasting a Jewish, G-d-centric approach that assumes that actions have meaning and can cause change versus the view that most of what we do doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. I ventured that, while I am not so sure that I believe the former, if I in fact believed the latter, then what’s the point and POB should just get my life insurance. At that point, POB’s father then asked, “how much?” in a very oddly interested tone. My brother-in-law (the bird nerd from other entries), quietly advised me not to go anywhere alone with my father-in-law. All this while I was choking over the salad course.
Dessert brought calm to the table as we talked about the Million Moderate March on October 30th and exhorted our TV-challenged relatives to tune into Jon Stewart on the web. (I could not speak to Stephen Colbert, because I remember him when he was really a right wing-nut at Dartmouth.)
So, death, destruction, death, religion & chaos, politics and comedy. Another excellent family dinner with the extended family.
Yom Kippur started Friday at sundown. We have our services at the Jacob Javits Convention Center. It is a free service — no one is turned away. Keeping an open door policy is part of who were are as a community because the synagogue was started nearly 40 years ago by gay Jews who were not welcomed anywhere as gays, as Jews or as gay Jews. Now our synagogue welcomes people of all sexual orientation (including straight) and all gender orientations (I only know the two main ones, but I am told that there are as many points on that spectrum as, let’s say, colors in the rainbow). Almost 4,000 people attended Kol Nidre on Friday night.
The senior rabbi is a woman in her late forties but she looks like a pre-pubescent, book-ish boy. She is a thoughtful and insightful speaker. And, she does have moments of levity, as when she announced that she would like to be known now as “Lady Syna-Gaga“. Ok, there is a reason why our synagogue can never really go mainstream.
We ended around 10pm last night and started up again this morning.
This morning, we all went to the children’s service which had a fair amount of substance. The rabbis talked about seeking forgiveness, saying, “I’m sorry,” etc., and otherwise tried to distill the elements of the Holy Day without dumbing it down too much.
Then we came home and I fixed our son a sandwich for lunch. He is 8 years old, so he does not fast but we do put techno-toys away for the day.
I was about to sit down at the table to keep him company while he ate, but he said, “E-Mom, I would like to eat alone so I can think about all of the things I need to say sorry for and all the things I need to do better.”
Ok, my son is wonderful and all, but this is out of hand. Reflexively, I asked, “Really?”
Right after blurting that out, I thought “I need work on not being so cynical and more trusting of my son’s motives, because we were at this substantive kids’ service and maybe something spoke to him —-”
My thoughts were interrupted by my son — ever the honest little boy, “Nah, I just want to play with the iTouch and I didn’t want you to see.”
At least he is honest.
We returned to synagogue for the late afternoon service through to the end of Ne’ila, the last service of Yom Kippur. After services were over, as we poured into the street to find our ways home, two attendees who were, just minutes before, wrapped in prayer shawls, stole cabs from us. I started screaming at one in the cab that was then stopped for the light, “Yom Kippur is just over and this, this, is how you act?”
Then, I realized that my son was watching me and I thought to myself, “Yom Kippur is just over and this, this, is how you act?” So, I stopped.
We hailed another cab and we went home, a tired but happy family.
It has been said that uncertain times make great leaders. That was said about FDR. But it can make for deranged leaders, like Hitler, and their followers.
The fevered pitch of the extremists in our society have enabled ill-qualified, borderline personalities like Glenn Beck to figure front and center in our national discussion. (I might add, to give the appearance of even-handedness, that Keith Olbermann didn’t have appropriate credentials when he started Countdown.)
It has even forced a comedian — Jon Stewart — to sponsor the Million Moderate March on Washington on October 30th.
A totally average (yet incredibly funny) man is taking a stand to tell everyone to sit down, shut up and chill out, complete with signs like ” I may disagree with you, but you’re not Hitler,” and “Got Competence?”
If this goes off well, October 30th should be celebrated every year as the “National Day of Sanity” because, at least, once a year, America needs a reality check.
Instead of saying things like, “Happy Thanksgiving” or “have a great Memorial Day weekend,” our national greeting on that day will be:
How desperate?
I clicked onto comedycentral@email.comedycentral.com and actually thought about making a video and trying to get “discovered”. Then I could leave the practice of law and, yet, not disappoint my mother (may she rest in peace).
Then I realized that it was just a gimmick (su-u-u-u-u-r-r-pri-i-i-ise!!!) to watch the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Thank G-d I have my day job still.
But still I am thinking about what kind of correspondent I would be. Senior Middle-Aged White Jewish Woman With Impulse Control Issues Correspondent?
What would I talk about? I think people would be interested in some lesser known Jewish cultural and religious customs. In fact, it would make even the crazy, anti-muslims bigots in the country start thinking that Islam is mainstream.
I thought of a few topics:
What to wear on Tu B’Shevat? That’s Jewish Arbor Day. One has to be careful not to have clashing shades of green.
Digestion. Why is it a cultural imperative to wait one hour after lunch before going back in the pool or the ocean? Even highly educated people still hold to this bubbemeisa (Yiddish equivalent of “old wives’ tale”). Why? Because — G-d forbid — a freak accident occurred and someone who didn’t wait the one hour got a cramp in the water and drowned, then all of the guilt that has amassed since being thrown out of the Garden of Eden (we have original guilt, not original sin) will come crashing on your head. So, doctors of all things know better than to stare down history and Jewish karma (forgive the mixing of metaphors).
Maturity. How is it possible to be a man under Jewish law and still have to ask your mother’s permission to have a play date after school? Answer: boys are born as gods, grow up to be princes and then graduate to manhood (Bar Mitzvah), all by the time they are 13. No wonder they have such problems as they age. They peak too early.
Circumcision. Do you know what people do with the foreskin afterwards? A little known fact — the foreskin is buried under a sapling or small tree (but not small like a bonsai tree) and when the boy is ready to get married, the branches are cut from the tree to make the wedding canopy (chupah). We know firsthand, because my father-in-law made us store it in the freezer for months until he had a chance to go to the country house and bury it. Needless to say, there was nothing ELSE in the freezer and we got rid of the refrigerator as soon as possible. The echo of generations of screaming babies in our refrigerator could be the subject of a made-for-TV movie.
So it is a vicious cycle: moyel (ritual circumciser) cuts boy, boy grows up and cuts tree, tree beats scissors, scissors are used to cut the next boy’s foreskin . . . and so on. . . and so on.
Ok, I have to stop now. When I start making rock, paper, scissors ooky, I know I have gone, at warp speed, off the reservation, on my way to hell. Anyone need a ride?