Wednesday Date Night with Friends

Posted on July 29, 2010 by 40andover

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?”

A confession

Posted on June 15, 2010 by 40andover

I have been strong and even-keeled about my 25th college reunion — ok, maybe the sheer number of blog entries suggests otherwise.

I have to confess that I have been working my triceps and biceps because CLEARLY I will feel less like a failure standing next to my classmates who are CEOs of Fortune 500 companies if my biceps and triceps are toned.

I mentioned this to a work colleague who said:

“Or you can either (i) wear long sleeves or (ii) keep your arms glued to your sides.”

Now, that was brilliant. She should go instead of me. (It took me a while to realize that she wasn’t suggesting I actually glue my arm to my sides, which I also thought was a brilliant idea.)

the fancy-shmancy life

Posted on May 23, 2010 by 40andover

Our son’s school benefit was last night. The school caters to kids who learn differently from the “average child”. I have never met this “average child” and I don’t believe one exists and if such a child exists, well, then, he or she would be just so — how do I say — incredibly average. I just believe that schools are so overloaded that they can only handle children who fall within the least challenging bandwidth of childhood behaviors and needs. But I digress.

My son’s kind of school requires a huge amount of money to keep it going — over and above the king’s ransom we pay each year for tuition. Usually, it is a cocktail party with slightly fancy hors d’oeuvres and a silent auction. This year, however, two children attend the school whose parents have mega-star status. So, they invited their pals to help out with the fundraising. As a result, we attended a gala with Jon Stewart doing a stand up routine and Bruce Springsteen giving a musical performance. Then followed by a dinner in a museum catered by NoBu. (The one thing you know about the dinner is that everything was tasty but you leave the table hungry and wondering when dinner is really being served.)

I have never been to a concert. Ever. I know, people look at me in disbelief. I don’t like crowds and I don’t like loud music. So, it seemed ok that my first experience would be Bruce Springsteen having reached the age of Medicare and Social Security benefits. At one point, he yelled at us, “loosen up, you stiffs!!” Ok, that was embarrassing that a man nearly 20 years my senior is jamming and strutting all over the stage and we weren’t moving or standing, but we were all sucked into our fancy clothes that literally leave no wiggle room and so no loosening up could have happened without a seamstress on stand-by.

I guess it was kind of cool to have these performers in a small venue. I love Bruce Springsteen. I also love volume control.

POB (partner of blogger) and I are usually in bed by 10pm on the weekends. We rolled in at 1am (and we left while others were still partying). Our son woke up at the usual time, and G-d bless POB, she got up. (I, however, did not.)

I was so hungry when our son ran into our room to wake me at 9am and then I realized why: we had a NoBu InSiDi (NoBu Insect-Sized-Dinner). Had I thought of it, I would have eaten the garnish on the tables last night. And I would have gone from table to table munching on the centerpiece flower arrangements. No wonder I was dreaming about mutton chops (ok, I really have never eaten that) and getting in touch with my more animalistic traits deep in my genetic code. In the end, I settled for cereal with fiber and some essential nutrients. Nothing like beating your chest and immediately devolving into a whimper.

My son’s most excellent adventure

Posted on May 20, 2010 by 40andover

My son is an intrepid traveler. His partner in crime is Cousin Gentle.

They boldly go where no one on our family has gone before — Staten Island.

Now Staten Island — that is RED state country. We descend from the red palette, too, but closer to the blue–red (socialist) part of the spectrum. The kind of red that would make today’s red staters would prefer to be dead (better than be red).

And these two did not just go to the ferry stop on the “other side” and then hurry back to the safety of our (Manhattan) island sanctuary. No, these two Upper West Siders took the SIR — Staten Island Rail — to the end of the line, Tottenville. You might be surprised that there are over 20 stops on the SIR and it takes an hour to go the length of that island.

They stopped for pizza and the proprietor asked Cousin Gentle, “what country are you from?” Cousin Gentle replied, “the Upper West Side”. The proprietor nodded that he had heard of it. Who knew you didn’t need a space rocket to visit Mars?

Apparently, Tottenville has a shore line and beach area and my son waded into the ocean not yet sullied by the oil spill. Over dinner (back home in the bosom of our effete, white wine sipping, brie cheese eating, intellectual elitist Upper West Side), my son said, “Tottenville is just like East Hampton!!” I looked at Cousin Gentle who whispered that he didn’t say that while in Staten Island (because those are fighting words there) and I checked that FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) didn’t hear that statement because, well, FOPOB has a beach house in East Hampton. Honestly, I would rather risk offending FOPOB than inciting people to riot on Staten Island.

There are so many sociological layers to my son’s statement. I, however, will go with “my son, the pampered egalitarian”. And leave it at that.

25th Reunion

Posted on May 15, 2010 by 40andover

I have 5 weeks until my 25th college reunion. I have 5 weeks to be slim, prosperous, toned and, maybe, un-gray.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute. I was a crammer in college — I was still buying the books from the class syllabus three days before the final exam. (And my GPA showed it.)

I am 46 and, with 5 weeks to go, here is my status:

Slim: I am much slimmer now than I was in college, even though I have gained “more than a few” pounds in recent years. I call it the Recession 8. Better than the Freshman 15. (I had come in with the pre-Freshman 30, so I don’t have college to blame.) But, in truth, I look pretty slim. So, √ in that box.

Prosperous: Ok, things were better a few years ago, before people on Wall Street got stupid and greedy. But, while I don’t stack up to the crazy high-profile entrepreneurs in my class, I am really fortunate. So, √ in that box.

Toned: I want to be buff. I don’t look bad, although there is a certain sag to the skin on my legs from my fat days. And gravity does “weigh down” some erstwhile perky parts. So no short shorts and no tank tops for me. Anyway, after a certain age, a person looks ridiculous in that kind of outfit. I lost this last week to having injured my hip and back (a little arthritis in the hip leads to compensating with other muscles that spasm which leads to crippling pain), and so I think buff is out of the question, but quietly toned is still possible. So, X in this box (with an “*I don’t care anymore because I am not so shallow” followed by “**Does anyone outgrow that infantile sour grapes attitude? Surely not I”).

Un-gray: I am unconvinced on this. Covering the gray requires upkeep even after the reunion. That is a huge commitment. Still under advisement. So put a ? in that box.

My son just walked in and kissed me. He really wants to use the computer, but the kiss was also real. That’s the things with kids — they take you as you are and they don’t put on the artifices that we adults do as naturally as we get dressed in the morning. POB (partner of blogger) calls out to me and wants to know what we want to do for dinner tonight. I remind her to call her dad about coming over for dinner tomorrow night with my dad and assorted relatives.

Now, I think, do I care if I am thin, prosperous, toned and un-gray? Yes, but not because of reunion. I am happy and I don’t envy anyone or want to be envied. I simply want my family to be happy and healthy and safe. I have that. Add new box and put √√√ in it!!! (with an *”still would like to be slim, prosperous, toned and less gray”) .

[break for dinner out during which my son has a mother of all melt-downs and tests my resolve against spanking as a disciplinary tool.]

Ok, so my son was temporary invaded by an alien life form, and all because we cannot go to his choice of local restaurants (there were no tables available). This is not my son (usually). The following race through my mind: (i) aliens are clever, (ii) my parents grew up poor and would not abide such behavior in us, (iii) we knew not to exhibit such behavior and (iv) what have I done to create this monster?

Am I still happy and blessed? Absolutely. Am I pissed? You betcha. But keep the new box with the √√√ in it, and don’t forget the all-important asterisk.

If you love someone

Posted on May 13, 2010 by 40andover

If you love someone, then don’t make him or her executor of your will.

It is one of the most thankless jobs. Sifting through the detritus of someone’s life is bad enough (you simply don’t need to know some things), but, then, you have to file tax returns and speak to the IRS because one never really leaves one’s affairs in order. And there are clerical errors and the wrong tax identification numbers are submitted and life gets complicated and you remember that you love this person who died peacefully knowing all was in your care, and you know he or she would never have asked this of you had he or she known what it really meant. [SIDEBAR: Ok, that was one of those crazy long sentences reserved only for established writers who look elegant in smoking jackets and cravats. I am just a journeyman lawyer. If I were Hemingway, I would continue on: “That was a damn good sentence. A f@#$ing good sentence. They opened a bottle of wine — a damn good bottle of wine — and took turns taking swigs from the bottle because they were too proud of that f$%^ing sentence to move from the table.”]

I live my life so government stays far away from me, even as I am willing to pay more in taxes for better education, health care, etc. I believe in Obama’s presidency and what he wants to accomplish because all of my grandparents were immigrants who struggled to provide a better life for their children, my parents. And my parents embody the American Dream. And I represent downward mobility or “regression to the mean” (which means that subsequent generations will achieve the stupidity of Joe the Plumber). I support the “system” because it really can work (witness my parents and their entire generation in our extended family); I just work hard not to rely on the “system”. Yet now I have to deal with the government for the taxes on the estate of a person whose life is now reduced to a spreadsheet of dividend distributions and capital gains.

Ok, worse is to be guardian of a mentally incapacitated person. I know someone who took on that burden and I believe there is a place in Heaven waiting for her after what I hope is a long, happy and healthy life on Earth. But I digress.

POB (partner of blogger) believes that, in light of all of this, we need to rethink our financial future so that we give everything away except for two nickels at the second in time immediately before our deaths. That way, no one needs to do anything for us except have a little shiva cocktail party and light a Yahrzeit candle every now and again. But the two nickels are really important to her. I think she never wants anyone to say that we didn’t have “two nickels to rub together”. Which is why I love her so. She doesn’t want a “pot to piss in” because that is too crass. She also expects “a roof over her head” so that doesn’t factor in (although she would consider a reverse mortgage so that there is no fuss about the homestead when we “go”).

She picks her aphorisms and saws to conjure a picture that we timed it all with precision and aforethought. And she wants to live — and die — by them. Of course, being the disaster planner that I am, I need to have only “two nickels to rub together” but also a sack of gold just in case. Don’t tell her I have an extra stash, ok?

I guess the point — and I do have one — is that I am one of the lucky few who can be generally self-reliant and avoid government. And, I have no expectations of an efficient government because I believe that is frankly impossible to achieve and unrealistic to expect. If we were looking for efficiencies, we would ascribe to the Wall Street model and we know how that turned out. No, government is tedious, hopelessly inefficient, and sometimes catches the do-gooders in the web of bureaucracy. It is easy to complain about government. It is hard to defend government. There is a lot of paperwork to get benefits, but remember you are asking for money from the government. It should be hard to get.

So, SOB (sister of blogger), because I love you, I will relieve you of the executrix role. You are asking, “no, really, why?” Ok the answer is: (i) you’ll torture me for it and I will never get the last word for ALL ETERNITY and (ii) Mom would not want this to come between her two girls. I believe BOB (brother of blogger) is also protected because Mom would not stand for that either.

Did you think there would be a point to this? Are you a new reader?

Mother’s Day

Posted on May 10, 2010 by 40andover

Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one. The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes. Ok, I am living in the past. The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic). And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes. This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”. SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out. POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out. POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair. Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world. Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner. Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day. The warning was clear: be there or be talked about. Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year. In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level. Grandnephews and nieces are not invited. However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited. So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news. FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration. Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family. Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner. Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most. He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB? Two family gatherings missed. I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest. You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today. Yes, I did. But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid. Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog. Ooooops.)

I love the camera on my blackberry

Posted on May 5, 2010 by 40andover

Today, I was walking with a colleague to catch a bite at lunch when I saw two ladies, somewhere between the ages of older and ancient, crossing against the light with their backs to a truck that fast approaching. I wanted to take a picture of this insane scene (after I made sure the truck stopped). I took out my blackberry although the ladies were going slow enough that (after I made sure the truck stopped) I could have gone to a camera shop, bought a camera and come back in time to catch a live “action” shot, as it were.

My colleague looked at me as if I had three heads (I only have two). Then I started showing him the pictures I have on my blackberry — a colleague standing in front of a life-sized Catholic icon for sale, urbanites eating outdoors next to the garbage and the vagrants, a sign about septic danger, a scary food store somewhere on Cross Bronx Boulevard in Scarytown, NY where another colleague and I looked for Advil on the way home from a business trip.

Lunch was quick and awkward. I think he was scared I would take a picture of him with food falling out of his mouth. So, in an effort to try to calm what I thought were his concerns, I talked with food coming out of my mouth. I think I just grossed him out. And made him more afraid.

I’ll let you know if he asks me to lunch again.

My birthday weekend

Posted on May 2, 2010 by 40andover

So, it started in an annoyingly jaded New York way, “I was rushing to my acupuncturist and simply had to stop to take these photos”.

Here are the photos. As POB (partner of blogger) says, in New York, the rich live cheek by jowl with the homeless, and projects exist side by side with luxury condo buildings. So, on one of the first beautiful days of the year, restauranteurs put tables outside and voilá, amid the downtrodden and the garbage:

So, trite but still so unbelievable.

I wonder if the needles hurt more because I was late. Also, my acupuncturist is now a black-belt in karate. Ok, a little Jekyll-Hyde drama unfolding. But I digress. Ok, maybe I won’t digress. Now that I think of it, what am I doing having a black-belt shove needles into my nerve endings? I did have a particularly prickly acupuncturist session. More thought must be given and a full review is necessary (in another entry).

Dinner followed with my “adopted” daughter and her partner. My daughter went to law school against my better judgment and sounder opinion. Still, she seems to love it and, watch out, she will be a formidable adversary. Still she makes a fabulous chocolate birthday cake. Look and weep:

On the bright side, if you are her adversary and she cleans up the courtroom floor with your argument, she might bake you a consolation confection. Just a thought.

So, my brother came in for the weekend to see my dad. BOB (brother of blogger) had not been in town for over a year. He had planned to come in during the September High Holy Days, but contracted swine flu. So, we gave him a pass on that trip, without asking for the lab results (if you’re family, we don’t ask for proof of illness).

I was not looking forward to re-ordering my birthday weekend, but in the end it was fabulous.

BOB came solo — without wife and kids. While we missed the full family complement, I think he was able to relax more. BOB was dream uncle for my son. They played ball and watched sun bathers (my son’s idea) [see prior blog about his MoMA visit] and just did that male bonding thing that is not always so possible if you have two moms.

We gathered the extended family who lives in Manhattan for dinner. True to form, HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and one of our dear cousins got into a food eating contest. At one point, one of our younger cousins took away the plates and forks but still there was salmon left uneaten. Not wanting to dirty another fork (cleaning that fork expands our carbon footprint), I told HOSOB to use the serving implement. Others thought I was joking. HOSOB knew I was serious and, such a sweet and wonderful guy, he listens to me even though I am not his wife, SOB (sister of blogger):

Of course, I had to take a picture for the family archives.

I am not so sure what BOB thinks of the odd antics of the evening. I would like to think that it was just like riding a bike — that he felt at home with the volume and the rhythm of an evening with the ganza mishpocheh (the extended family).

My birthday wish? To have my brother, my sister-in-law and their boys laughing around my dinner table at Sunday night dinners (with pictures), so that, years from now, we can say, “remember when we used to have dinner together on Sunday nights?”

Ok, maybe it’ll be fifteen years from now, when my nephews (by then, young men) move to NY and drag their parents, kicking and screaming, in tow. (A new agenda item at our weekly family meetings.) Wishes take time, I know.

But it was so great to be together again, if only for 36 hours. Mom z”l was happy.

And because up until that moment the evening lacked a (bloggable) weird twist, SOB handed me a copy of her Last Will and Testament, so I would have it for safe-keeping. So, I signed up for the Hemlock Society because it seemed a natural progression.

We ARE weird.

My Gynecologist, Dr. Jew

Posted on April 26, 2010 by 40andover

No joke. My doctor’s last name is Jew.

If only his first initial were A., it would be “A. Jew, M.D.” That would be the culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

Except that Dr. Jew is Asian.

Actually, that makes it a satirical culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

The whole point of the visit was to talk about hormone replacement therapy. I am not loving some of the effects of aging and since, in this day and age where we think we can cherry-pick out the good from the bad and have it all, I think why not ask? And besides I read about it in the New York Times Magazine. The article says it is safer now. Ahhhh, the Times. The word from on High. I know, I know, I know. Think Valerie Plame scandal. Think slanted reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War. Ok, so the Times is almost as reliable as a comic book.

Dr. Jew was so very gentle and courteous when he suggested to me that doctors tend not to base their medical judgments on New York Times Magazine articles. They like to rely on clinical tests and multi-year studies, like the kind you find in the New England Journal of Medicine. “That rag mag?” I thought, but did not say aloud.

Look, I get my news from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. So, it isn’t a stretch for me to get my medical information from comic books. Thank G-d I am not a doctor.

And Dr. Jew? He is a good (Jew) doctor.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: humor