Good Medicine

Posted on February 24, 2012 by 40andover

I have been sick this week. I stayed home one full day (Tuesday) and, by this afternoon (Friday), it was clear I was not recovered. My colleagues even told me to go home. The COB even cheerfully took over responsibility for some thankless and unglamorous tasks so that I could just go home and climb into bed. A true colleague. Our assistant, who usually tortures me in that negative affection type of way, was actually kind and looked worried. I must have looked bad.

I came home and collapsed into bed. I was almost immediately overcome with the need to sleep. As I was dozing, I half-dreamed of being sick as a kid.

Mom would hug me and say, “my poor tsatskele [Yiddish endearment], if I could have this for you, I would!” Then she would kiss my forehead to check for fever. Then she would direct me to my bed. And to be doubly sure that I didn’t have a fever, Mom would get one of those mercury thermometers (on the list of pre-1980 household hazards) doused in rubbing alcohol (for sterilization) and tucked under the tongue.

“Tea and toast and rest” was the basic remedy. If needed, I could have aspirin and, at night, cough suppressant. Mom would set up the vaporizer — that contraption that made steam heat and bred bacteria — to clear my clogged sinuses. Ok, maybe a little Vaseline on my chapped nose and lips, but Mom was very cautious about its use. When she was young, there were instances when sick babies who suffocated because mothers applied Vaseline too liberally in their babies’ noses.

Throughout the course of my cold, she administered loving hugs and kisses liberally and got up every few hours during the night to touch my cheek and make sure all was ok.

There weren’t many over-the-counter products then to relieve cold symptoms. But my mother would have had none of that. If it was just a head cold to suffer through, a little extra tender loving care (and tea and toast) was medicine enough.

Mom was a working professional, so if any of us was sick during the week, Leta, our nanny, would be in charge. But Mom lingered in the mornings, and came home early. Dad also canceled his last patient so he could be on hand for the evening love-not-drugs fest.

Leta was no slouch when it came to smothering us with love, under any circumstance. And when one of us was sick, she outdid herself. Leta would pour half a cup of sugar in the tea because she thought it was heartless of Mom and Dad to ration sugar (my Dad was a dentist, after all). And she prescribed sucking candy (a banned substance in our house) as throat lozenges.

Sidebar: I don’t think I told my parents about the candy and sugar and the other broken rules until after Leta died in the 1990s. That was our secret with Leta. Mom and Dad would have certain rules, and Leta would ignore those rules, much to our delight.

And, of course, my grandmother, Mom’s mother, couldn’t bear that any of her little darling grandchildren was sick. So, she would come laden down with food like stuffed cabbage, potato pancakes, and a whole host of time-honored Jewish-Ashkenazic comfort food. Grandma and Leta had a grudging respect for each other which over the years turned into real affection, but when one of us was sick, it was all-out turf warfare. No wonder Mom went to her office.

Even with today’s magic potions, Nyquil or Dayquil or the equivalent, there is no better medicine than Mom’s hugs, Leta’s smother and Grandma’s food. Just thinking about it makes me feel better already.

Songs in the Key of Life

Posted on January 15, 2012 by 40andover

This was a particularly hard weekend. In the Jewish calendar, Friday was the 9th anniversary (a Yahrzeit) of my mother’s death. We went to synagogue together: Dad, SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB) and I. We endured the endless rituals that preceded the recitation of the names of those with Yahrzeits and saying the mourner’s prayer. Each year, SOB and I ask each other “why is Mom on the list with all the dead people?” Both of us pull out worn pictures of Mom and run our fingers over them. I also have an emergency Mom slideshow on my iPhone in case we still do not feel her presence. “Blogger family does death” is not for the faint of heart. We pick every scab, open every wound, dredge up every Hallmark moment.

Dad loves the Oneg (the after-service nosh and schmooze) especially when there are Bar and Bat Mitzvahs the next day because there are really good hors d’oeuvres. The rest of us wanted to get out of synagogue because HOSOB and SOB were particularly afraid that my constant transgressions might cause a biblical conflagration that would consume the congregation and they didn’t want blood on their hands. Wow, they think I have power. I surveyed the attendees at the service and I assure you that there are others whose trespasses run afoul of Big Ten (the Ten Commandments) constantly and consistently. So, my snarkiness and anger at G-d (we are not close, G-d and I) pale in comparison. Mom might send a flicker to remind me to mind my manners, but there were way bigger fish should G-d want to fry.

Dad poured himself a wine in a water glass (good thing he is still steady at 91) and dug into the not-so-very-kosher looking edibles (it is a Reform synagogue, but STILL). The Onegs also attract homeless people who don’t abide by ritual cleansing before entering a house of worship. They should eat and be full, without curling my nose hair. But I digress.

SOB and I were heartened when people came over to say Shabbat Shalom and tell us that they still remember Mom and miss her. Each said that how shocking it was to hear Mom’s name on the Yahrzeit list. Once we counted 10 people who remembered Mom, we were ready to have dinner. We made sure she lived on in others, even nine years later. Mom was indeed remarkable and her memory is a blessing.

We peeled Dad away from the cheese tray and went off for some indigestion-inducing Indian food. We had a lively conversation because, around Mom’s Yahrzeit, Dad is really clear-headed and “present” in the way he was when Mom was alive. As sad as it is to hear her name on the list with the dead people, the people who remember her and our presence at synagogue invigorate Dad. He said he feels as if Mom is right next to him.

The conversation went along crazy tangents about Dad and others his age finding new companions and his comments about the capabilities of men his age made us need to stop the conversation and move to another direction. His comment about what an 85 year-old man can really do with a 45 year-old made us laugh, cry and turn purple. He is still married to Mom, he says. Somehow, it makes us want him even more to find a companion to fill his days in his final years.

It was a cramped place and Dad is hard of hearing so we had to talk very loud. Dad says there is nothing wrong with his hearing. I tell him he can’t hear when the ear doctor recommends a hearing aid. At various points in the conversation, I needed to repeat things right into his ear so he could catch the conversation. I always started by saying, “I love you Dad and you need a hearing aid. . . .” He laughed and repeated that his hearing was excellent. But then why was I screaming into his ear? “Everyone mumbles.” Look, everyone needs a good dose of rationalization every single day.

POB (partner of blogger) left a Yahrzeit candle out for me to light in Mom’s memory. The acts of striking the match and lighting the wick really personalize the moment in the way a recitation of a prayer in a congregation cannot. In the darkness of my kitchen when my family was asleep, I lit a candle to remember my mother and bring light into the darkness she left behind. Imagine Carly Simon’s song about losing her mother. Weep.

HOSOB had lunch with Dad on Saturday and took him to a museum. Dad called each of us Saturday night, a little bored and somewhat despondent. Imagine Jim Croce’s “Photographs and Memories.” It is a hard time for all of us. We are glad he reached out but we cannot fill the void. We can just be on the other end of the phone line. I wonder how much that helps him but I hope it eases the loneliness.

Dad is man with a past much fuller than his future. I love him because he kind, generous and able to be vulnerable in front of his children, and acknowledge our love and trust our decisions. Enter a medley of “Sunrise, Sunset” with a smattering of “Circle Game” and “Life is Eternal”.

But then there is Sunday night dinner. The weekly ritual during which my father pushes my emotional buttons the way Cole Porter could make a piano sing.

Since I was kid, Dad and I fell into this rhythm that a 8pm on a Sunday night, we would get into an argument about something. Many times, neither of us had any basis for our opinion. Other times, one was indeed an expert (me, for example, when it comes to life as a lawyer in law firm) and the other (Dad) was not. Most times, it was about politics; sometimes it got personal. Mom and SOB used to set their watches by the argument because it was more regular and constant than any clock in the house — 8pm. Mom and SOB also tempered the “conversation” and brought us back to civility.

Over the years, we have dinner earlier because of SOB (son of blogger, our source of sanity), so the argument starts promptly at 7:15 and lasts to 7:45pm. Usually, Cousin Gentle, CB (cousin Birder), HOSOB and SOB come over, too. So there are plenty of people to help Dad and me back from the brink. Tonight, everyone was busy. Dad came over at 4pm because he was lonely.

Tonight’s argument was triggered by my young cousin’s desire to go to law school and my visceral “NOOOOOO!!!!” response. I thought he should do something with a better business model and that could not be outsourced, like plumbing. My point was that law school is not the default choice of this generation if the student was paying for his or her own education. For me, it was easy. Mom and Dad were paying. But life in a law firm is hardly the easy life or the cash cow it was a generation ago. Dad wouldn’t listen to me and continued to discuss how important and rewarding was the practice of law. He did admit that it was snobbery that precluded him from considering non-professional avenues. I applaud his self awareness.

Of course, I went to law school because I was not fit for medical school and I didn’t want to be a pariah in my family. I guess I wanted some acknowledgement, at long last, that my parents’ dreams were not mine and didn’t turn out the way everyone imagined. I wanted Dad only to say, “we did the best we knew how.” That would have been enough.

These arguments are about mental exercise and the eternal struggle between parents and children for acknowledgement, acceptance, honor and respect. We have settled the struggle, more or less, but there are occasional border skirmishes. But we always leave the table hugging and kissing and saying “I love you”. And then, if SOB is not present, I call her immediately after I come back from putting Dad into a cab. I must download the events — for guilt, for the collective memory, for the continuity of family. What guilt you ask? The guilt of putting the welfare of sick people in the hospital over the mental health of her sister. SOB should be indebted to me for decades to come. [There must be some song from old Yiddish theatre that captures all of this. If I find it I will update my blog.]

Of course, notwithstanding the sometimes harsh words, Dad is coming with us to the Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow, because . . . he needs us and we need him.

The Wedding Dress Part II

Posted on December 20, 2011 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

First, I never thought I would get married. Second, I never thought that if I ever did get married, it would be without you. I will be 48 (52 if you’ve read my other blog entries) at the wedding, so what did I expect? You ask. You’re right. But I am your last born, the baby of the family. I expected that you would live until, I don’t know, forever.

I know you are hovering in Heaven, but, right now, that is not good enough. And I am a conscientious objector when it comes to G-d but, because your soul cannot have dissipated into nothingness and because POB (partner of blogger) and I found each other, I hold out some specter of belief in some divinity in a world that is otherwise in decline. So, it is big that I believe, and this belief thing is, how they say these days, “on you”.

As an aside, does this Jewish guilt work on the other side? Am I wasting my time here? Drop a lightening bolt if guilt doesn’t matter in the hereafter. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.

So, I couldn’t call you when POB and I found the dresses. (Did you register any guilt feeling? Ok, I drop the question.) You would have been so excited about it (and relieved that we didn’t make you schlep to SoHo). You would ask about the wedding plans and then let your preferences be known in a velvet fist way that sounded soothing yet non-negotiable. Confrontational and gentle all at the same time. You should have been Secretary of State.

Thank G-d DOB (Dad of blogger)is healthy (for a 91 year-old) and seems like he will be there, G-d willing. (There I go again, with the G-d thing. I might lose my objector status, if this keeps up, so really let me know if guilt works up there.)

Speaking of DOB, I spent Sunday morning trying, in vain, to reconnect him to his email and the internet. SOS (our son, source of sanity) came with me on this mission of uselessness. I got DOB all reconnected and did a learning-by-doing tutorial that I custom-tailored for him. I did that tutorial more times than I can to tell. Nothing. NADA. He can play Free Cell and access his list of of charitable contributions without assistance. But, when it comes to the Internet, he can’t really type, he can’t really see the screen and he can’t really understand how to read and send emails. Still, he is righteously indignant that he doesn’t have much personal email in his inbox. SOS tried really hard to understand why DOB didn’t really understand computers, the internet or, quite frankly, the 21st century. Imagine if I listened to BOB (brother of blogger) and tried to get DOB on Facebook. Neither DOB or I would have survived the attempt.

But I digress. Back to me. I mean you. I really mean you and me.

It is crazy how something as anti-feminist as parents walking their child down the aisle seems so quaint and wonderful now. If only we could hold hands as you walked me down the aisle. Yes, life has dulled some of my sharp edges and quieted my doctrinaire ways. Because life, love and loss are complicated and our responses to them are idiosyncratic.

But what is simple is that I wish you were here to celebrate with us.

Really, come visit in my dreams and tell me about guilt in Heaven. It is the least you could do after having left us almost 9 years ago. (Did that rate on the Heavenly Guilt-o-Meter? Just asking. No offense intended.)

Love,

Blogger

Epic and Less-Epic

Posted on December 18, 2011 by 40andover

Saturday, POB (partner of blogger) and I had an appointment at a bridal salon. We arrived fashionably late at the SoHo boutique.

We were greeted by a girl who looked too young to drink or smoke legally. She is our WDE, wedding dress expert. I wondered, “Expert? Expert? Do you get a diploma in this?” I started humming “Beauty School Dropout” (how else does someone become a WDE?) but stopped in a great show of restraint and good manners.

We were ushered into this large room with a rack of sample WHITE and off WHITE dresses on either side. WDE says in a half question/half statement, “There are two brides?” Yes, I said, motioning to POB and me. She looked surprised momentarily, but recovered surprisingly gracefully. Nevertheless, I immediately started rethinking my haircut next week.

She offered water and wine. I asked for red wine. Pause. Now she had the upper hand — what kind of idiot asks for red wine in a room with white dresses? Ooooops.

The dresses looked so, so, so, soooooo bridal. I know, I know, what did I expect? But, but, but, after 12 years and a child, I just didn’t see us, in this room, with a WDE of the tender age of 23 (I asked; ok, she is marginally beyond the legal drinking and smoking threshold).

We decided to take turns trying on the same sample dresses (some were a little worn out and in need of a good cleaning or retirement). POB put on a dress that was spectacular. I tried it on and we all scrunched our noses. POB tried on another dress — half tried it on, because she knew she hated it even while she was putting it on. I, however, loved the dress. And so it went.

We settled on a different dress for each of us (so no match-y-match-y ookiness), but we wanted to put a hold on them until January.

Why? Because we had appointments at Kleinfeld’s, the wedding mecca for Jews. We thought we should experience this rite of passage even for our non-traditional wedding. At Kleinfeld’s, each bride is limited to five guests at the appointment. Really? I was surprised. I was told that I need to watch, Say Yes to the Dress,” and then I would understand the limit. But I didn’t understand why I would bring anyone. Another reason to go — I obviously need a lesson in my heritage.

WDE, who is young but still good at the hard sell, convinced us that we were losing the opportunity to have these limited edition dresses and we might not be able to purchase them in January and then there wouldn’t be enough time, and then what would we wear . . . (I was thinking, we would wear a dress of all the money we saved by NOT finding dresses) . . . .

Then I had a vision of one month before the wedding, my combing through the Lands End catalog for dresses, with free shipping and complimentary flannel nightgowns. I started to feel a little sweaty — panic or hot flash? Oh, damn this wedding craziness!!!

POB and I looked at each other. This WAS in fact the least we could to find dresses. And we always do the very least we can do.

I handed my credit card to our young, yet sly WDE. I emailed SOB (sister of blogger/bride) and my college friends (the Soeurs) — so, no turning back. POB and I don’t have our mothers (on this earth) but we have our 10 sisters: SOB, SOPOB (sister of POB) and the Soeurs. Now that I think of it, we would have just made the Kleinfeld’s limit, without a seat to spare. Pheeeewwwww.

Time Again for the Stupid, Stinking, Painted Ponies (with apologies to Joni Mitchell)

Posted on December 6, 2011 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I had dinner tonight. FILSOB’s (father-in-law of SOB’s) death has startled us anew about the fragility of life and the incomprehensible temporal divide between life and death.

FILSOB’s death also made us think of you, even though it is a week early for the “dark days” — the time, 9 years ago, when you started your month-long goodbye — December 13 to January 10. In truth, the “dark days” of 2002-2003 were not all sad; some, in fact, were the most honest, most hilarious and most screwball-comedic of our lives. The others were, well, depth-defying in their crushing pain.

You died before your peers. They were there to mourn you and comfort us. What will happen when Dad, MILSOB (mother-in-law of SOB) or FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) — each should live to 120 like Moses — dies? Who will still be alive, other than us (G-d willing), to mourn them?

Marty Hertz from the synagogue died and his funeral was today. SOB saw it in the paper and told Dad. He was grateful to SOB for telling him and glad he went to pay his respects. He heard that most people get these announcements on email and so he wants us to fix his email so he can have access. But we have tried dozens of times, and then we get calls from Dad saying, “somehow I can’t get on”, as if it has nothing to do with his pressing buttons in an arbitrary and explosive fashion. The definition of crazy is to keep trying day after day, month after month, to teach Dad how to use the Internet. So, since you’ve been gone, your daughters have become certifiable lunatics.

(As an aside, BOB (brother of blogger) wanted us to sign Dad on to Facebook. What a nightmare that would be. I told BOB not to have a thought about Dad unless he cleared it with SOB or me first. Talking Dad down from the Facebook ledge took some serious cajoling. “Are you telling me I CAN’T be on Facebook?” Dad asked defiantly. “Yes, yes, I am, Dad — not because we don’t want you to be on Facebook, but because you can’t master email yet.”)

What to do about the email Bulletin of Death from the synagogue? SOB and I decided that we will ask the synagogue to put us on the recipient list. Then we can call Dad every day for his Day in Death minute and recap the day’s sad events. That way, he’ll get the news and we will keep what is left of our sanity.

SOB and I can’t linger on the negatives for more than an hour or so. We also talked about all of the fabulous life experiences you and Dad gave us. You had no role models for parenting. You both grew up poor and in dysfunctional homes. And yet, you gave us things you never had and were loving and wonderful parents. And your loving relationship has been a model for your children.

We, your children, are the culmination of generations of strengths, weaknesses, aspirations, stubbornness, love and combativeness. Who will remember you, your parents and grandparents when SOB, BOB and I are gone?

Maybe, by remembering us, our children will remember the part of you that is in us. Because your time on this earth cannot be forgotten.

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

It absolutely gets better

Posted on November 23, 2011 by 40andover

As a girl (in the 1960s and 1970s), I was fearless, self-confident and wholly comfortable with my body. That is, until I became a teenager. Then, as quickly as a flip of a switch (or so it seemed), everything changed.

Aside from the raging hormones that could have alone turned me into an alien, I had unfamiliar feelings and longings. And I didn’t fit neatly into the role of a 14 year-old girl who had to wear skirts (dress code) to school. But, generally, I liked the way I looked. And I liked the way other girls looked, too.

Except, I was supposed to be looking at boys. Once I realized my “mistake”, I knew “fitting in” was something I would have to study, like any other subject in school. And I figured it would be hard, like Biochemistry (yes, I was precocious at 14), but I was smart and a good student. So, I thought, “I could do this”.

It was harder than Biochemistry and you couldn’t learn it from a book. My high school girl friends were “into boys” in such a natural, innate way. I withdrew into myself because I knew that this difference was too basic and I couldn’t fake it. I wouldn’t make close friendships because I had this secret and this unease about where friendships ended and romance could begin. I needed to keep people at bay. Invisibility was my goal when it came to talking about boys, what you did with boys, make-up, etc. Just blend in.

All through high school on Saturday nights, I used to take long walks around the East Side so my parents didn’t know that I was friendless or weary of feeling like the outsider. Only years later, did I learn that someone else was doing the same thing because she had the same issues, except her route was different enough so that we never bumped into one another. We would have recognized each other because we knew each other from camp and Hebrew School.

Inside, I was confused and sad and I knew, just knew, that my troubles were my fault. How could I fix something that I couldn’t even talk about? I medicated with food and alcohol. Brilliant. I added significant weight gain to my problems. And nothing makes teenage life worse than being fat. Now I was a liability to be around if you wanted to talk up cute boys. I was less than background; I was avoided.

I remained heavy through my college years. I was still struggling with wanting to be straight and not wanting to deal with this horrid, scary secret. On campus, a right-wing newspaper printed the names of the members of the GSSG (Gay Students Support Group). I was secretly grateful that I was too scared to join. I remained anonymous but I saw the effects of being “outed” on some of my friends. What happened to them confirmed my every nightmare. “Out” meant parental disapproval (and worse), no chance of having children and discrimination. I wanted my parents to be proud and I wanted a family. But I also wanted love. What did I do to deserve this fate? I had to have done something so unspeakably wrong to be exiled to a long and lonely road.

But sometimes the desire to feel whole can make a person go to crazy extents. During college, I kept trying to put myself in situations where I might meet lesbians but only at a distance. Two girls giggling in a bathroom piqued my interest, but I stayed in the background. Invisible. My comings and goings seemed mysterious enough so that my friends assumed that I was a Soviet spy meeting my handler. No joke. They still tease me to this day.

When I was graduated in 1985, I resolved to live a double life – try to marry a man and have an emotional (or romantic?) relationship with a woman. I had a hard time keeping up with the lies about why I was a no-show with my college friends or why I spent so much time with a particular woman when my mom would ask. I was a handful of shards of glass, each reflecting a portion of me, but not adding up to the whole.

I joined a gym to relieve some of the stress of my life and because I simply got sick and tired of literally wearing the weight of my troubles. I joined a gym to stop the “you would be so much more attractive if you lost some weight”. I really channeled my anger and fears into exercise. I was angry at G-d for making me gay and I was fearful of what would happen if I acted on those feelings. Maybe you can imagine how sweating buckets can calm you down and make you so tired that you needed to adjourn those quandaries until the next day. And, the next day, and so on. I used work-outs at the gym to avoid my issues. The upside was that I was really getting into good shape.

When I got thin, the family’s mantra “you are so thin and pretty now, I am sure the boys are knocking down your door!” returned. In truth, I tried boys. There was one lovely man I came close to marrying. But he sensed the issues that lay right under the surface and called me on them. “Do you need to sow some wild oats or should we just not have female housekeepers?” And then, “should I wait?” “No,” was my anguished answer. (“If only you were female,” I thought.) G-d bless him and his family forever. (He has a lovely wife and two adult children now.)

In New York City in the 1980s, there were still no positive images of lesbians, let alone images of feminine lesbians. What was I thinking throwing away a solid relationship with a wonderful man? But, he and I both deserved to find our heart’s desires and soul mates. At least he did; I couldn’t see how I was going to meet someone. I didn’t want to be with a butch woman; I was a woman who wanted to be with a feminine woman. They were invisible (unless they were on the arms of butch women). I was looking for a hypothetical feminine, pretty, Jewish (not essential), well-educated, funny and slightly neurotic lesbian. Whoa, tall order. I figured I would be alone for the rest of my life. If it sounds sad, you can be sure that this is an understatement of how I felt.

Somewhere, on the other side of town, was a woman in a relationship who was wondering if she would ever meet her soul mate, her heart’s desire. We would have recognized each other if we met because we knew each other from camp and Hebrew School.

If I was going to leave a relationship with a wonderful man because of this “girl thing”, then it was high time I started gluing the shards of my life together. Even though my father’s “I would welcome him as a son-in-law” echoed in my head and threatened to push out my brains through my ears, I tried to be open and honest with my family, my friends and, yes, me. And that required coming out.

My told my friend NYCFOB (dear NYC friend of blogger) in a cab, “you know my boyfriend John? Her name is [girl’s name].” I could see her brain working; a lot now made sense to her. “It changes nothing between us,” she said simply. She gave me a gift of a lifetime – in those few words, she said to me: “I am your friend even if you lied to me because I get that you thought it was necessary. And I don’t care about the gay thing.” Then, “who else knows?” She needed to know whom she could call and with whom she could shriek about some serious scoop. I still think she doesn’t know that we know that she has the biggest heart and a wellspring of love and acceptance tucked beneath a New Yorker’s veneer.

As for my parents, let’s just say that their rejection was hurtful and ugly, although it had a happy ending. Imagine a nice Jewish girl whose grandparents were the pre-World War II remnant of Russian Jewry, and parents who were poor children of immigrants of the Depression Era. That means I was raised to need my parents’ approval on a daily basis. Imagine that nice Jewish girl being cast out. The gym was my haven. I could sweat and lift weights and expel some of the anger and hurt I felt. As I processed all the changes and charted a rough course for my life, I started not to want to be invisible or ignored anymore. I had arrived – 115 pounds, toned body, good looks. I was ready to fit in and conquer all social settings – gay or straight.

So, I joined a hip and groovy gym. It is a rule of life that if your gym is hip and groovy, you will work out in a sea of tall and beautiful women in that blond, willowy way with perfect gym outfits. I wasn’t ready to be “out” because I still preferred ambiguity. Secretly, I wanted cute boys to talk to me as some sort of vindication of my sexual appeal – that men might want me even if I wanted women.

The muscled, handsome straight (and hell, even gay) guys talked to them and not to me. Even the trainers didn’t pay attention to me. I was still invisible. I know it doesn’t make sense, but nothing relating to body image, sexuality, and desire has anything to do with logic. It was probably because I was too scared that if I came out, there was no going back.

Life got a lot better over the years. I realized that you have to be a little out in order for people to find you. Family hurts healed (with my mother’s wanting to ride on our synagogue’s Gay Pride float and my father’s making a huge stone sculpture of two women with a child). I had good romantic relationships (and some horror shows, let’s be honest). I was happy. I had friends. I was an up-and-coming lawyer. I found my groove.

Still, the gym was complicated. Working out made me feel strong, in control and let me expiate work anxiety and stress. I started to understand that maybe I didn’t fit in because, for me, the gym was not my primary social outlet. I went there to get sweaty and release endorphins. Ahhhhh. Still, I wanted to be noticed. I know, I know. It doesn’t make sense but it is what it is.

At Rosh HaShanah evening services in 1996, I was living the quintessential lesbian drama – my present girlfriend sat to my left and my ex-girlfriend sat to my right. I was looking up at the ceiling, finally introducing myself to G-d. (This alone should have wiped away my sins for the year.)

In the midst of this bad movie, I heard a singing voice I recognized. I turned around and I saw her. She was my best friend at sleep-away camp when we were 10 year-olds. We went to Hebrew School together through senior year at high school. I thought, “she is too cute to be gay”. It’s that internalized homophobia ingrained in many of us who came of age in the 20^th century and, no matter how we try, it still sometimes slips out. (And I had very attractive exes.)

I looked for her after services, but she had left in a flash. Ten days later, at Yom Kippur service, I was carrying the Torah around the synagogue during a ritual where the Torahs are marched around the sanctuary. I saw her again. POB (soon-to-be partner of blogger). I knew somehow that we were living in parallel bubbles that “kissed” ever so slightly over the years. We were both in relationships and just looking for friendship.

Our friendship was deep and supportive. We leaned on each other when things got hard in our relationships. We pushed each other to re-invest our emotions in those long-term relationships. Nevertheless, our relationships ended between 1998 and 1999. In spring of 2000, we realized that we were each other’s intended ones. We fell into a happy rhythm of life together and started to think about having a baby.

Still, the gym was an important part of my life. Sometimes we would go to the gym together after work, around 8pm. We didn’t work out together; we needed our separate areas at the gym. I was working out the toxicity of life as a young partner in a law firm; she was just getting a fitness work out.

Then my mother had a recurrence of breast cancer. I needed a punching bag and boxing gloves. Our gym had those. I watched others and then just copied them. Tears would stream. The rings on my fingers under the boxing gloves cut into my flesh. I was bleeding and I was punching G-d as hard as I could. In summer 2002, POB and I had a little boy. In January 2003, my mother died. I needed to punch out my unspeakable pain and sadness, but with newborn and two working moms, there was no time for the gym.

2002 through 2008 were rough years. Setting aside various economic and professional upheavals (which don’t matter much in the end, anyway), POB’s mother’s chronic illness worsened to a point that hospital stays on respirators were not uncommon. Ultimately, she died. Our son presented with some developmental issues, which are resolving (something for which we are grateful everyday). There was much joy and happiness, of course, in those years, but joy and happiness don’t make for interesting writing. And besides, as a neurotic, urban-dwelling Jew, it is my cultural duty to emphasize the gut-wrenching, the embarrassing, the bizarre and the ooky.

When our son was six years old, POB and I were able to clear some personal time in the family schedule. I chose to return to the gym.

What a difference six years makes. My first day, I was in the locker room and to my horror I discovered that I packed form-fitting running tights that go down just below my knees and a geeky t-shirt that stopped at my waist. Two things to note: I couldn’t remember when last I shaved my legs, and if this outfit looked good on me, I wouldn’t need to go to the gym.

Now, our son is 9 years old. He is 70 pounds and still jumps in my arms when I come home, so I need strong leg, stomach and arm muscles so as not to end up in traction. Now, I do sit ups and pull-ups.

I hate pull-ups but I do three sets of three (sometimes four). And all the gym boys think it’s really cute that a gray-haired, middle-aged lady can do unassisted pull-ups. No, joke — I get compliments, fist pumps and high-fives from male trainers and regular gym rats. And they give me technique pointers. And I know that some of the women are watching me. They are not checking me out; they are wondering how they could try a pull-up when no one is looking. At long last, the “buff and beautiful” (even the trainers) notice me and talk to me. It took some gray hair and a few pull-ups to be the belle of the gym. Of course, now I don’t need that kind of attention. At 47, I have lost some elasticity and agility, but age has given me determination and self-confidence, and, yes, helped me negotiate a comfortable detente with my body.

And now I am visible at the gym? The gym gods must be crazy indeed.

So, this Thanksgiving, I am grateful for my life, my family and my wholeness. It does get better.

~ note from Blogger: Special thanks to the Soeurs for editing and remembering and loving me, in all my guises.

Typical Sunday

Posted on October 23, 2011 by 40andover

Another typical day on the road to Utopia . . . .

SOS (our son, source of sanity) has grown into a teenager (notwithstanding that he is only 9 years old) and his idea of Sunday cuddling is watching TV on the same bed as me, seemingly miles apart. As a Jewish mother in the true sense of the tradition, I am not happy unless I am holding a finger, a toe or a hair of my child. In truth, I am only happy when I have an iron grip about his mid-section to keep him close and away from the dangers in . . . um . . . er. . . our safe home. WhatEVER. There are wilds out there SOMEwhere.

He would really rather play that be smothered by his mother (hey, I put the “mother” in smother, I thank you to remember). Ok, that is healthy. To a point. Ok, it is healthy, but hard on a mother.

Still, I crave time with him. So, in preparation for family dinner where wine must be served, I say, “Dude, come with me to the wine store?” Because it is Sunday, the only open (and good) wine store is a half-mile away. “Can I take my scooter?” “Sure”. I put on my running shoes. He is going to scooter and even though he knows to stop at crosswalks, I must sprint after him. Yes, I am a prisoner of my tradition. Actually, I accept and revel in my tradition of over-protection. So, sue me. Or, rather, just know that I have provided for a therapy fund for SOS in our wills.

So, I am sprinting after my son as we go to the wine shop. THANK G-D for the crosswalks and red lights.

Thereafter, a lazy Sunday afternoon commences (not really: I am reading work-related documents and POB (partner of blogger) is cooking her guts out).

For dinner, the usual suspects come over plus POB’s father (FOPOB) who was enticed by the apple pie POB made (from the apples of the apple-picking extravaganza). You mean, FOPOB, you wouldn’t come otherwise? And you wonder why I wouldn’t let you have more than two helpings of the pie. No, no, no, no. Nothing is going home with you, bud, until you come here just for the sake of being with family.

DOB (Dad of blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), and HOSOB (husband of SOB) round out the dinner group. We talk about Occupy Wall Street, the GOP, Obama, Libya, Syria and whether Rick Perry “swings both ways”. As to the latter, if he weren’t so virulently right-wing (at least now) we would not even raise the issue of how he likes to have his fun. But, you do it, you live with it.

So, 3.5 wine drinkers, two bottles. Before dinner.

Thank G-d for food. And the apple pie. Food hath charms to soothe the socialist drunk. (No, HOSOB, I am not ONLY talking about you. I include DOB and me in that group.) Mostly because SOB kept lubricating the conversation with the Merlot.)

OH, Cousin Gentle!! OH, Cousin Birder?? We needed you.

And, there is a mess in the kitchen that I must clean. I love and hate POB’s cooking.

Serenity and Renewal

Posted on October 4, 2011 by 40andover

My professional coach (not CAFOB) had sent me a New Year’s greeting card which I finally got around to opening at a computer (as opposed to a blackberry). It was warm and wonderful and direct. Wishing me the usual for the new year, but also renewal and serenity.

Eureka!!! (My coach is awesome, but not as awesome as CAFOB who is my friend for 30 years. If you need a coach, I can give you two people who are amazing.)

Renewal. Not a theme of the Jewish new year (which has more of a return to G-d and atone theme). More a Passover theme (spring time, rebirth and renewal of the covenant with G-d). Nevertheless, I have been feeling the weight of creating business generating opportunities in a terrible economy.

I was so exhausted in August that when it came time for our family week in Montauk, I told the COB (colleague of blogger) that I would not be checking my blackberry and that all calls had to go through POB (partner of blogger). Originally, POB told me there was no wifi where we were staying and only POB’s phone would work. As it turned out, there was wifi and my blackberry worked. If POB lied to me, well, then I love her more for realizing that I needed a blackberry-free zone. Only twice did work intrude on the week.

When the world is in chaos, it is still navigable but it takes so much more energy that I often feel — well — spent.

My family re-charges me. POB and SOS (our son, source of sanity) are my mainstays, but SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) and Cousin Gentle help hold me up. They are daily miracles in my life. Even DOB (father of blogger) with all his eccentricities grounds me. And CB (Cousin Birder) links me to my mother’s family and he is such a wonderful guy. (I wish that CB only realized how awesome he is. I lectured him about this on Rosh Ha-Shanah — of course I did.)

And there are my goddaughters. They don’t have to love me because of family connection. We created that connection together. These relationships are among the most important in my life.

By their presence in my life, all of these people feed my soul, lessen my burden and give meaning to life. They are my agents of emotional and psychological renewal. I hope that I provide for them even a fraction of what they provide for me.

Serenity. Acceptance. Roll-with-it. What will be, will be. Take it as it comes. Don’t worry forward. Be in the moment.

Discussion: compare and contrast blogger’s personality with the above themes. (Hint: no common ground, as in blogger is the antonym of each of these themes. Don’t believe me? Read Wikipedia (right after I send in my comments).)

Ok, clap your hands if you’ve heard this before: someone has business in this economy, someone is figuring it out, someone is benefiting from all the problems!

Ok, if you have heard this, clap if you heard: “An A minus? What’s wrong with an A? Did someone get an A?”

Whoa, I hear a round of applause throughout the blogo-sphere.

This serenity thing is a hard one. But I did laugh these last two days when I looked at the wild ride of the stock market and how our retirement is now effectively pushed out to age 113. I will be the dead, yet-propped up greeter at Walmart’s. The company will love me because it won’t have to pay overtime (how will I know? I’ll be dead), and I won’t mind being in the freezer section.

At least I laughed. Ok, gallows humor, but, hey, it IS a start. I am trying to focus on the things that renew me because they also provide the building blocks of serenity — love, constancy and laughter.

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

But renewal and serenity are sooooooo much easier in a bull market and a roaring economy. Just sayin’.

My coach knows me well. This is the start of a journey for me — to allow time for renewal and to allow a sense of serenity in a chaotic world.

Really, email me if you want a lifeline (or two).

Sunday Dinner

Posted on September 11, 2011 by 40andover

FOPOB (father of POB (partner of blogger)) is a hard guy to pin down. He doesn’t like to “commit” to coming over for Sunday night dinner when he is in the City (and not at his beach house). This weekend was no exception: he wasn’t able to say yes or no when asked again yesterday. He’d let us know. Ok.

In fact, he let us know by coming over at 3:15pm, unannounced. That’s so early even for MY dad who would come at 9am, if we let him. That’s ok. I couldn’t even emerge from the bedroom until 3:45pm. Then I felt guilty and let POB escape to the kitchen. At 4:15pm, FOPOB was itching to watch the Giants game. And in a slightly-passive-but-really-overly-aggressive move, I told SOS (our son, source of sanity) to keep FOPOB company, believing full well that SOS would get bored within 5 minutes and start trying to convince FOPOB to change to either Nature or Discovery channels. And it would drive FOPOB nuts.

You think that wow I can be awfully mean sometimes. Yes, yes, I can.

Somehow, despite my best-laid plans, SOS started to get into the game. (My son: the child who went from worrying about the euro crisis to watching people gratuitously concuss each other in 48 hours. I am having whiplash and I will remind him of this indignity until the day I die or the guilt kills him — whatever.) The Giants versus the Redskins. The Redskins? Really? Do we still have teams with humans (in this case, Native Americans) as mascots? Haven’t we progressed as a civilization? Oh, wait, that is my way left-of-center whine. I am a centrist now. I digress.

FOPOB was impatient at cocktail hour (6pm) because the Redskins (pause, take a deep breath) were beating the Giants. And, because HOSOB (husband of SOB (sister of blogger)) and CB (cousin birder) were talking about bird nerd things that even a loving and adoring sister-in-law and cousin could not possibly abide. SOB was seeking shelter in the kitchen with POB, leaving me to referee the “boys”.

So I threw out random things, like the blue inner feathers of a mallard and the way hummingbirds make their calls with their feathers, to bring the conversation within normal nerd parameters. Nothing doing. DOB (Dad of blogger) rather adeptly tried to steer the conversation away from what could have been mortal boredom (did I mention how much I adore HOSOB and CB?) by musing about the difference in conversations he had when he was our age 20 years ago. OK, DOB, that was 40 years ago when you were our age, but who is counting. Yes, it was just after the 60s and you were wearing mustard colored bell bottoms and Mom was wearing floral halter tops, “hostess” pants and Elvira the Vampiress make-up, but I am sure your politics had sound bases. Still, he had a good point.

FOPOB, who had a moment to shine, instead said flatly that the conversation was boring, he’d rather watch his team lose and did anyone realize that Casablanca was on TV tonight? I poured everyone more wine. DOB mentioned he liked it and I told him it was NOT Trader Joe’s $3.50 special Merlot. “Really?” DOB was genuinely surprised. I excused myself to the kitchen where POB was hiding out. I asked POB to kill me before SOS ever had to have this conversation with me.

Thank G-d Cousin Gentle arrived. And time to eat. FOPOB wanted to take dinner-to-go but we locked the door. SOB had to take a call from the hospital. SOS wanted to run back and forth from the dinner table to the TV in our room to watch the football game. I considered Crazy Glue to keep him in his chair but I settled on the Evil Eye of Doom and Despair that I inherited from my mother that kept us in line. It is amazing how a few moves of the facial muscles can subdue a child. It worked. Luckily, I also still have the brute strength in my arsenal, if necessary. But only for a little time more.

At the beginning of the meal, we toasted the many sides of the family that were present. We toasted our good fortune in being together. We remembered the victims of the attack on our Nation 10 years ago.

At some point in the conversation, we started talking about the different sources of the Bible and how women may have been writers. HOSOB asked what I knew about this. So, of course, I held forth, but with a caveat. I started with, “Unencumbered as I am with fact or knowledge about the subject matter . . . .” Cousin Gentle was impressed that I said this. I was shocked. I thought this was an implied caveat in any conversation in our family history because clearly Uncle Loud, Cousin Gentle’s father and DOB, would have otherwise been mute for most of their lives.

After that, someone complained that the chicken was salty. Someone wondered about having added marjoram (a spice I still don’t understand) to the quinoa dish. FOPOB wanted to take dessert to go (keep trying, dude) in order to watch Casablanca at home on his ginormous TV.

So, we were deep, we were shallow, we were loving, we were honest. . .and in so doing, we gave meaning to the statement:

WE ARE A FAMILY.

I love you all.

RIP, Cousin Bernie

Posted on August 8, 2011 by 40andover

Cousin Bernie died yesterday,

Cousin Bernie wasn’t really my cousin. But I didn’t find out that Bernie wasn’t related until my mother’s shiva. Trust me, that’s when you learn everything about everybody, whether you want to or not.

It turns out that Cousin Bernie was the cousin of Betty, one of my mother’s closest friends from college. Betty and my mother married two brothers, so Betty was my Aunt Betty by the time I was born. Cousin Bernie also was (for time enough to have two children) the husband of Blossom, one of Aunt Betty’s and Mom’s other close friends. For the record, Aunt Betty’s only successful match was Mom and Dad. The rest were, shall we say, short-lived.

Not only was Cousin Bernie, and therefore, his wife Susan not my cousins, but Blossom wasn’t, and Blossom’s second husband, Aaron, wasn’t and his third wife, Marjorie, wasn’t. All of which I found out at Mom’s shiva. And Marjorie was the only one who asked POB (partner of blogger) if we were having a child by a known donor or unknown donor. You mean she asked that and she wasn’t even related??? You have to admire a woman who picks up the beat of the Blogger family. No boundaries, ever.

What makes them my family is more important than blood or marriage. They are related by love. And if not, love, then time. After a few decades, even my mother, who would cringe at Bernie’s cursing like a sailor (he was one, in World War II), loved him even though he divorced Blossom and swore in front of her children. Family is family, however it is constituted.

And so my heart is breaking for his wife Susan, Aunt Betty and Bernie’s kids. Bernie, my Mom, Aunt Betty, Uncle Willy and my Dad were among the generation that bridged the divide between immigrant children and Americans. They were the generation that fought in the war that American won. They all put their foot on the gas pedal and roared into the American dream. They laid the foundation for my generation’s successes.

And they were characters. In his later years, Bernie was a caricature of himself. And we lovingly laughed at his meshugas (craziness).

He used to be president of the New York Runner’s Club. I ran in one of the New York City Corporate Challenges and, as I crossed the finish line, Bernie was there to hug me. I said, “Bernie, it is great to see you!” He said, “[Blogger], is that you?” So, in fact, he was hugging any sweaty, young woman who would hug him back. “I won’t tell Susan,” I said as I kissed him. At the next family function, OF COURSE, I told Susan. Bernie’s response: “Jesus Christ, all of these f*%$ing young beautiful, sweaty women!! What the hell do you want me to do? Wave? How else would I get anyone to hug me. [more profanity].” That was Bernie. (You should know that he hit the jackpot with Susan. He knew it, too. To use his parlance, he would have been a schmuck to do anything untoward.)

I drove Bernie and his wife Susan to Uncle Willy’s unveiling a few years back. Bernie called and said he hadn’t seen Willy in a while and would I include them in the Great Schlep. SOB (sister of blogger) and I didn’t know whether he remembered that Uncle Willy had died. So, during the Great Schlep, we asked leading questions intended to elicit some acknowledgment that Uncle Willy was dead. We were afraid that Bernie who had a defibrillator and pacemaker in his chest might go into cardiac arrest if he thought he was actually going to see Uncle Willy and then we pulled up to the cemetery. Thank G-d, he knew.

We saw Susan and Bernie at Dad’s 90th birthday party in October. He looked frail. He was cursing about all the doctors he needed to see and how he had no more room in his schedule. He also was singing the praises of prune juice as an elixir he recently discovered. Cousin Bernie never changed.

I just called my Aunt Betty to express my condolences and I started reminiscing about the prune juice and the cursing and the doctors. She has buried a son, a husband and countless other loved ones. It was good to hear her chuckle as she mourns another loss in our greatest generation. As we mourn right along with her.

Rest in peace, Cousin Bernie.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Mothers