Subject to Life

A friend and I are planning to have lunch tomorrow, “subject to life” as she cautioned in her email.

She and I have lost our mothers and are dealing with aging, failing fathers.  Some truths derive from these experiences.  One is that every plan or schedule is subject to life and what life throws at you.

Years ago, I thought I had some manner of control over my life.   Then my son was born and, shortly thereafter, my mother died. 

Only after my friend put it into words did I realize that that proviso, “subject to life,” modifies every plan anyone makes or obligation anyone undertakes. 

Because, one just never knows.  So, eat that dessert.

Weave these threads into your reality

In one city, Costco takes tomatoes off its shelves because Sarah Palin is scheduled to appear.  I am sure that Costco wanted to protect the tomatoes from an ignoble end.

In Copenhagen, 193 nations are trying to agree on something — anything.  When was the last time you got consensus in a family of three members? 

Did you know that the food industry is responsible for 1/3 of all of the world’s carbon emissions?  Give up grapes in winter and the save the world.

We are trying to agree with China on important things — North Korea, carbon emissions, sanctions for Iran.  How about we start with something small, like, “it’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Now, no one likes the health care reform bill.  The Congress behaved so badly, but of course it is Obama’s fault.

A Republican senator wanted to run out the clock on health care by requiring the reading of a laborious and largely symbolic amendment to the health care legislation.  Debate, I get.  Screaming and yelling, sure.  Stonewalling?  Outrageous.  That senator ought to be in the penalty box for the rest of his term.

I can drive my Hummer, but Obama, Obama, needs to save us from Waterworld (I really can’t handle that horrible 1980s/90s movie turning out to be prophetic).

If Obama doesn’t fix health care, lower carbon emissions, balance the budget, reduce the deficit and increase jobs, ALL IN ONE YEAR, he will have failed.  If I remember my anniversary, I am golden for 12 months.    Wow, his job really sucks.

Being a pundit or a talking head must be great.  Sanctimony with no responsibility.

More Cab Stories

Notwithstanding my protestions to the contrary in a prior blog entry, my experiences from last night . . .

I’m in a cab because my back is too sore for the steps to the subway (as if the stops and starts of an insane cab driver are any less injurious) and I am not responding to any comments and offering gratuitous conversation.

I even tried to tell him where I wanted to go by telepathy rather than words.  AND, I am wearing a cap to cover up the word schmuck on my forehead.

From his name, he is Sikh. Do you think he would think I were Sikh or would he know I was “Jew”? I am not going to try it.

I’ll just sit here, assuming the crash position.

Ok, I yelled, “dude, pull over to let the ambulance by!!” I couldn’t hold back. I don’t usually say, “dude” but I’ve talked to way too many bankers today.

His only response was, “what street again?” “The one you just drove past.” Screeech, and a hard left on 107th Street.

I am going to need Percocet after this. And Vycodin and a few other narcotics I’ve never heard of and can’t spell.

And the cab smells bad, too.

Chanukah Party

We had a family Chanukah party at our synagogue this afternoon.  The kids had activities; the parents were just hanging out with only coffee and tea as refreshments.  Someone suggested that we get a bottle of wine.  The rabbi overheard and went into the kitchen and brought out red and white wine and iced vodka.  The senior rabbi produced three kinds of single malt scotch.  We had only Dixie cups and were crowded around a card table with a paper table cloth with dreidels on it.  It was a little like smoking dope in the bathroom while the high school dance is going on downstairs.

Apparently, the wine was for a party later on tonight and the man in charge got into a distemper over our poaching some of the wine, and had a bitchy, chastising tone as he grabbed the wine and said, “I am going to talk to the rabbi about this!”  Ok, so the hall monitor is ratting us out to the principal who gave us the wine in the first place.  NOW, who was going to be in trouble??  Mister Officious-Avec-Attitude came over and said, “the rabbi will go out and buy more wine so HERE.”  Ok, now I was pissed.  I say, “the wine is awful anyway, so don’t have anyone buy more of this vinegar.”  Ok, we were going to have it out, the lesbian mom and the gay man c-list event coordinator.  In the nick of time, the senior rabbi came over wearing a velvet Menorah hat and asked if anyone liked the scotch.  That diffused the brewing cat fight.  Phew.

Ok, the kids never knew what was happening, except the parents were laughing a whole lot more than any Sukkot and Tu B’Shevat parties at the synagogue.

Taxi cab stories

Since I threw out my back, I have taken a lot of cabs (the subway just seemed too much to handle).

Cab drivers like to talk to me.  I must have “schmuck” written across my forehead.

One cab driver starts a conversation with, “you don’t look Christian.”  Bait me, why don’t you.  So, I say, “I am not”.  “You are Jew!!”  Oy, I think, this is going to be bad and all the world’s ills are being distilled in this one moment in a cab in holiday traffic.  I say nothing.  He says, “I know you are not Muslim.”  So I respond, “Maybe I am Sikh or Hindu.”  He laughs.  He is a Christian from Egypt.  He hates Muslims.  He says all the Muslim cab drivers are terrorists.  I knew that Christians had it hard in Egypt, but he went on a diatribe against Muslims for what seemed like an eternity.  Then he says, “I don’t believe in G-d anyway.  How do I pray to G-d who makes me short and fat?” I think to say, “and with enormous earlobes” but I think better of it.  I get out of the cab, exhausted from the hatred spewing out of this guy.

That evening, in another cab, the driver asks me, “have you done all your holiday shopping?”  I respond, “I don’t celebrate these holidays.”  He says, “you are Jew!” [Now this is becoming weird.]  He goes on without a response from me, “I am Muslim and I know you are not Muslim.” So I try my Sikh or Hindu line on this guy.  He laughs, too.  I ask him where he is from.  “Egypt.”  Ok, I don’t usually get Egyptian cab drivers and in this one day alone, I have an Egyptian Christian and now an Egyptian Muslim.  So I ask, “who do you think will succeed Hosni Mubarak?”  He answers, “Mubarak’s son will, but that is no democracy, that is a dynasty like Syria or Jordan.  I would vote for Boutros Boutros Gali, but he is a Christian and a Christian head of state would never be allowed in a Muslim country.”  I mention that no one ever thought that a black man would be president of the United States.  He responds, “I live in this country and I am glad to have a job, so I do not worry about politics.  But it would be great if Mr. Obama were President of Egypt!!”

An angry Christian and a grateful Muslim. Each the opposite of what the other envisions.

The next day I get into a cab and the radio is on.  Someone is talking about global warming.  “Miss, do you believe in this global warming?” I respond yes.  “My village will be flooded in 2050!  I must buy a boat!”  Ok, no one has EVER been cheerful about global warming.  Clearly, this guy is out of kilter, just like our ecosystem.  “Where are you from?”  “Bangladesh, Miss. Do you hear of it?” “Yes, of course, but I heard on CNN that the flooding [other than during rainy season and when India opens a large dam] in Bangladesh won’t be bad until 2100,” I say, trying to be helpful and upbeat [ok, now I am in his crazy world of surreality]. I think, wow, coastal cities in the US will be flooded.  Good thing we live on the fourth floor.  Now I am crazy enough to drive a cab.

Next week I take the subway, even if I have to crawl up and down the steps.

My father and his daughter, the non-doctor

SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) left yesterday for a week in Europe.

The last time SOB left the country for a week, my father was so anxious that his doctor-daughter was more than a mere phone call away that he ended up in the hospital ER at least three times.  I, the non-medically trained daughter, met him at the ER each time, and waited with him until his anxiety-caused shortness of breath, etc., passed.

Dad would apologize for taking me away from my office or my family.  I would tell him I am glad and relieved that he called so I could be there.  He would respond, how else would you know anything was wrong because you don’t call me.  Ok ok ok ok.  I gave him the grandchild whom he sees on Tuesdays and we have him over (along with SOB and HOSOB) every Sunday night and every holiday.  SOB is in charge of daily check-ins.  I am in charge of weekends and holidays.  Did I mention that I provide the grandchild?  (I used to call him every day as well from the cab home, when I worked close enough to home to take cabs after work.  Now I take the subway (no reception) and when I walk in the door I need to spend time with my son and partner.)

Ok, he has hypochondriacal tendencies, but he was 88 at the time.  Now, he is 89 and he does have heart disease now that is making him slow down.  But he is by no means enfeebled.  He is healthier than most people 30 years his junior.

Last week SOB and I discussed which ER Dad would likely go to.  I thought if I could figure it out, I could arrange to have office space and wifi during these ER stints.  One hospital serves free apple juice; the other is farther away but is in the hospital where Dr. SOB is an attending physician, so he would be fawned over. His cardiologist is smack in the middle.  Don’t under-estimate the draw of free apple juice to a son of poor immigrants raised in the Depression.  So, not a clear cut option.

Of course, this is only mildly amusing if nothing is really wrong.  Dad went to the cardiologist on Thursday and Dr. SOB went along to make sure his new medication was helping and that he was in good shape. SOB left the country, confident that everything will be all right.

Dad had something to do yesterday.  We are seeing him today — going to see his sculpture on display at his studio and then taking him to dinner.  So, I knew that all would be okay on the weekend.  It is Monday that will be the test.  Last night, I priced those wifi plug-ins.  One has to be prepared for anything.

The Chump who should have been dumped

Ok, ok, ok.

A DFOSOB (dear friend of sister of blogger) is in a shaky relationship with a guy we call Stan.  Stan is not his real name and we purposefully don’t use his real name when we are mad at him because if FOSOB and he were to get back together again, well, then we would ditch the name Stan, with all of its negative connotations.  A brilliant idea devised by my brother-in-law HOSOB (husband of SOB).

I met Stan at HOSOB’s and SOB’s wedding.  I remember telling SOB at her wedding that Stan hit the jackpot with DFOSOB, because DFOSOB is urbane, kind, gracious, loving, graceful, fun-loving and totally terrific (and not because she is SOB’s college friend and someone I have known for over 30 years).  Stan is — how do you say? — none of the above.  But FOSOB loves him and as much as we all wanted her to dump the chump when he got cold feet about getting married, we were honest (in my case, brutally) but supportive of her decision to stick it out and make it work.

Because DFOSOB is family (after so many years, how could we not be), we (ok, not I) held our tongues as to our assessment of the man to whom she gave her heart.  But now Stan wants to extricate himself from the relationship.

No more biting my tongue (as if I ever did).

Stan has rounded the drain and can only hereafter be referred to as SHMUK (selfish, happiness-adverse, mean-spirited, unctious kvetcher).  FOSOB is still upset — G-d bless her, she sees something in SHMUK — but he doesn’t deserve her and never did.  That he doesn’t realize that he will never find anyone who comes close to DFOSOB is proof positive of his delusional psyche.  I met the guy and a Renaissance man or Superman he is not.  DFOSOB deserves someone who will make her laugh, make her feel loved and beautiful, catch her when she falls, who will hold her up in her weak moments and will love her when time (and, G-d forbid, disease) diminishes her vitality.  SHMUK is not up to the task.  He is not a man; he is gray haired, petulant boy.

If only DFOSOB liked girls, I think I could hook her up with some wonderful people . . . .

Perspectives

This weekend, my 45-going-on-85-year-old body announced that it was going on strike.

I had some bug that kept me in bed almost all Saturday and then Sunday, all ready to pack two days in one, I had a back spasm that had me on the floor in excruciating pain.  My son tried to make me feel better with many kisses and I was sad that he realized that his remedies were not efficacious.  It is heartbreaking when children grow up in these ways.

Nevertheless last night we had the ganza mishpocheh (the whole family) over for Sunday night dinner.

My father who has newly diagnosed heart disease looked good and was very excited to give us batteries and power bars and assorted other things that he bought at CostCo.  One opened in the city and he takes the bus there and buys in bulk and then doles out to the “kids”:  SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger), POB (partner of blogger and) and B (me).  As he was telling us about the good deals he got on all of these items, he stood taller, had better color and didn’t look or sound like a man in heart failure.  It is crazy what a good deal can do for an old man who is the child of poor immigrants and raised in the Depression.

As I reclined on a chair in the living room with a heating pad strapped to my back, I marveled at my father’s energy.  The conversation reminded me of my father’s endless price comparisons.  For a time, he focused especially on the price of bananas.  If he went to Chinatown, where he uses a sculpture studio, he could buy bananas for X cents a pound, but on the East Side of Manhattan where he lives, it is X+10 cents a pound.  I tolerated the banana story for years and then finally — this was when my mother was still alive — I said to Mom, “The banana story has run its course.  Make it go gently into that good night.” Mom nodded knowingly and I knew that was the last I would hear about the price of bananas.  Mom had a way with Dad.

Sure enough, Dad never mentioned the banana story again.  But he did start talking about the relative price of salmon.  I let it unfold for a few years (mind you, it is the SAME story over and over again about saving a few cents on the price of a pound of salmon0.   By then, Mom was gone.  So I said to SOB, “The salmon story has run its course.  Kill it.”  (I ceased to be gentle about these things after my mom died.)

But last night, as I sat alternatively in pain and extreme pain because of my back, I listened to my father tell us the good deals he got on the batteries and the power bars and I looked at him — he looked excited, proud and decidedly not sick.  And, I thought, I can live with these stories for a few years.  Happily, even, as long as my dad looks as good as he did last night.

But, please, no bananas or salmon stories.

The Worst Job in the World goes to . . .

President Obama.  Poor guy.

Imagine if the size of your ears were scrutinized. 

Imagine if the guy who had your job overspent, took too many vacations, broke the law, got some of the neighbors’ kids killed, made all your lenders angry and now some are threatening to come after you with a shot gun.  Oh, and he forgot to tell you, the building is in foreclosure and the vending machine is busted.

Imagine if your words parsed for meaning.   A mere, “Good morning,” could cause hours of “news” commentary on your inflection, your eye contact and whether or not you smiled.  Hey, with such tough audiences, I would read from teleprompters, too.

Imagine if you couldn’t take a walk without it being, literally, an issue of national security.

Imagine if every morning you had to deal with two wars, bankers, a psycho in Iran building nuclear weapons, Israeli settlements, global warming, souring health care reform, joblessness and an economic crisis du jour.

Imagine if everyone feels entitled to have an opinion on your private life.

Imagine if you could never make a mistake.  EVER.

Afghanistan

WAR.  We are a nation at war.  We forget that because, since September 11, 2001, no bombs have fallen on our cities.  WAR. 

WAR.  Everyday some of our children go to war and die for our collective safety.  WAR. 

WAR.  Our representatives in Congress voted for two wars.  So, these are our wars.  We own them.  Don’t look away because it is too ugly to watch. WAR. 

WAR.  You cannot turn it off like the TV.  It keeps on even when you cannot stand to hear another word about it.  WAR.

WAR.  The real enemies are not as easily vanquished as are TV villains.  The real enemies want to kill our soldiers and defeat us.  WAR.

WAR.  And they and we have more and better weapons to inflict wounds than doctors have resources to heal them.  WAR.

WAR. Even if soldiers come back in one physical piece, they have sacrificed their minds and happiness to the memories of war that time cannot erase.  WAR.

WAR.  We didn’t think long enough when we sent young people to die in Iraq.  President Obama thought long and hard about Afghanistan, as he should, because this is WAR.

WAR. If my son goes, then I go, too.  If there is a cause for which he should risk his life, then it is a cause worth risking mine.  WAR. 

WAR.  I pray that lives lost in Afghanistan are not lost in vain, as they were in Iraq.  Let us never be so easy about sacrificing lives again.  WAR.

WAR.  It is a small word.  It is a great tragedy.  WAR.