Oy

Oy.

It is more than a word; it is an emotive state, conveying sadness or disgust and sympathy, even empathy, with those harmed by the event all in one syllable. You can even understand it in a flat, toneless medium such as an email.

Compare that to “oh” or “wow”.  You need context and knowledge of sender in order to decipher the intended meaning and, even then, still not clear.

Don’t get me started on those emoticons. Although I have used them, I do so sparingly and with a requisite ooky feeling.

Let me use it two sentences:  Sarah Palin signed a contract with Fox News.  Oy.

‘nough said.

G-d bless books and smart phones

I am a prisoner of my blackberry(ies).  I read books on my iPod.  I am gidiot (idiot for gadgets). 

They prevented bad things from happening one night on the subway.

A few nights ago, I was on a stalled train for 25 minutes.  There was more than one would-be rabble-rouser in my car.  But so many people had gadgets or books, that no one took the bait.  I ended up having to walk through four or so cars to get to the front of the train in order to exit at my station.  In each of those cars, the would-be rabble-rousers were unsuccessful in provoking any meaningful disturbance.  People were reading or playing electronic games.

There is hope for our civilization.  How ironic that, in this case, it comes packaged in electronics that in a larger sense rob of us of our identities and anonymity.

Only in America and only in New York

POST-SCRIPT:  The part about the beer is my imagination running away with me.

I get out of the 96th Street subway station at 94th Street (if you live outside NY, just trust me on this) when I go to the gym.  Invariably, I pass the same panhandler asking for change.  He is not earnest in his request (“spare change?”) because he sits on a standpipe in front of the storefronts and doesn’t really work the crowd.  I feel guilty not giving him something but I rationalize my hard-heartedness by concluding that if I were a beggar I would be the best damn beggar on the street and this guy is so mediocre at his job that he doesn’t deserve spare change.  And this beggar is rather, well, blasé about the whole begging thing.  You see why New Yorkers are a breed unto themselves; we even have jaded beggars.

So far, for a New Yorker, nothing new in this story.  YET.

As I pass him, and he is saying a half-hearted “spare change?”, his cell phone rings and he answers, “hey, where you at? I’ve been waiting for you.”

What, to go out for a beer?  Or does he meet his friend every night and while he is waiting, begs for change?  A kind of “fringe benefit” or “value added” for his wait time?

I couldn’t make this stuff up and I am really sure I wouldn’t want to.

Minister of Senior Activities

There is a reason why No-Where-istan is struggling.  Look at our minister of senior activities.  This is what happens when your country has NO health care for the elderly.  They sit in subway stations with a keyboard and moving dolls dressed in Santa outfits.

First Family Sunday Brunch of 2010

So, last week, as I mentioned in my blog, as part of our family tradition, we gather together on the Sunday after Christmas for brunch to kvetch while our mouths are full of food.

Because at that brunch we didn’t kvetch enough or talk enough about our petty grievances against the humanity, the world and the next door neighbor, we re-convened at my house this Sunday.  We hoped the snarky energy that I emit in my home would provide a better venue for the spirit of our gathering.

Unfortunately, my sister couldn’t come because she had to cover for a sick colleague (“Doctor, heal thyself,” I say).  Besides the patients are so used to rounds, they could round themselves.  Still, my sister is a professional and went to the aid of her patients.  So, already, good karma started to push out my snarky energy.  AND IN MY OWN HOME.  How galling.

My brother-in-law came and he is really too sweet to have to carry the banner of acerbic, sarcastic humor.  He also has high blood pressure and a teensy cholesterol problem.  So, I ratted him out in the middle of brunch when he ate chocolate cake by sending the following pictures by email to my hard-working sister:

Needless to say, my brother-in-law is now on a diet of lentils, rice, and anti-oxidants.

Also, our dear cousin for whom my sister broke ground by cooking scrambled eggs, came this Sunday.  If my sister can cook eggs, well, I can, too.

SO THERE!!!

We are NOT competitive.  Really.  Nooooo, sireeeee.

Anyway, another cousin came over, too.  He is really a wonderful kid and it was actually hard to be snarky.  It was an odd feeling to want to be nice and gentle.  Wow, age does mellow a person.

But, let’s re-evaluate tomorrow.

2010

Happy 2010!! Is it “twenty-ten” or “two thousand ten”?

My favorite non-starter was “O10” (as in “O9”, even though letters have no place in these numbers).  I think most people have realized that “O10” is non-sensical. It would have been ok had we referred 2009 as “OO9”.  Then we could pretend that it was the year of international people of mystery and be relieved that that movie has ended.  Anyway, I am going off on a scary tangent that will reveal just how odd I really am.

So my first neurotic moment of 2010 happened even before midnight:

We had friends over for New Year’s.  Many were parents of kids about our son’s age.  So, I asked a burning question:  have you told your child(ren) about the danger of electricity and water?  A few nights before I had asked POB (partner of blogger) if she knew whether our son knew about this danger.  She didn’t know and immediately I had visions of our son waking from a sound sleep in the middle of the night, finding an electrical appliance, running a bath and electrocuting himself.  POB promised me, PROMISED me, that she would talk to our son about this.  (Sometimes, my son likes to test me and push back on my warnings and this was one I didn’t want risk.)  POB also assured me that she would call a psycho-pharmacologist the next business day so that I could get the help I needed.

Epilogue:  POB kept forgetting to tell our son.  So I had to tell him and I told him that he couldn’t test my authority on this one.  (Luckily, POB did call the psycho-pharmacologist for me, as one of HER New Year’s resolutions:  for both of us to have a happy, healthier year.)