All quiet on the Upper West Side

Posted on December 21, 2010 by 40andover

Our son is sick and so POB (partner of blogger) and I have split the task of caring for him so we can have at least a half-day at work.

Sometimes, the delicate balance maintained by two working parents is thrown off and you have to deal. I was able to be on conference calls and do some work, all the while hugging and kissing my child and saying things my mother would say, “My poor tsatskela, I am so sorry you are sick. If I could have it for you, I would!”

Our son wanted to watch a nature video on the Grand Canyon. So, I am watching as a tarantula hawk wasp (as in insect) paralyzes a tarantula (as in huge, hairy and gross) and drags it off so the wasp’s larvae can feed on the tarantula. Something small dragging something comparatively elephantine is quite extraordinary. It is also quite disgusting. But it is better than a SpongeBob SquarePants marathon. I am grateful for life’s small graces.

Now, the nature show has moved to the effect of human intervention on the natural course of the Grand Canyon on humpback suckerfish and chuckwallises (sp?). I keep returning to reading proposed model changes to credit agreements made necessary by the lessons (??) learned in the economic downturn.

Suckerfish and chuckwallises are more interesting. Now, that is a statement.

We are now looking at the ecosystems of the Everglades. Two many reptiles and I keep thinking of Horatio Caine and CSI: Miami. This, I can tune out. Work wins this round.

Rule No. 1: Don’t check me out if you are receiving social security benefits

Posted on December 20, 2010 by 40andover

I have been wallowing in old and recent pictures of the family. You know, the end-of-year auld lang syne thing, except without the drunken protestations of undying friendship.

Jews, as a rule, are not innately happy, because if you are happy, then the Evil Eye will visit some horribleness upon you and your loved ones. Preventing the Evil Eye from coming is hard work when you’re up against all the Yuletide cheer. It requires devotion to cynicism (which is extremely difficult this time of year — as you may remember, even Ebeneezer Scrooge gave in to the Yuletide cheer), remembering every lost loved one, predicting doom and gloom in the New Year, and staying up nights thinking up disaster plans if your family is suddenly homeless.

While I was protecting my family and the world from imminent disaster (say Keynahora — don’t ask why, just say it) by tearing up while looking through photos of my mother of blessed memory (don’t worry, no bringing in the Joni here), I noticed in the pictures that over time, the muscle tone in my arms went from “awesome” to — er — “pretty good for middle-age”. I decided that I needed to return to arms — not to “awesome” but — to “omigod, your arms don’t look like they belong on a middle-aged woman!” I determined that if I said “keynahora”, the incantation said by my grandmother right after she kissed the mezuzah and put money in the pushke (box for charity) enough times, no harm would come to my family if I indulged in a little narcissism.

Turns out I didn’t need to say “keynahora”, kiss anything or anyone because the Evil Eye got the last laugh.

Background: I have silvery hair, and have taken to “glamming out” a little (earrings, lipstick, scarves, jewelry) to balance the harshness of “going gray”.

TWICE tonight at the gym, men who are easily 20-25 years older than me were checking me out. I noticed they tried to meet my gaze and I looked back to see if they needed something. Seeing that they were holding my gaze, I turned around to see if there was someone else intended for the gaze. Just my reflection. Uh oh, I think. I am gray but I could be your daughter. Eeeeeewwwwww. Besides, you are at the gym either because you were too speculative in the last years and need to continue to work (greed is a boomerang) or you are just here to check out the women (shame on you because, statistically speaking, you have a wife at home with sagging arms). In either case, I don’t date MEN — and therefore men on social security — and I am married (as much as one can be in New York) to woman with whom I have a family. And does Medicare pay for that Viagra?

The other thing I noticed is that all young women (gay or straight) have tattoos just above the cracks of their tushies, and they make sure those tattoos are visible to all by wearing revealing gym wear. (I can look.) You can tell the non-straight girls because they are doing military pull ups and the really hard kind of push-ups. And some don’t even have that ooky muscled-up with no breasts look. But I digress.

The harsh truth that hit me is no girl was even glancing in my direction. So, what I am saying is that women may gender-bend, but they don’t generation-bend, although I look fabulous for 50 (I am 46-almost 47).

So, I didn’t need protection from the Evil Eye. I need protection from REALITY.

A letter to my blackberry

Posted on December 16, 2010 by 40andover

‘Berry Darling —

You are the first thing I look at in the morning and the last thing I see at night. You are next to me as I sleep.

I know these economic times have been hard on all of us; still you don’t always light up with a message when I look at you. Is it something I did or didn’t do, dear?

Don’t I take you everywhere? Haven’t we traveled to Europe and lazed on the beach together? Remember, when you fell into a puddle and I lovingly dried you out? I know you don’t such take good pictures any more and there is a lingering buzz. But I still love you. (And I don’t remember your bringing me flowers and complimenting on my outfits.)

Yes, I still love you, even though there are brighter, more fun models. I think one even makes coffee . . . no matter.

The important thing is that we communicate. So I am going to tell you what I need from our relationship: I need you quietly by my side, until I look at you, and then I want you to have messages that bring business and good and happy tidings from friends. Is that so much to ask?

Dearest ‘Berry, think about this — and us — and let me know what you think, but don’t buzz. I’ll look at it in the morning.

Goodnight, my sweet.

Holiday Photos

Posted on December 15, 2010 by 40andover

Most every other family can get it together to take a photo, get prints done, put in envelopes, address the envelopes and mail them. We can’t.

In fact, POB (partner of blogger) would rather do laundry and I would rather destroy the house under the guise of “home improvements” than undertake this gargantuan task. (As an aside, we have had to contract repairman to correct my home improvement projects, but I digress. . . )

So . . . Not happening until our son is of an age where he can do all of that.

But we love getting the holiday pictures from our friends and family. (Note to friends: we love seeing your kids, but we also want to see you in the picture as well.)

SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) especially likes the pictures of the kids he knows. Even he says stuff like, “wow, they’ve grown!!” There is one family with an adorable little girl and two younger twin boys (you know who you are) whose card was particularly of interest to SOPOBAB. (I think he likes the willfulness in the girl.) But he is betrothed to another (this, he decided at the tender age of 7, so his interest in the willful one is merely big-brotherly.)

He also likes to see pictures of my college friends’ families. A group of us female friends have remained tight-knit (the “Soeurs”). SOPOBAB asked POB, “when are the Soeur kids getting together?”

He also asked POB, “[Blogger] is a Soeur, and I am a Soeur kid, then what are you?” POB responded, somewhat sheepishly, “I am a Soeur Consort.” Since not everyone has a spouse and partners may change from time to time, it seemed like a suitable name — heck, Queen Elizabeth’s husband is called “The Queen Consort” (I think). Unfortunately, it sounds a little tawdry. Maybe we will all get married by the time he is old enough to think the name is ooky and then “Soeur Consorts” will be “Soeur Spouses”.

But our boy is used to eccentricity.

Bringing in the Joni [Mitchell]

Posted on December 13, 2010 by 40andover

It is that time of year again, when the days get darker and the weather colder. And the despair. Same despair as every year since 2002 when Mom started down that slippery slope to the end of her life. The dark days, my sister and I call them.

Dear Mom:

We moved eight times ’round the seasons since you died. We have rode those stupid, stinking, painted ponies eight times ’round the carousel of time. And still, tears well up in both your daughters’ eyes just thinking about the fact that you are gone.

We have a lovely party for Dad’s 90th birthday. We tried to keep the photo montage balanced so it wouldn’t be a shrine to you. Your eldest (SOB, to my blogging friends) was strong and held me back. We had to remember (ok, I had to remember) that we needed to be all about Dad that day, even though somehow being all about Dad means being all about you, too.

SOB tries to think that these past years allowed us to get to know Dad and allowed him to shine. That is true. He is a wonderful, kind and generous man. (Ok, generous in spirit, and in his gifts to his family, but on a day-to-day basis, a person needs a crowbar to open up his wallet.) And don’t let those years of his croaking out notes on the saxophone fool you, he is a maestro when it comes to pushing our buttons in a tour de force — a veritable Liberace, but without the candelabra, crazy outfits or the ookiness. But, he is aging more quickly these days. And he will forever be lost without you. As are we all to some extent.

Your grandchildren are fabulous young men. BOB’s (brother of blogger’s) elder son asked us recently, “what do you remember most about Mamaw?” I could see SOB’s eyes welling up. Mine were, too. I think we were caught off-guard by the question. We were sitting at the dining room table — your table — and we were so awed by our nephew’s desire to know more about his grandmother. Sometimes my son asks, “what would grandma say?” in a given situation. I do my best imitation although I am scared that I can’t summon up your voice as well any more.

We’ve lost a fair amount of family since we lost you — Ricky, Uncle Billy, POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom, Rudy and Yvette, among others. Rudy and Yvette needed me and I hope I made you proud by my actions. We have had some notable additions. SOB now has HOSOB (husband of SOB) who is fabulous and loves the family (who could have imagined?). He made latkes for Hanukah. I think he thinks that there is a special “conversion by cooking” clause in Judaism. I keep telling him he has to dunk in the dirty water in the mikvah. He is already practicing his aliyah for SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) Bar Mitzvah. You would adore him. He makes SOB laugh and smile in a way that makes me wish you could just come back — for just a moment — and see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes and know that SOB is happy and in love.

Also Cousin Gentle has joined our nuclear family pod. It is so good to have the New York City contingent around our table on a Sunday night, eating, laughing, reminiscing and creating new memories. You should have seen all the boys (and I am including Dad and POB’s father) around the train set that SOPOBAB got as a present. Some moments are priceless and you want to freeze them in time.

Maybe there is a Heaven and you are there and see everything. I know you never believed in it (“when you’re dead, you’re dead” you often said), but I cannot accept that there is a black hole in the world where your heart and soul once were. You cannot have dissipated into the air.

Sometimes, your death gives me strength. If I could get through that, I could get through almost anything that happens in a given day. The economy has been hard these past years and I worry sometimes (ok, most of the time), but your life and death have given me a perspective that keeps me sane (mostly sane).

One last thing I wish you could help me navigate. Matzah balls are supposed to sink; POB’s float (whoever heard of such a thing). I know she cooks the Passover meal and it is her mother’s recipe and Passover is all about her mother (z”l) — as it should be, but when do you think I can start negotiating for the sinkers again?

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

Happiness is . . . predictability

Posted on December 12, 2010 by 40andover

I was too sick to go to our family 11th night of Hannukah party but I felt like a I was there (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=3114) because, as predicted, my dad did try out his Japanese, my son turned all the bird-nerders on to Chirp, an iTouch app, the latkes were authentic, and Cousin Gentle spent the whole evening talking up the eligible single woman in the room (and of course we have pictures and depending on the number of time she appears in future pictures, we will need to footnote the length and quality of her relationship to the overall clan).

Life is good even though I am still sick as a dog.

Being Sick, part 2

Posted on December 11, 2010 by 40andover

So, I opted to get better and not infect anyone at our family’s 11th night of Hannukah blow-out raging party (average age of party rager: 57 years old).

I called over and spoke to my Dad who was brushing up on his Japanese to speak with HOSOB’s (husband of sister of blogger’s) friend who is Japanese. Uh oh. I told SOB (sister of blogger) to take action shots and possibly video, if things get really crazy.

More to report later. Now, back to sleep.

Being sick

Posted on December 11, 2010 by 40andover

It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed. This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.

At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window. In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair. (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)

POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs). Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah. (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.) So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.

What could be bad? Well I am glad you asked.

First, HOSOB is making the latkes. That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook. Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window. This old-style, with schmaltz. My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.

Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends. That’s fine, we love other bird nerds. Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr. Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!” He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying. And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive. Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation. Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.

Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there. HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”). The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).

Fourth, I may be too sick to go. And I love my family. SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.

I’ll let you know what happens. Now time for a nap.

My son, the Prince

Posted on December 7, 2010 by 40andover

This weekend, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I went to see dear friends who live outside the City. The wife, M., is in the travel business so she knows how to spoil people with sumptuous accommodations. The husband, C., is the sweetest man ever and, together they are generous with their hearts, their time and their money. These are the kind of people that should have G-d’s grace shine upon them forever and always (not that I am a religious person or anything).

They have taken an especial liking to SOPOBAB and SOPOBAB adores them — simply adores them.

M. made sure his bedroom for the weekend was filled with presents, like Christmas morning in the movies. Our room had a gigantic bed with matching pajamas in case we forgot ours, a gift basket and bottled water. The bathroom was the size of most Manhattan apartments. So, this was SIX star accommodations and, because we were visiting our dear friends, it was a TEN-STAR experience.

I forgot to tell our friends that SOPOBAB said after the weekend that he slept in “luxurious comfort” (he is 8 year old and where do 8 year-olds get this vocabulary).

We kept saying, “they must think you’re royalty — a REAL prince!!” He wondered after the weekend if he should tell them that he wasn’t really royalty, after all. But then, he figured, there might not be as many presents or endless games of hide-and-go-seek and tag. (G-d bless C. for running all over and watching cartoons.) So, SOPOBAB thought he would keep his commoner status quiet. Still, he felt a little sheepish about the ruse.

Yet, during the weekend, SOPOBAB got a little toooo into the groove of “ask and ye shall receive” when he asked that his burger be pan-fried, like in diners. C. was braving the frigid temperatures to grill a delicious carnivorous fare. (I was personally horrified, first, that my son would be so bold as to make that request and, second, that he would have a palate that desired pan-fried burgers, but I digress.) I was a little concerned that C. might accede to his wishes and then we would have to send our son to boot camp to bring him back down to real life.

But G-d not only gave them wonderful hearts and souls, but “seychel” (Yiddish for “smarts” and the “ch” is a guttural German-like sound). C. brought a pan outside and deposited the grilled hamburgers into it and then brought them into the dining room for our son. SOPOBAB pronounced them the most delicious burgers he had ever eaten. I had the biggest smile on my face.

A fabulous weekend getaway. Except that our son now asks, “what if I am a real prince, only kidnapped by you like in a fairy tale?” I think, “sweetie, most times, only us, your real mothers could love you,” but I keep that thought inside. I merely said, “we treat you like a prince, so does it matter?” “But, M. and C. treat me better!!”

I know he knows that that is all because they are not his parents and they can (and do) spoil him. But, oy. Boot camp here we come.

That magnetic, NEON, S on my forehead

Posted on December 3, 2010 by 40andover

I am on a crowded subway. I am seated at the end of a row and a huge woman tries to wedge herself between me and the person a few inches away from me. On the aisle side, there is a couple — er — um — attempting to couple, and jabbing me with elbows and bags. Reminds me of that song, “I’ve got clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right . . . “ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8StG4fFWHqg

The couplers take a break and the over-sized woman gets up and I think all is going to be okay. But I should have remembered the magnet in my forehead in the shape of an S. S is for SCHMUCK.

In Seinfeld Show’s Kramer-like fashion, a woman nearly dives for the seat next to me. I look up, startled. She is a little freaked out. She tells me in a breathless voice that she had to change seats because the woman next to her was invading her space tooo much. (You didn’t see what I just went through, I think.)

Perhaps seeing the skepticism in my eyes (or was it that “I don’t give a sh@t” look?), the woman continues, “when I told [the offending woman] that she needed to sit up, she said, “I have a disability, I LEAN“.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Monthly Archives: December 2010