Monthly Archives: January 2011

a Day in the Life

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This morning, I got on a plane to Chicago for a meeting.   The plan was, that after the meeting, I would take a cab from potential client back to the airport for a plane to take me home.

I hear they have these new-fangled things called telephones and video conferencing that makes one-day round-trip travel less necessary.  Actually, most times, the older and ever more quaint tradition of meeting someone and shaking his or her hand is really the best approach to sealing the deal that turns a potential client into a new client.  But I still need all of the gadgets and technology to meet somewhat far flung potential clients in real time and in the flesh.  So neither alone works as well as both do together, in the right proportions.  (If we are talking about teenagers and adult email/text junkies, then you need to send them to a monastery to start a 12-step program before even talking rationally to them.)

As I am floating along in a technology-induced empowerment daydream (it is early for me, remember), I realize that this morning’s trip is on a put-put plane.  The gangway doesn’t go all the way to the plane.  We have to step outside in the sleet and the rain and jump over puddles (that could qualify as rivers) in order to climb the thin (as in one-at-a-time only), small staircase into our claustrophobic airplane.  So much for my earlier comments on the power of technology.  I am no longer dreaming.  I am awake to the reality of a cold, wet, snowy day with wet feet and barely two inches separating me from my fellow passenger.

There is an woman in row 7 indirectly trying to get the attention of the flight attendant who is attending to things behind row 22. The woman is being very passive-aggressive about it all — telling everyone that the flight attendant is avoiding her.  Clearly, the flight attendant doesn’t hear her.  Finally, I ask the woman if I could help get the flight attendant’s attention.  She responds, “it’s her job to notice me!!!”  Ok, forget the personal touch.  Get me the hell out of this plane.  What is wrong with video conference?  I bet a new rainmaking tactic could be handwritten letters (in crayon, of course) sent by snail mail.  No.  No.  I will not let this woman ruin my dreams of global domination by charming and cajoling and pleading with potential clients far and wide.  No.  No. So I motioned to the flight attendant that the woman needed her.  Had it been an hour earlier, I would have left the plane and took a cab home and hid under the covers.

It seems that the woman — an oversized person — was promised a seat in an exit row because of the extra leg room but she was seated in row 7 — not an exit row.  The flight attendant couldn’t re-seat her until everyone was seated.  The woman was not pleased and she showed it by griping and grousing at an anger level and amplitude that was just criminal at 8am.

Ultimately, she was able to be re-seated in an exit row.  But the seat didn’t recline because there was a second exit row right behind the first one.  (The put-put plane that had more exits than windows.)  Sooooo, slowing our departure further, Goldilocks had to try the seats in the second exit row.  Those seats reclined.  Ah, she found the one that would do ju-u-u-ust fine.  [sigh] Wait, uh oh, the seatbelts don’t fit.  A cruel joke engineered by Papa Bear because he hates when Goldilocks comes, tries everything and leaves a mess.

So, in the end, she moved back up to row 7, opting for a reclining seat over leg room.  I would have opted for leg room with no reclining seat.  Ultimately, I am glad she was not in charge of the exit doors. I didn’t agree with her judgment call.

Goldilocks caused us to miss our place in take-off and we sat for one hour on the runway.  No wonder Papa Bear hates when she comes by, which happens many times, every night, given how many times the story is told on any given day around the world.

Back to my business meeting.  It went well.  Groveling in person is often effective.  Then I got in a cab to start the journey home.

I was able to get an earlier flight, at a cost of $75 (which I bet would have been $50 if I had checked luggage for $25). Regardless, getting home earlier is priceless and I did, in fact, use a MasterCard so I lived that commercial.

As I headed toward the gate, there was a plane boarding to JFK Airport at the next gate (I was flying into LaGuardia Airport). I wanted to switch again because it was another opportunity to get home even earlier.  Unfortunately, the two airports, although 10 miles apart, are considered different destination cities and there is a big cost differential to change destinations. The plane had been delayed for three hours and there was a line of disgruntled people waiting to board.  I decided that if JFK was that backlogged, that I would save money and not be on a plane ride from hell.

But recognizing the potential for delays and angry hordes, and even though I was assured that LaGuardia was running on time, I decided that an upgrade to first class (not too expensive) was in order, as a mental health prophylactic measure.  Sanity, priceless . . . Another MasterCard commercial.  I am living the dream.  And we were delayed on the tarmac before take-off and we circled before landing, so it was totally worth it.  I had plenty of room and I couldn’t smell anyone’s perfume.  Now, that the Sniffer (see prior blog entry) made me aware of perfume, I really appreciated only have that slightly nasty airplane smell we have come to expect.

So this all started on a put-put plane sitting on a runway on a cold, snowy, sleeting morning. And now I am in my jammies, having kissed my son before he fell asleep and then crawled into my cozy bed and smiling at my beloved.

Another day on the road to Utopia.

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Past and Future

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So, after someone dies, at some point, you just get on with life.   Right?  Not so much.

Eight years ago, my mother died.  I am less ok with it now than I was, let’s say, two years ago.  Time is passing too quickly.  Maybe taking care of my Dad’s monthly and business affairs is taking its toll.  And he found old slides that I am transferring onto the computer.  Some fabulous vintage pictures (and some that so tragically epitomize the 1970s that it is painful to put them in the family album).  And I see my mom, at my age, in the 1960s. I look like her.  I have some of her traits.  Mostly good ones, although the wrinkles are unpleasant.

And then I look to pictures of my family.  My young-ish family: my wonderful son and fabulous spouse.  A life graced with good fortune and love.

Like most days, I look back with pain, sadness and love, and I look forward with gratitude, hope and love.

But these past days my Mom’s loss has been so present, so palpable, that I wasn’t sure I could breathe.  I guess that is the nature of grief: it hits you sometimes lightly, and other times, it lets loose a prizefighter punch.  And it makes the highs higher, the lows, lower and the precious moments that Mom missed ever so more poignant.

Love endures.  Loss sucks, no matter how many years it has been.

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President, pundits and Palin

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I watched the President’s speech last night.  He spoke as our nation’s leader, as a parent, as a person and as a professor.   He clearly choked up when talking about the young girl who was killed.  In that moment, he was a father who couldn’t imagine losing one of his daughters.  

It is something that is remarkable about this President.  He has young children and he often talks about the world he wants to pass down to them and their generation.  They are our future.  Last night, as President and father, he asked us to live up to the ideals of that young girl who was killed.  Let’s move beyond the cynicism and the vitriol.  Let’s make our kids proud.  This wasn’t fake rhetoric or soaring oratory; this has been his message and his example since the campaign days.  

(And yes, he is professorial, so sometimes you have to struggle through the abstract and long-winded parts.) 

I noticed how naturally his and Mrs. Obama’s hands intertwined when he was seated.  Theirs seems a relaxed affection that belies his stoic and Mr. Spock-like reputation.  That comforted me although I am not yet sure why.

It was startling that it was a rolicking good time at the auditorium.  I think those tuning in expected something more somber.  But, having been in mourning more than once, I know it is the start of a personal journey and not something to be judged by outsiders.

Then I watched portions of Sarah Palin’s podcast.  I am not sure what I would do if people blamed me for the deaths of innocent people.  She is who she is: an agitator but not a leader.

The conservative, liberal and middle-of-the-road pundits were out-doing themselves last night.  They must get paid by the word and get bonus dollars for picking things apart in ways that become senseless.   And I think there is an even bigger bonus if you say something really inane and it gets repeated by another pundit on another show. 

All in all, I think we and our democracy are best served when we, as citizens, go to sources — reading the books and listening to the speeches and debates —  and making the decisions, rather than relying on talking heads to tell us what we ought to think.  They get paid to incite controversy.  If we just listened to each other, maybe the tone of the rhetoric would naturally tone down.

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Early Bird Special

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Today was a snow day of sorts in the City.  Schools were closed; offices weren’t.  Thank Goodness for telecommuting and play dates with children of similarly situated parents.

POB (partner of blogger) and I split the day being the adult in charge. Then our usual Wednesday babysitter came at 5pm so we could have an early version of our usual Wednesday night dinner date. (I say:  Spend a fortune on babysitters and eat pizza if necessary.  Better than spending a fortune on a couples counselor because you don’t spend enough time together.)

So we went to a neighborhood place that was eerily quiet (even for recessionary times) until we realized it was just before 6pm and that this was dinner time for kids and old people.  So we had the restaurant essentially all to us (except for a somewhat lively bar area in the front).  Shortly after we are seated, a mother and child walked into the restaurant.  The mother had that tone-deaf, high-pitched and loud voice (as in she whispers at the top of her lungs).  And, of course, of all the tables, in all the restaurants in all the places on the Upper West Side, the mother chose the table next to ours.

Really, there were 30 tables available in the restaurant.  And she decided to sit next to us.  I still hear her voice ringing in my ears and that caused ripples in the wine in my glass.  She was talking on her iPhone and reading aloud to her daughter every, EVERY, text she received.

They shared filet mignon and a side dish.  The mother had one glass of Malbec.  She forced me to have TWO.

Happily, they ate quickly and left.  Next time we hit the early bird hour, I am setting up a protective perimeter around our table.   WITH DUCT TAPE.  With some left over to muzzle others, if necessary.

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Why I love the gym

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I was feeling blue and out-of-sorts these past days.  I know that a work-out, even a short one, lifts my mood, so I made sure to pack the necessaries and dash there right after work.

I saw SOB (sister of blogger) there, which is always a treat.

So, there we are — SOB is reading and I am sweating on elliptical machines next to each other.  Very companionable but not necessarily chatty.  I see SOB wipe her face with a towel, but she is just seeing if I am paying attention. SOB does the least she can do at the gym and therefore not enough to work up anything resembling perspiration.

A man comes up to our machines and starts sniffing.  I think, uh oh, there’s a blog entry coming. . . .

I am watching him and I start to sniff, too.  Does someone or something stink?  Do I stink?  He starts talking to me.  OF COURSE, he starts talking to me, because of the S-shaped magnet (S for schmuck) embedded in my forehead that always draws these people to me.

He says that he is allergic to perfume and is relieved that we don’t wear perfume.  In fact, he says, he could tell before he came over because we didn’t look like people who would wear perfume.  I think, is that good or bad?  Is that a compliment or a swipe?  Do SOB and I look too low-maintenance to wear perfume?  Do we look like we don’t take care of our appearance?  Could it be our effortlessly dorky gym attire?

Then the Sniffer tells me that there are men in the locker room who put on cologne before working out.  He believes they read some propaganda about how our natural odors are not good for us.  Now, he is talking crazy talk but I think he is trying to strike up an acquaintance.   Oy.

In deference to SOB, I do not encourage further conversation because he could have been scary crazy (rather than slightly off and socially incompetent) and I want to protect my sister.  Had I been alone, I would have NEEDED to probe more deeply to make a diagnosis.

I have a feeling there will be other opportunities at the gym to talk to the Sniffer.

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Tragedy on so many levels

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In Tucson, many are dead and injured as a result of a deranged man with a deranged message.

Let’s put aside the left blaming the right and whether it is foreseeable that a lunatic would do this.  That conversation will get us nowhere and misses the point.

I think it is more worthwhile to wonder why politics is a bloodsport these days in a way that we haven’t seen since in perhaps a century.

Let’s think instead about how our politician are so invested in being right that they vilify the oppositional view and the integrity of its proponents.  In 2008, when Michele Bachmann said that then candidate Barack Obama and Michele Obama were “anti-American” because they hold views different from hers, that is a code that our country is being infiltrated by enemies.  Think about it, she said that the likely 44th President was the Manchurian Candidate of the movies.  And in the movies, a lone gunman (the good guy) kills the Manchurian Candidate.

Then Sarah Palin has a website that has a target on Rep. Giffords’ district (“in the cross-hairs”) for some reason or other.  Or the famous, Palinism: “don’t back down, just reload” or something like that.  Words have meaning, even if you try afterward to refudiate them.

This is war-speak.  And in war, enemies are killed, and our soldiers come home to heroes’ welcomes (ideally).  But war produces body-bags, brutality, starvation, desperation and carnage.

Is that the fevered pitch we want in our national discourse?  So, let us speak gently and with respect when we debate.  Even if we have to fake it.

Let’s set some ground rules:

  1. A socialist and tea-party member can love this country and protect the very institutions of government that make us strong.
  2. It isn’t about being right; it is about building a consensus and keeping this country great.
  3. Political defeat is hard to take but you can’t take your marbles and go home or start threatening people.
  4. The media does more to stoke the divisions than provide any useful information.
  5. If our nation tacks to the left or right, some people will not be pleased, but they must always remain the loyal opposition. (It is hard; I know. I had to endure the policies of George Bush and Dick Cheney and even some of President Obama’s policies I don’t like).
  6. Exemplifying and practicing the principles of this nation are essential for this country to move forward in one piece and in peace.
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A Quiet Morning

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I can’t wait until our son becomes a sleep-until-noon teenager.  Until then, as part of our Saturday ritual, he comes barreling in at the crack of 9am to watch cartoons.

POB (partner of blogger) gives him the paper to bring in, and she follows with coffee (and yes, I am spoiled and I am grateful every day).  Our son does remember to give me a kiss before he says “controls” with his hand held out expectantly, like a Grey’s Anatomy surgeon says “Metzenbaum scissors”.

Every other Saturday, POB and our son trek off to Hebrew School downtown and leave me to putter or go to the gym or read the paper with more leisure than usual.

As much as I love my family, I am reveling in the quiet.  I am focused on not letting the political mayhem, global suffering and warring intrude on these moments of personal calm.

I wish everyone, everywhere, could have a moment of calm and recalibration of priorities.  It won’t turn Ahmadinejad or other tyrant into a dove, but it might ratchet down the fervor of his followers. It might even act like a balm over the “Progressives” (on my side of the political spectrum) whose high-pitched whining is indistinguishable from their counterparts on the right.

Ok, maybe those people — the mean, the evil, the obstructionists, the liars and the screamers of every nation and political viewpoint — need a month-long medically-induced coma.   Then everyone else could spring into action:  air-lift food and medicine and doctors and teachers to areas in need.  And, we can show them that we achieved more for humanity while they were asleep than in all the years they were awake.

A month is not long enough.  Maybe the calm of this morning is sending my brain into “kumbaya” mode with psychedelic rhythms.

Still, everything good starts with a dream and ends with a “kumbaya”.

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No pulse

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Dick Cheney has no pulse.   Another fact that points to his being Satan.

He had a new procedure (read about it in the Huffington Post — Dick Cheney’s procedure) that inserted a pump that essentially overrides the heart.  As if he had one to begin with.

Let’s set aside whether he should be eligible for a heart transplant at his age and physical condition and whether it is right of the living to go hunting and shoot his friends.

Who in America can afford this procedure without insurance?  He had a pre-existing condition.  Luckily, he is wealthy and has a government health plan that will pay for him.  What about a 69 year-old factory worker? 

The health care overhaul is designed so that we don’t have to choose whose life is more valuable.  So, health care reform is the exact opposite of the “death panel” lies and propaganda. 

In fact, those who oppose health care reform don’t want to kill the Grandpa who is rich like Dick Cheney but they will let the Grandpa who is a retired factory worker die.

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The love that endures

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We are coming up on 8 years since my mother died. 

It is harder this year than in the last two, maybe because we can’t say she’s been gone “about 5 years” anymore.  We are probably going to start saying she’s been gone “almost ten years”. 

A DECADE.
A DECADE. 

A DECADE. 

Last night I was thinking about Mom and I remembered how, when any of her children were sick, sad or scared, she would cup one of our cheeks, look into our eyes and say, “my poor baby, if I could have this for you I would.”  And we knew she meant it.  It was a fierce connection between mother and child(ren).

It was also ferocious on the flip-side.  When Mom was dying of cancer, my sister said to her, “I wish I could take some of it from you because I am strong enough to handle it.”  My mother got so agitated that she looked like she might burst.  My sister got the message:   Mom, until the day she died, would try to protect us.  There was no two-way street in this circumstance.

I still feel my mother’s love.  It endures.  Unfortunately, her voice and her hugs are gone.

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Oh, The Rapture

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Ok, according to ebiblefellowship.com, “we’re almost there!!” 

Almost where?  Almost to the Day of Rapture when G-d’s Elect will ascend to Heaven.  (I tried to use a Heavenly color.) 

May 21, 2011, to be exact.

Then, a great fire will consume the rest of the earth, in October.  I guess it is too much of a transportation headache to transport everyone (down?) to Hell, so G-d is just going to throw lighter fluid on an out-of-control oil well or something.

I know this is terrible, but I keep singing Blondie’s song “Rapture”  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dnhKPw2NXIw (with a little Jim Morrison mixed in for a full apocalyptic/conspiracy theory montage).

SO, I don’t get what happens on the day that the Rapture begins. 

G-d will rule the Earth and G-d’s followers will abide by those rules. 

Ok, according to the Christian theology, G-d already rules and these believers follow the rules. 

Will G-d reward them with “life”? 

They are already alive.    Eternal life?  As long as you stay young, because aging is not for the faint of heart.

Is it just that G-d will rid the universe of the rest of us? 

The Christian thing to do would be just to ignore us.

To be honest, I would like to have that strength of faith.  I would like to believe in a Great Benevolence that will save us.  Because I do believe that this world could be destroyed, except I think the end will come because of human action.   

I guess if Hell will be a place on Earth (in either scenario — theirs or mine), I should cancel that airport limousine I reserved for the End of Days. Because Hell is coming soon to a place near you — check newspapers for times and listings.

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