Monthly Archives: July 2011

If I had my druthers

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My mother, z”l, used to say, “If I had my druthers, I would . . . .”

Druthers.

druth·ers

noun Informal .

one’s own way, choice, or preference: If I had my druthers, I’d dance all night.
Origin:
1870–75;  plural of druther,  ( I, you,  etc.) ‘d rather  (contraction of would rather )

Druthers. 

I imagined a box of secret desires that was kept far away from desiring souls.  Like a Pandora’s box of hedonist or materialistic desires.

Every now and again, I say, almost absent-mindedly, “if I had my druthers, I would . . . ”

and POB (partner of blogger), interjects:

“I have your druthers and they are happy not wanting what you say.”

“Can I speak to my druthers?”

“No.”

“Can I visit my druthers?”

“No.”

“Are they happy?” I ask with some exasperation.

“Yes, very.  And they wouldn’t recognize you.”

So my “druthers” have become “POBruthers”.

I am good with that. That is what 10+ years together means.  I trust POB with my druthers.

Be gentle and kind with them, promise?

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I was unfriended

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The danger of Facebook is that someone can unfriend you.  Or defriend you, I am not sure.

I was hurt.  I was confused. No explanation.  Just  — one day — IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) was not among my friends.  And this, after POB (partner of blogger) showed up to make sure that I was not swooning over his elegance and grace in a moment of heterosexual weakness.  Indeed, IFOB is handsome, charming and so very intelligent and well-read.  But I don’t have moments of heterosexual weakness; I am for my beloved POB and she is for me.  IFOB is a good catch for those of you straight women out there who are single.  (Just FYI.)

Being the straightforward person that I am, I emailed IFOB and asked, “Did you unfriend me?”  He did.  He was angry that I was ambivalent about the equality in marriage legislation.  I should be happy.  In truth, you have to stand in my shoes to understand. When you are discriminated against, it is hard to be thankful when people realize that they ought to stop discriminating.

Of course, I am happy.  And, I am grateful to those who championed the cause.  Mostly, I am happy because I have POB and, with TLP (the little prince), we are a family.  And, love and family cannot be legislated.

POB and I were planning a ceremony before the legislation seemed possible.  Now, it will be a marriage.

IFOB: next time, talk to me if you have an issue with something.  After all, we seem to navigate being political opposites.  Besides, if you are not my friend (forget FB, just generally), you can’t come to the wedding (in 2012).

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The times they are a’changing

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I always knew I was gay.  People often ask, “how could you know before you were ever with a woman?”  “The same way you always knew you were straight,” I say.  But the truth is that kids don’t think in terms of gay or straight.  They are who they are.  So, I knew as much that I was gay as straight kids knew they were straight.  Labels didn’t apply yet.  It only became an issue in the teenage years and beyond.  I desperately tried to be like everyone else, to the point of going overboard.

In the 1970s-90s, it was something to be hidden if I wanted to be a successful lawyer, if I wanted to fit in, if I wanted to get into the right social and professional crowds.  By the late 1990s, the gulf between who I was and who I pretended to be was wider than the San Andreas fault (gee, I hope that the fault line is wide, or I bungled this analogy).  I was tired of the schism, and so tired of the inevitable lies that somehow never fooled anyone, that I was willing to give up some measure of “success” and “acceptance” for peace of mind and peace of being.  That’s when the journey toward self-acceptance and family acceptance began.  A long, winding road, filled with pot holes, and yet, at various critical points, surrounded by warmth and beauty.

Today, the Ninth Circuit ruled that the military must end “don’t ask, don’t tell”.  Last week, New York legalized same-sex marriage.  A recent poll reported that more people in the country support gay marriage than not.

Still, I am not equal in the United States of America, the beacon of liberty to all nations.  But I am closer to equal than ever before.

I just hope that there comes a time when people wonder why there ever was a need to fight for equality — for anyone, anywhere.

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Not Least Enough

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I came up with a family crest, based on how lazy SOB (sister of blogger) and I are (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=3772).

You would think that it would satisfy her.  Nope.  “Nos operor minimus nos can operor” is too long.  Lop off the first “nos operor,” SOB says.  So now it translates to: ” [add apostrophe] least we can do”.  The moral equivalent of typing “K” when you mean “okay”.

I guess it IS in keeping with how we run our lives.  And it is the least I can do to make SOB happy.  And we all know what we do:  THE LEAST WE CAN DO.

[Sigh]

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nos operor minimus nos can operor

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We are grandchildren of immigrants to this country.  We derive from the huddled masses, whose very existences, let alone birth dates, were never recorded in official records.  We have no family crest.  No motto of our lineage.

In our second generation of natural born Americans, we have thrown around mottoes that might define our family’s communal sensibilities.  For a while, we imagined a family crest that would match our intrusiveness, lovable brusqueness that is meant to show love.  SOB (sister of blogger) and I imagined with a white picket fence and an “X” through it.  It would signify, “no boundaries”.

But it is hard to figure out how all that fits on a pinkie ring, which is apparently where the family crest goes, if you are a family crest kind of family.

As time goes by, I have determined that we are not so much intrusive (yet lovable) as we are lazy.  We give new meaning to the usual response to the sentiment, “you shouldn’t have!!”  In fact, we DO do the least we can do.

When SOB brings dessert to top off a three-course Sunday night dinner at our house, she says, “it’s the least we could do.”  And I respond, “yes, yes, it is.”  She is gratified that she exceeded the low bar we set for each other.  And since she has exceeded the bar, she can do a victory lap around the apartment and bend her head to receive her Olympic medal.

Our new motto: nos operor minimus nos can operor

We do the least we can do.

I will come up with some crest designs in future blogs.

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Happy Anniversary, POB

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POB (partner of blogger) and I have an anniversary of sorts — when I told her that I loved her and wanted to spend our lives together and she teared up and said “grow old with me, the best is yet to be”.  As an aside, I love the fact that POB is so literary.  Intelligence and a true liberal arts education are aphrodisiacs.

Soon, we will have to re-start the clock, after our wedding next year, because we will have a wedding anniversary.  Maybe we can grandfather these 10+ years, especially since our son will be almost 10 on our wedding date.  And I know our mothers, z”l, would not want his having to explain the 10+ years of L-I-S (living in sin).  Of course, for a large part of the population of this country, our wedding won’t solve the issue, but it is too exhausting to parse those views.

Back to POB.  We have been through so much together — deaths of our mothers, buying a home, having a family, developmental issues with our son, job losses, job changes, economic reversals — and some things have been harder than others for us to navigate.  In fact, sometimes it was nearly impossible to see a way through together.  Love abides; happiness on a day-to-day?  Not always.  But if the love is strong, you figure it out.

I love POB more today than ever before.  She becomes more beautiful each day, in her heart, in her body and in her smile.

Sometimes I imagine the last decade-plus as our skipping down a country road together, having not noticed the “Fallen Rock Zone” sign.  We have held hands as we dodged the boulders together, some more successfully than others.

Happy anniversary, POB.  I love you.

~ Blogger.

 

 

 

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The job I want

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The meteorologists predicted a sunny July 4th weekend in New York, with some scattered thunder showers late in the afternoons or evenings.   Today, the fierce thundershowers woke me at 7:30am.

This is not a new story with weather forecasting.  Since I was a kid, I always heard the refrain, “Never trust a weatherman.”

So, how can I get a job where I can be wrong over 50% of the time and not get fired?  Maybe I’ll run for Congress.

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July 1

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July 1.  Day of doom.  Why, you ask?

Because, all over the country, newly-minted graduates from medical schools are in hospitals and each is called “doctor”.  Enough said.

SOB (sister of blogger) is an attending physician at a hospital and the head of the medical intensive care unit.  Each year I offer to have a talk with anyone she deems a “007” (licensed to kill) about other potential career paths.  It is my annual charitable event; I think of it as saving lives.  Every year, she demurs.  No one is quite the Austin Powers version of James Bond.

But the offer still stands.

When TLP (our son, the little prince) was born, it was July 11.  The interns were 10 days old.  POB (partner of blogger) had to have an emergency Caesarian.  In order to get to the baby in a Caesarian procedure, a lot of organs need to be taken out of the way.  So when TLP was born and I heard the OB-GYN say to the intern, “where would you put the uterus?”  I offered, “back where it belongs!!!!”

If it is July, don’t ask for just any doctor.  Ask for a REAL doctor.

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