Some questions actually tell us so much about ourselves

Posted on May 12, 2010 by 40andover

Poor Solicitor General Elena Kagan. Just because she is single, unattractive, overweight and intellectual, she must be a lesbian.

Laura Ingraham is single and, to some, intellectual. So, she isn’t unattractive or overweight. Is she . . . .?

So, former Secretary of State Condi Rice is single and intellectual. She is not unattractive or overweight either. Is she. . . ?

Ok, I get it. If Elena Kagan were hot — or at least not unattractive and overweight, it wouldn’t be an issue.

If she were a man, like Justice Souter, no one would raise the issue. How do I know? Because no one did (loudly, anyway).

Has anyone looked at all of the unattractive and overweight women who are married and heterosexual? Has anyone looked at all the gorgeous heterosexual women who are single? And all the gorgeous lesbians who are “married”?

Maybe she is; maybe she isn’t. But if unattractive and overweight were the markers, there would be only five heterosexuals in middle America.

Who will be the first politician to own up to this attitude? And this “litmus test” only pertains to women. Overweight and unattractive men? Just look at the Congress.

GOP senators don’t have gaydar. How do I know? They didn’t figure out about Family Research Council George Rekers, who hired a gay male escort to carry his bags on a trip to Europe. Or that televangelist. Or the Senator who sits wide in aiport bathrooms.

Democrats assume that the Republicans will raise the issue, so they — including the White House — are “getting out ahead of it”. In some publications, the Democrats are being criticized for not getting out ahead of it sooner.

So, even among the enlightened of our generation — including those in the White House — it is still a “smear” to say that someone is gay. And being gay is deviant but fixable, or so says the Family Research Council. Maybe it should rethink its view in light of the scandal rocking its founder.

We will allow gays to serve in the military so long as they hide under a rock. Think of the patriotism of these men and women. They are willing to shed their blood and give their lives to a country that won’t allow them to live, fight and die in dignity.

Aint that America.

Mother’s Day

Posted on May 10, 2010 by 40andover

Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one. The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes. Ok, I am living in the past. The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic). And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes. This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”. SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out. POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out. POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair. Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world. Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner. Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day. The warning was clear: be there or be talked about. Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year. In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level. Grandnephews and nieces are not invited. However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited. So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news. FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration. Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family. Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner. Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most. He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB? Two family gatherings missed. I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest. You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today. Yes, I did. But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid. Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog. Ooooops.)

Synagogue Retreat at the Norman Bates Motel

Posted on April 25, 2010 by 40andover

Ok, this is a long, random recounting, so bear with me.

My sister thinks that her trip on a Greyhound bus to a casino — where, no joke, a medical conference and training were being held — brought her very close to the common denominator of humanity. She emailed me that when she got to the bus gate at Port Authority, the woman in front of her on line just started talking to her. The woman was traveling back from Florida to Providence. She had to go to Florida to get her mother’s ashes, which were in the shopping bag that she showed to my sister in case she wanted to see. (I wish my sister knew how to use the camera feature on her cell phone. A picture would have really made the moment.) The woman had spent 3 days on a bus and needed to smoke a cigarette, had trouble in her childhood but has now straightened out, etc.

Dear SOB (sister of blogger), welcome to my world. It is good that you experience your birthright — i.e., Mom’s magnetism for the strange, creepy and absurd.

Well, I am at a synagogue retreat. It was a rustic experience. Lots of rules — you need to observe the Sabbath and subscribe to the Jewish dietary restrictions — not on the quantity but on the depth to which the culinary arts must sink in order to conform to Kosher laws. Alcohol is Kosher, for which many people gave thanks to G-d. Also, no coffee Saturday morning because it is the Sabbath and one cannot use electricity or fire. Really? Really? Does anyone want really want to deal with me de-caffeinated? Also tonight someone by accident started making coffee before the end of the Sabbath. Before we could descend on the heavenly libation, the moshkiach (the Kosher police) told the kitchen workers that they had to dump out the coffee. Wastefulness CAN’T be kosher.

There are many blessings that are new to me. The place has helpful plaques to assist in mastering them. I took a picture of the blessing after one eliminates in the bathroom, thanking G-d for the creation of certain cavities in the body. Really? My orthodox grandmother said this prayer? Even when she had indigestion? This must be an invention of those “too cool for shul” types. I am not kidding. Look at the picture.

Ever trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I have decided that we would learn this prayer and recite it every time our father discusses his irregularity. Maybe we could teach it to him. Clearly, I am going on the slow boat the Hell.

The place was kind of like that. As you enter, there is a sign saying, “We are blessed by your presence”. Ok, someone should be holding judgment until we leave. There should even be a sign flashed for a specific few (like me), “We are blessed by your leaving.”

“Blessed by your presence”? Trying to create holy, kumbaya, religious space and energy at crash-landing impact, after braving hellish Friday night traffic. I thought to sing, “someone’s kumbaya-ing my Lord,” but I didn’t want to say kumbaya to that. This is getting to crazy, with the aggressive, reverse Kumbaya on the Sabbath. Slow boat. Nah, I am taking the express train to Hell.

As you may have surmised, we couldn’t do much documentation on the Sabbath because that required use of electricity or batteries, so I had to take pictures in secret and I couldn’t blog. Now that was harsh. As my own little rage against the machine, I turned on my iPod just BEFORE I left the premises to go on my run. Ah, the little subversities. But, as usual I digress.

Friday night, after blessing the group with our presence (or so the sign said), we proceeded to our promised charming two bedroom cabin. The advertising was so wrong it should be a felony. So one civil crime justifies a religious crime — desecration of the Sabbath — to take these pictures:

Is this a charming two-bedroom cabin? Type that into wikipedia and I bet that you won’t see a picture of this. Really?? This is a three-bed cabin. Ooops, there must have been a mistake. No? No mistake, this is the very finest that the camp has to offer? In the county in Connecticut with the highest per capita income? Really? Really? I am in a mood most foul and approach the rabbis about the relative merits of, say, a Ritz Carlton. Not so my friends can get business, but it is a base level that to which we should become accustomed.

But at least the turn-down service left conflict-free chocolate on the beds:

But the real kicker is that in the light of day on Saturday, I realized that I had parked my rented super-huge, gas-guzzling monstrosity here:

Ok, I am a convert: There, but for the Grace of G-d, go I.

~ the Blogger

Doctor, heal thyself

Posted on April 6, 2010 by 40andover

The urologist who put up a sign saying, “if you voted for Obama, go somewhere else,” got his information from the Internet and . . . wait for it . . . it was misinformation. We did not “misunderestimate” him (my favorite moment of the otherwise bleak Bush years). He was flat-out wrong.

The Internet is an amazing tool. It also must be viewed in its context. Opinions — informed, ill-informed and maliciously disinformative — are out there. It is up to each person to glean the facts, evaluate the sources and come to one’s own conclusion. Just because I can write an opinion that you might read doesn’t mean that I am right, that I have all of the facts or that, quite frankly, I am interested in the truth.

Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but that doesn’t mean that each opinion deserves equal weight. I spoke to a tea party goer about a year ago that heard on an unnamed “news” station (ok, FOX) that the health care bill would give social security benefits to illegal aliens. Ok, let’s set aside the fact that we are not talking about E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial, or Martians, and that they are humans deserving at least the catch-all phrase of “illegal immigrants”. I asked this woman if she ever dealt with the government. She asked me to get to my point. I responded that even if President Obama were seeking to give away the money in the Treasury (which he can’t because there is a 3 trillion dollar deficit), that the government needs a social security number to take any action with respect to a person’s benefits. So if someone doesn’t have a SSN (let’s assume that an illegal immigrant hasn’t stolen one because why impugn someone who is seeking a better life here, while there are native born executives of Enron and Madoff enterprises who have committed heinous crimes and haven’t yet had their days of reckoning), then it is impossible to give that person social security benefits. The commentator was either mistaken or intentionally misleading.

Ok, let’s be honest. MSNBC is slanted the other way and sometimes uses inductive reasoning — basing a hypothesis on one fact — and gets the whole analysis wrong. For me, sometimes, it is analogous to watching a show about law or maybe a doctor watching ER or Grey’s Anatomy. It strains credulity and sometimes is farcical.

However, when I realized that I paid more in 2009 taxes than most, non-celebrity, tea party-ers pay in two decades, I realized that I put my money where my mouth is. I believe in universal health care, medicare and a safety net for those like my grandparents who slept at night knowing that, if they lost their jobs in sweatshops, their children would not starve. As a child of those children — the embodiment of the American dream — I pay my taxes for those like my grandparents and my parents, and not for the ungrateful masses who are the tea-party-ers. Why? Because this is America, the greatest nation on Earth. But if you don’t want to buy in, that’s ok. But there are consequences. How about we mess with your medicare? Would you be partying then? I hope you get along with your neighbors because if I join your group, there won’t be money to pave the roads outside your homes. But because of my belief in America, and my indebtedness to my forebears, you get to be parasites sucking on the dream of America. To tell you the truth, I cannot wait to heave the yolk of your entitlement of my already heavy burden.

How about that? Let the generous, gentler and kinder America (thank you, Bush I) reclaim what is America. I live America — I work hard, I pay my taxes, I pray that the government is good, right and just, I do not believe in torture and I give charity to those who need help to jump start their lives. Yes, what Jesus would do. And I am a Jewish, lesbian, Ivy League educated, Northeastern elitist. And I embody the promise and opportunity of America more than most of the greedy, uncharitable, talking heads that pollute our airwaves.

Bring it on.

You are what you eat

Posted on March 21, 2010 by 40andover

If you are what you eat, then here is a picture of my brother-in-law.

He probably has a cholesterol problem. So, let’s keep this “sweets thing” to once a week, shall we?

We want you around for a loooooong time.

Mwa.

~Blogger

120 is a stretch, but I won’t accept any less than 90

Posted on March 15, 2010 by 40andover

My dad is 89 and 5 months. As with young children, so, too, with the aged, the months matter. 89 is different than 89-1/2 which is different from 90. The body ages as rapidly at that age as kids develop between the ages of 6 months and 3 years-old.

Today, after seeing my son’s Spring Festival performance, my father experienced chest pains, elevated blood pressure and dizziness and presented with a pallor suggestive of serious heart failure. He had to be taken by ambulance to my sister’s hospital. Of course, I knew that it had to be serious in order for my father to expose my son to this episode. Still, as a mother, I thought, “you couldn’t catch a cab outside?” Imagine my thinking my father should grip his heart in a state of distress and schlep out to Amsterdam Avenue to go to the hospital lest my 7.5 year-old child be exposed to trauma. The power of motherhood is that you think these thoughts. Fortunately, my psychotic moment gave way to remorse and the knowledge that if I didn’t repent, my mother — in Heaven — would send a lightning bolt to warn me to tread carefully. (Our Seder theme this Passover is “where is there evidence of a loving G-d in the Hebrew Bible?”; however, wrath of G-d or Mom can really keep a person in line.) Of course, my dad would never subject his grandson to trauma if he could avoid it.

My dad is ok. I called my son (through his baby sitter’s cell phone) to tell him that Grandpa is okay. “I was worried about Grandpa, E-Mom,” he told me, “but I really did a good job in the play!!” I want to cry because my son can accept (and yet not understand) the simple and the complex simultaneously and in the same priority, in a way only children can (as long as they feel safe).

My dad has low thresholds of pain and discomfort so I thought this was one of those false alarms. Still seething slightly from having my son subjected to an emergency, I kept in “radio-contact” with my sister, the doctor, who was in the ER with Dad, but I didn’t drop everything and run to his side, as I had done so many times before. Then, all of a sudden, I thought, “I am being selfish and petty and he will die.” As I was about to run up to the hospital, my sister called to say he was being discharged and it was something, just not a heart attack (even though my father is technically in heart failure).

I called Dad about 45 minutes later. He was discombobulated; he hung up on me and then when I called back he didn’t realize what had happened. I called my sister, who called him. I waited. I called again. He was fine and he said, “I just spoke to POB [partner of blogger]. FOPOB [Father of POB] asked me to tell her that [insert random information].” Ok, all is back to normal. My Dad is my Dad.

SOB [sister of blogger] is calling BOB [brother of blogger]. Maybe he should come visit sooner rather than later.

When my Mom died in early 2003 at age 76, I made my father promise he would love until 120 (like Moses). He would just have to make up the difference. Life is unfair that way. But I am starting to understand what that entails. My father always tried to be there for his children, even if it wasn’t always what his children wanted or demanded or expected. That is the way — we are the parents we always wanted to our children and our children will be the parent they always wanted to their children, and so on and so on. Neither our parents nor we will be the parents that our children wanted. That is the human condition.

If I relieve my Dad of his promise, will he think that he is dying? Will he go more quickly because his promise is forgiven? How can I tell him it is ok to let go when I really don’t want to lose him? And it is not time for him to let go. Life is more constrained than it was, but it is not the end game yet.

So, now I hope he makes it to 90 in good health. Ok, Dad, just 90. 120 is negotiable. But less than 90, that is a deal-breaker. Are we clear?

The Acupuncturist

Posted on March 14, 2010 by 40andover

I go to a wonderful acupuncturist. She knows that I don’t necessarily believe in the power of my “chi” and that I am a western-centric client. But, I am open to ways to feel better and balance my body. That’s why my acupuncturist is terrific. She doesn’t try to change me. She works with me as I am. And I have mellowed over time. I now take vitamins, fish oils, have healthy foods in my office, etc.

When I leave my office for these appointments, I tell my assistant, “I am going to get pricked like a pin-cushion.” I keep my blackberry out during the sessions — a negotiated concession from my acupuncturist — and, in response to a flurry of anxious emails, I emailed to my colleague, “do you need me to pull out the needles and run back to the office?” I was perfectly willing to do so because I am a professional first and a pin-cushion second. And I knew my phrasing would make my colleague queasy and weak-in-the-knees (for which I get a slightly perverse kick). This colleague asked me once if I believed in the good effects of acupuncture and I responded, “Nah, but it can’t hurt — too much.”

I have gotten to know my acupuncturist some, and so I need to know about her life and if she is happy. So, I have to ask, “so, are you seeing anyone?” Her response: “I still haven’t found the right person.” The use of “person” means (i) she is being politically correct/sensitive to my being gay or (ii) she is intentionally obfuscating whether she is looking for a man or a woman. But, the vibe is definitely hetero. Still, I ask, “man or woman or gender irrelevant?” because I might know someone for a shitach (a match) and I want to get the gender right. And my gaydar has been wrong in the past.

And, once, years ago, I was talking to a “straight,” ultra-religious woman who started a conversation about finding a husband (for her). In the midst of the conversation, she said to me, “how hetero-centrist of you to think that I am only interested in men!” “But you are interested in men,” I said as I was thinking something is off because she knew I was gay. “To marry, yes,” she responded.

After about a two-second pause, I realized the implications of the statement and that it was time for me to run, run like the wind. And I did. All the way home to my beloved. I am my beloved’s and she is mine. There are no ooky parentheticals or provisos to that statement.

What did this last story have to do with my acupuncturist? Nothing, really. But where I end up is rarely related to where I started, at least when I am not being a lawyer.

Life – one week later

Posted on March 13, 2010 by 40andover

Yes, to answer one comment from an everyday reader, there were sufficiently crazy things that happened in this last week, but, in my pledge not to alienate family and friends who read this blog, I must hold back. Think of a big

CENSORED

where blogs about this last week ought to have been. Maybe I will write about going to the acupuncturist. Mañana.

So, we start again with today:

When we were kids, our dad used to take us on more-or-less yearly pilgrimages to Paragon Sports on 18th Street and Broadway to get outfitted for the Spring and warm weather sports (we also did an ancillary run in late June, just before camp, but it was epic in a different way). We all grew over the winter (why do kids grow over winter?) so the prior year’s gear didn’t fit anymore.

For me, this was our family’s official opening day of Spring. Passover was religious but this was visceral. The promise of warmer, longer days leading into endless summer. I still hold on to the fantasy even though I am 45 years-old and haven’t had a summer of play in 28 years. I bet my siblings don’t remember this, but I do. My father, in his hat that looked vaguely Russian, with a dress coat and wing-tipped shoes, in a sports mecca. In fact, I would bet money that my brother doesn’t remember these excursions because he can only remember that Dad dressed him in a Mets outfit at a Mets game (in 1969 when they were the champs). But you have to remember that my dad wore wing-tipped shoes on the weekends until the mid-80s, so the man did the best he could.

In truth, since my siblings were 3 and 4 years older than me, these outings probably lasted until I was in 8th grade, after which it was impossibly embarrassing to shop with my dad. Maybe in my mind’s eye, these trips loom larger than they really did, although I associate Paragon with Dad. Also, in the 1970s, to schlep from the upper east side to 18th Street and Broadway with kids in tow was not for the faint-of-heart because Union Square was a needle park and there were many unsavory characters all around. And in these 28 years, that area transformed, so it is not like going parent-and-child into a combat zone.

Maybe today it felt like a Family Event because my son and I made the trek to Paragon, this time from the Upper West Side. My son wanted to stay home because it was raining cats-and-dogs (which is one of the stupidest expressions ever) and the wind was howling. No way we are staying in. We are going on a pilgrimage, young man. You have outgrown all of the sports gear you have. And, now that you are interested in football, hockey, baseball and basketball, we are going to get you the right stuff. Yes, sir. You may have two moms, AND you are going to have the right sports gear. Even if you NEVER use it.

My son is more of an intellectual sports fan. He likes facts and information and he likes to watch others play. So, this trip was a little, eensy, bit more about me than him. Never mind, one of the joys of parenting is that you can thrust your desires upon them and then pay for the years of resulting, required therapy.

We get to Paragon, which has gotten bigger over the years, but it essentially the same store (ok, I have been back over the years, but it is amazing how much the same it is). A young man, Vladimir, helped us get the right size baseball mitt (I got one, too), basketball, soccer ball and football. Also a solid, well-made baseball and an air pump. I inquired about oil for the glove and how long he needs to sleep with the ball in the glove under his pillow to mold the mitt. My son was browsing the sports jerseys for his favorite teams. Ok, this really was all about me.

I did not get him hockey gear because there is no way he is playing that insane sport. Oh, and, football, you ask? Only two-hand touch, thank-you-very-much. I did not bring him into this world to watch him go out on a stretcher.

I wanted to play with everything once we got home (even if doing so violated the house rules I set). He wanted to play Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the computer. Ah the picture becomes even clearer, you think.

At one point, I worried that I bought all of this gear and didn’t get my son a “cup”. Then I realized that I am the only one who will be playing with this equipment and I need different protective gear, including some for my ego, my heart and my hopes of playing ball with my son.

The most universal of tragedies

Posted on March 4, 2010 by 40andover

Life is a journey. From birth to inescapable, uncheatable, death. We accept this cycle of life and the orderly progression from youth to elderly to . . . nothingness or life everlasting, depending on one’s view and religion.

But what breaks a person’s (my) heart is knowing — however tangentially — parents who must bury their children, and grandparents unable to comprehend or comfort their own grieving children. Since the 1950s, the death of a child breaks social and religious compacts, both having evolved from greater longevity and higher standards of living. Not long ago, parents buried children in this country all too often. Still, as a parent, I cannot imagine the pain and grief of those parents, just as I cannot imagine the pain and grief of parents of a girl recently found dead in her dorm room at college.

A life and future snuffed out and a family in tatters. And, depending on the cause of death, other young lives guilty for not preventing the loss or complicit in causing the loss. I look back on my college years and wonder how I survived the colossally stupid things I did. I think about the way I cavalierly put my life and limb at risk in crazy, drunken escapades in the snowy mountains of New Hampshire. And, yet, I survived. Why?

There is no rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies, who is born into riches and who is mired in poverty and who is blessed and who cursed. Yes, biblical and epic struggles between humans and G-d are unleashed again in times of gut-wrenching sadness.

It is part of the human condition, I believe, to become inured to the death tolls in far-away Iraq and the famine in parts of far-away Africa, but be heart-sick at the death of a child barely considered “kin”. Maybe because I am a parent. Maybe because it didn’t happen in a faraway place or under circumstances outside my experiences. Maybe because in the America of my hopes and dreams — and those of my parents and grandparents — things like this don’t happen. The “shining beacon to the world” (if that is still true) is a little dimmed by each such senseless death.

There are many riffs on this — political, sociological, religious — but the fact remains that a young life is lost. And that is just too much. And, maybe we ought to think about every life this way. But for right now, I am thinking locally not globally.

I only hope that the family of this young girl find some form of peace in their lifetimes.

Tiger

Posted on February 19, 2010 by 40andover

Does anyone care if Tiger apologizes? Why is it news? Other than his family, whom did he let down? Certainly not the women who wanted their 15 minutes of fame by having sex with him. His fans? Didn’t people root for him because of his athletic ability and his personal story? Did anyone root for him because he was a faithful, family man?

The unfortunate truth is that if you know something sordid or unappealing about a person, it affects you more than if you knew something positive or simply neutral. I didn’t listen to Tiger’s apology, but if it took this long to come up with one, then it is a public relations apology to regain sponsorships and not a soul-searching mea culpa.

A dear, wise friend once said, “you do it, you live with it.” She also said, “the strong eat the weak,” although she has mellowed from that position. But she is right, life is about taking responsibility and standing up for what is right or taking your lumps when you blow it. We lived across the hall during senior year at college and I was having an — how shall we say — indiscretion and she cleared the hallway of people for me to avoid embarrassment. (I am not giving details, so you need to read between the lines and draw your own conclusions.) The next morning, she was knocking at my door, booming, “if you want to dance, you need to pay the fiddler,” which means if you can’t do something in the light of day (as it were), then don’t do it.

This friend probably doesn’t know that she caused me to look deep inside and start the process of coming out of the closet. She continues to have high standards, tempered by compassion from life experiences. She is the standard bearer and I adore her. She and I have had professional upheavals these past few years and I admire her willingness to take on new challenges in new places. She is my measuring stick for success and hard work. If she reads this, she may be surprised that she had such a profound effect on me so many years ago and through to today. I hope that she puts me in her “win” column.

She could have taught Tiger a lesson or two. And she would have shaped him up faster than an army drill sergeant. And, she has perfectly puffy hair. So, Tiger (if you know what is good for you), be afraid, Tiger, be very afraid.

And, to my friend who is always in my court, long ago you re-directed my life on a bumpy but, ultimately, very happy course. You make a difference just by your presence among us. I love you.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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