Ping Pong

Posted on January 28, 2010 by 40andover

Tonight, I am going out with colleagues to a hip and groovy place. Which means that the people who go to this place could easily be my children.

It is part-owned by Susan Sarandon (as a gift to her new arm candy). Susan is the only non-vampire that is ageless and gorgeous at 60+ years old.

Apparently, there are ping pong tables there. Like in a fraternity basement. Further indicium that I have aged out of this place.

Last time I played “pong” was beer pong in my sorority basement. Actually it was slam pong. My foot slipped on the mung beer stinking up the floor and I pulled my hamstring. The campus police had to drive me to my various classes for two weeks because I kept slipping on the ice and re-injuring my muscle. Imagine trying to go out frat-hoping and asking the campus police to drive you.

Ok, 25 years later, I am going to a place — where the bouncers will probably keep me out because of my gray hair — to play pong. I wonder if I will be able to finish that slam pong game that got interrupted by my fall so many years ago. . . .

More tomorrow, if I survive.

The hardest part about having kids? Living through their childhoods.

Posted on January 21, 2010 by 40andover

So this weekend, we went to the birthday party of our son’s betrothed (she turned 8, he is 7.5). He asked her to marry him at summer camp and she said, “sure!” We adore her and her parents so life is good so far. And both children attend the same school (but different classes, thank G-d).

Her parents (machertunim in Yiddish) and we went out recently and, among the stories, there was one in which the husband, a gentle giant (did I mention giant?) went — in his own words — ape-shit on someone. He was justified in his reaction but, still, I thought, I am not sure that I want to tell him about an “oops” that could occur in adolescence if our children are still betrothed. So, I am thinking about a chastity belt for boys. All this going through my mind as we listen to jazz at a club and eat great food and wine. I then start thinking about body armor for my son AND me.

My son is a gentlemen and a hyper-heterosexual young man. Oxymoronic in the truest sense. I guess being raised by lesbians will do that. I am afraid, like any sane parent, about adolescence and what kids can watch on TV and then do in the instant that a parent is not watching. Case in point: we are watching the Jets game on Sunday and a Viagara commercial comes on. Try to explain erectile dysfunction to your 7.5 year-old to whom, at age 3, we had to plead “point it down” (so the pee would go in the overnight diaper) after “exploring”.

SO, back to the party. The birthday girl’s mother says that the leader of their play group, an experienced child expert in something (vays nischt, as they say in Yiddish), thinks they are like brother-sister and not boyfriend-girlfriend. I am relieved only to the extent that I don’t have to worry about plastic surgery after the gentle giant is finished with me if, G-d forbid, I had to explain about crazy adolescence and hormones (think, military school). The grandmother overhears this and says, “the way they touch each other and interact, it is DEFINITELY boyfriend/girlfriend”. Mothers know these things and I am scared once again and thinking about multi-generational living as a consequence of my son’s future indiscretion. Until POB (partner of blogger) tells me that I am over-reacting. Then I remember that she thought that the “bad girls” in hebrew school (yes, we’ve known each other since age 10) were still virgins. I sink into despair. I check my investments. I move money to a separate account for contingencies. I rest easy while searching the internet for his and her matching chastity belts.

This parent thing could kill a person. I KNOW I was easier on my parents. Or maybe they were not as crazy as I am. Maybe they should have been because I did some crazy things. Ok, I am stopping this loop because only bad things can come of it.

G-d bless books and smart phones

Posted on January 8, 2010 by 40andover

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

Posted on January 4, 2010 by 40andover

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.

The Clan

Posted on December 29, 2009 by 40andover

On Sunday we gathered at my sister’s house for the traditional Jewish post-Christmas brunch, to go over the number of tourists who got in our way and the number of merry people who infected the usual ennui and bad humor that are so quintessentially New York. Because we are open-hearted, if narrow-minded, my sister’s Catholic husband was welcomed to join. We sat down to a traditional meal — high in salt smoked fish oils and low nutrition and low in any nutritive value. Not a vitamin in sight.

But something different happened this Sunday, and I have yet to process the event fully. I saw — or else I would not believe this — my sister cook something. Our cousin can no longer eat the usual fare that is our cultural comfort foods. My sister, who had never before used her stove, made our cousin freshly scrambled eggs.

Last year, she got married to a wonderful man who is kind and always in a good mood.

This year she is cooking nourishing food. I can see a trend, but I can’t yet see the trajectory.

For background, my mother and I had suggested to my sister, when she bought her apartment in 1999, that she just convert the kitchen to a den. All she needed were a phone, a stack of take-out menus and a mini-bar fridge for diet coke. But she insisted that an apartment needed a kitchen. So we suggested that she get the fiberglass demo version of a stove to save some money. A few years after she moved in, my partner finally took out the plastic envelope with the care instructions and warranties and turned on a burner. (I was horrified that she diminished the resale value for no apparent reason.)

I was nervous seeing my sister at the stove, thinking she might hurt herself. Our cousin was so touched at my sister’s domestic effort once he realized that she never cooked anything for anyone, even her husband. Also, our cousin is a life-long bachelor (save for a short-lived marriage a long time ago) living in a tiny studio with a mini-bar fridge, and therefore unaccustomed to home-cooking. He could not stop complimenting my sister on the eggs.

We forgot to kvetch about the tourists or the merriment that interfered with our hardened and mean personalities. Instead, at this brunch, we just all talked and were glad to be together.

Next year, we may be singing folk songs and a bonus round of kumbaya or maybe my sister will have knitted each of us something in seasonal colors. I think I’ll read up on Ebenezer Scrooge, so I know my part and can be the standard bearer against the march of time and humility. I hope Scrooge doesn’t get nice. I don’t “do” nice.

You see why I am worried.

The World’s Best Chewing Gum

Posted on December 21, 2009 by 40andover

I was on the subway, minding my own business. I was reading a book on my iPod. A woman standing next to me asks her boyfriend (it is obvious by the end of this anecdote) whether he wants some really great chewing gum. He asks, “how good can chewing gum be?” She says, “it makes you want to stick your tongue down someone’s throat.” I had to look up. I said, “really?” She nodded. I looked at the boyfriend questioningly. He was too embarrassed to answer. I mentioned that it was too important a secret not to share with fellow strangers on a train. In fact, it would be downright cruel to tantalize and not deliver.

The woman told me what kind and what flavor (I won’t tell you until I confirm this urban legend).

Life altering experiences on the subway.

Chanukah Party

Posted on December 13, 2009 by 40andover

We had a family Chanukah party at our synagogue this afternoon. The kids had activities; the parents were just hanging out with only coffee and tea as refreshments. Someone suggested that we get a bottle of wine. The rabbi overheard and went into the kitchen and brought out red and white wine and iced vodka. The senior rabbi produced three kinds of single malt scotch. We had only Dixie cups and were crowded around a card table with a paper table cloth with dreidels on it. It was a little like smoking dope in the bathroom while the high school dance is going on downstairs.

Apparently, the wine was for a party later on tonight and the man in charge got into a distemper over our poaching some of the wine, and had a bitchy, chastising tone as he grabbed the wine and said, “I am going to talk to the rabbi about this!” Ok, so the hall monitor is ratting us out to the principal who gave us the wine in the first place. NOW, who was going to be in trouble?? Mister Officious-Avec-Attitude came over and said, “the rabbi will go out and buy more wine so HERE.” Ok, now I was pissed. I say, “the wine is awful anyway, so don’t have anyone buy more of this vinegar.” Ok, we were going to have it out, the lesbian mom and the gay man c-list event coordinator. In the nick of time, the senior rabbi came over wearing a velvet Menorah hat and asked if anyone liked the scotch. That diffused the brewing cat fight. Phew.

Ok, the kids never knew what was happening, except the parents were laughing a whole lot more than any Sukkot and Tu B’Shevat parties at the synagogue.

Taxi cab stories

Posted on December 13, 2009 by 40andover

Since I threw out my back, I have taken a lot of cabs (the subway just seemed too much to handle).

Cab drivers like to talk to me. I must have “schmuck” written across my forehead.

One cab driver starts a conversation with, “you don’t look Christian.” Bait me, why don’t you. So, I say, “I am not”. “You are Jew!!” Oy, I think, this is going to be bad and all the world’s ills are being distilled in this one moment in a cab in holiday traffic. I say nothing. He says, “I know you are not Muslim.” So I respond, “Maybe I am Sikh or Hindu.” He laughs. He is a Christian from Egypt. He hates Muslims. He says all the Muslim cab drivers are terrorists. I knew that Christians had it hard in Egypt, but he went on a diatribe against Muslims for what seemed like an eternity. Then he says, “I don’t believe in G-d anyway. How do I pray to G-d who makes me short and fat?” I think to say, “and with enormous earlobes” but I think better of it. I get out of the cab, exhausted from the hatred spewing out of this guy.

That evening, in another cab, the driver asks me, “have you done all your holiday shopping?” I respond, “I don’t celebrate these holidays.” He says, “you are Jew!” [Now this is becoming weird.] He goes on without a response from me, “I am Muslim and I know you are not Muslim.” So I try my Sikh or Hindu line on this guy. He laughs, too. I ask him where he is from. “Egypt.” Ok, I don’t usually get Egyptian cab drivers and in this one day alone, I have an Egyptian Christian and now an Egyptian Muslim. So I ask, “who do you think will succeed Hosni Mubarak?” He answers, “Mubarak’s son will, but that is no democracy, that is a dynasty like Syria or Jordan. I would vote for Boutros Boutros Gali, but he is a Christian and a Christian head of state would never be allowed in a Muslim country.” I mention that no one ever thought that a black man would be president of the United States. He responds, “I live in this country and I am glad to have a job, so I do not worry about politics. But it would be great if Mr. Obama were President of Egypt!!”

An angry Christian and a grateful Muslim. Each the opposite of what the other envisions.

The next day I get into a cab and the radio is on. Someone is talking about global warming. “Miss, do you believe in this global warming?” I respond yes. “My village will be flooded in 2050! I must buy a boat!” Ok, no one has EVER been cheerful about global warming. Clearly, this guy is out of kilter, just like our ecosystem. “Where are you from?” “Bangladesh, Miss. Do you hear of it?” “Yes, of course, but I heard on CNN that the flooding [other than during rainy season and when India opens a large dam] in Bangladesh won’t be bad until 2100,” I say, trying to be helpful and upbeat [ok, now I am in his crazy world of surreality]. I think, wow, coastal cities in the US will be flooded. Good thing we live on the fourth floor. Now I am crazy enough to drive a cab.

Next week I take the subway, even if I have to crawl up and down the steps.

Perspectives

Posted on December 7, 2009 by 40andover

This weekend, my 45-going-on-85-year-old body announced that it was going on strike.

I had some bug that kept me in bed almost all Saturday and then Sunday, all ready to pack two days in one, I had a back spasm that had me on the floor in excruciating pain. My son tried to make me feel better with many kisses and I was sad that he realized that his remedies were not efficacious. It is heartbreaking when children grow up in these ways.

Nevertheless last night we had the ganza mishpocheh (the whole family) over for Sunday night dinner.

My father who has newly diagnosed heart disease looked good and was very excited to give us batteries and power bars and assorted other things that he bought at CostCo. One opened in the city and he takes the bus there and buys in bulk and then doles out to the “kids”: SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger), POB (partner of blogger and) and B (me). As he was telling us about the good deals he got on all of these items, he stood taller, had better color and didn’t look or sound like a man in heart failure. It is crazy what a good deal can do for an old man who is the child of poor immigrants and raised in the Depression.

As I reclined on a chair in the living room with a heating pad strapped to my back, I marveled at my father’s energy. The conversation reminded me of my father’s endless price comparisons. For a time, he focused especially on the price of bananas. If he went to Chinatown, where he uses a sculpture studio, he could buy bananas for X cents a pound, but on the East Side of Manhattan where he lives, it is X+10 cents a pound. I tolerated the banana story for years and then finally — this was when my mother was still alive — I said to Mom, “The banana story has run its course. Make it go gently into that good night.” Mom nodded knowingly and I knew that was the last I would hear about the price of bananas. Mom had a way with Dad.

Sure enough, Dad never mentioned the banana story again. But he did start talking about the relative price of salmon. I let it unfold for a few years (mind you, it is the SAME story over and over again about saving a few cents on the price of a pound of salmon0. By then, Mom was gone. So I said to SOB, “The salmon story has run its course. Kill it.” (I ceased to be gentle about these things after my mom died.)

But last night, as I sat alternatively in pain and extreme pain because of my back, I listened to my father tell us the good deals he got on the batteries and the power bars and I looked at him — he looked excited, proud and decidedly not sick. And, I thought, I can live with these stories for a few years. Happily, even, as long as my dad looks as good as he did last night.

But, please, no bananas or salmon stories.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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