Thanksgiving 2009 — prologue

Posted on November 25, 2009 by 40andover

We’re having brisket instead of turkey as a way to meld Jewish and American traditions (mostly, I am tired of having three people compete for only two turkey legs). And besides the turkey legs, no one in our family really likes turkey.

Then what, you ask, will we eat for days after? You mean, what will we do without having dried out turkey between two slices of bread to eat for a week? hmmm. A puzzlement. How are we going to honor that post-Thanksgiving tradition? A friend suggested turkey pastrami. Brilliant.

So, the Jewish descendants of pilgrims (the ones that came in through Ellis Island) will celebrate with brisket and turkey pastrami. Culturally and gastronomically sensitive and sensible solution. Some good things do come out of committee.

Lest you think that cooking a brisket is easy, let me share what happened prior to Passover, when POB (partner of blogger) was testing out her brisket recipe on our fathers at our usual Sunday night dinners. SOB (sister of blogger) was unavailable that night, just when we needed her to referee the melee that ensued. POB bought an uber-kosher piece of brisket with just the right “marble” enough fat to keep it from drying out. First, let me say, it was a delicious brisket, notwithstanding what happened next.

Her father started to spit it out because it was too chewy and voiced his displeasure (what ever happened to if you don’t like it, don’t eat it and keep quiet?) and my father, trying to help, said, “[POB] dear, if you slice off the fat . . .. ” as POB’s face was getting red and her eyes are rolling back. I tried to whisper to my dad that he should stop instructing on the finer points of brisket, but so sure was he that he was bridging the gap between POB and her father so that we could share a kumbaya moment that he continued. It was a train crash that I could not stop.

Also, it is important to note that while my father thinks he has perfect hearing, it is only because he can’t hear the doctor tell him to get a hearing aid. So, when I am “whispering to my dad” that is code for screaming at the top of my lungs. Of course there were only the four of us at the table, because our son has excused himself and gone off to play. So, everyone could hear everything.

Each day before that Passover seder, POB’s dad called to see if we had reconsidered the brisket. For Passover, we bought two briskets, one really lean (and tasteless for the Grandpas) and a tender, marbled one for everyone else. Everyone was happy and there were no plagues befalling anyone.

So, while Thanksgiving isn’t like being in Fallujah, we all wear body armor.

New York Stories – – Funny and Scary

Posted on November 23, 2009 by 40andover

Yesterday:

I hopped a cab on my way home from my dad’s house (he looks good). Judging by his name, accent, etc., he is Pakistani. He kept turning his head to talk and I kept saying, “what?” (More likely, “whaaaattttt?”). It turns out that I didn’t notice (when I got into the cab) there was a woman in the front passenger seat. Very diminutive woman, in fact. They seemed to be having a great time. She answered a cell phone on speaker, so I could tell it was a middle-aged woman (same age as cab driver). Was it his wife driving with him so they could spend “quality time” together? Was it a girlfriend? Hmmmmmm.

Postscript: I have thought about this further in the context of my job. Here’s a guy who brought his wife/girlfriend to work. I, the client, was the interloper. Imagine if I brought my partner to a deal closing and giggled throughout. But, then again, the cabbie probably has overheard the craziest things as his passengers chatter on cell phones, so why should he think it improper. All I can say is, eeww. EEEEwwww. EEEEEEwwwwwww.

Today:

Diffusion of responsibility is alive and well, 40 years after the Kitty Genovese killing (for those of you born in the 70s and later, people looked on doing nothing as the victim was being killed, believing that others would call the police).

There was a fight on the subway platform this morning and most people kept going along their ways. One man tried to break it up and, when he couldn’t, he called out to people to call the police. I ran upstairs where I could get cell phone reception and made the call.

I had a 911 operator on the line, describing the scene of two men fighting on the platform — actually one guy fighting; the other avoiding the fight. But there is no way to tell who instigated the altercation.

The 911 operator asked me to identify the races of the men. “White and black,” I said, wondering in my head if I should have said, “African-American”. But, then, should I have said, “Caucasian”? All this going on while I am trying to report something. Weird, where the mind goes. And, really, did my political correctness score really matter? No.

An MTA guard appeared and broke it up and one guy left and disappeared into a crowd. I told the 911 operator that the incident was over and the matter seemed to be under control.

Other people seemed to think someone else would do something. That was more frightening than the fight itself.

Postscript: Tonight, I told my son that I had to call 911 because people couldn’t settle a dispute with “words” and I also told him that “words” can cause fights. Not that he should be timid; just that he needs to understand the power of words, for example, to unite a country in hope, divide a country in despair or cause a fight in New York City on a subway platform.

Imagine Peace — Part 2

Posted on November 13, 2009 by 40andover

I know my mother sounded a little saintly and we like a family of do-gooders in a prior entry, Imagine Peace, so we need to set the record straight. We have our moments of community service but we are Seinfeldian in the usual ways.

First, the email from a friend of MOB [mother of blogger) and a co-founder of New Yorkers Against Gun Violence from FOBM (friend of blogger’s mom) to SOB (sister of blogger).

“Dear SOB:

Thank you for coming on Tuesday and for helping to make the event a great success. I still miss MOB and would love to have her see how the organization has progressed from its fledgling days when she did so much to nurture it.

Also, would you send me blogger’s email address – she was quite a bidder at the Silent Auction and won a Fire Island week as well as French lessons. Many thanks again for your continued support.

Fondly, FOBM”

Very lovely note, indeed. So glad that Mom is remembered. SOB follows up with this email to me:

“Blogger:

I am forwarding an email from FOBM. That’s great that you won that Fire Island week. (Have you heard there is a recession going on? What else did you bid on? What if you won everything you bid on? Are you CRAZY?)

Actually, I was looking at that myself and considering bidding but then got distracted and didn’t return. When are we going?!! I hope it’s not a dump. You don’t have to invite us.

I feel very good that our family supports this organization – a way to honor Mom and her vision.

Kumbaya, babe.

Love, SOB“

It is important to be honest that we are riding our mother’s coattails.

Yep, Kumbaya, SOB, Kumbaya.

The Blogger in my midst

Posted on November 11, 2009 by 40andover

So, after the funeral, I decide to work from home since most banks are closed (and my clients are banks). I return the rental car and make the mistake of hearkening back — with no one else in room — to the earlier conversation about menopause that I had with the same rental car sales assistant. She was not pleased. She had mentioned earlier that she has mood swings. I notice as I stand over the counter that she still hadn’t taken her vitamins. I decided not to mention that the name of the GPS NeverLost is a misnomer. And, I assume I am going to get a schmuck tax on top of the usual rental car costs. I am fine with all of it because, well, it is what it is.

I go to grab lunch and there is a woman sitting opposite me at the communal table in Le Pain Quotidienne. She looks at me as if she recognizes me. We hold a gaze for an extra second. I know that I don’t know her so I assume that she asked me a question and is waiting for a response. So, I say, “excuse me?” as if she said something. She didn’t. I apologize. I go back to my various devices of connectivity.

She types furiously on her laptop. I think she is a blogger. I wanted to say, “Hi, I’m 40andoverblog. Who are you?” But that would have sounded like the ookiest come-on line and that was not my intention.

I surreptitiously glance over at her from time to time, trying to see what she is typing. She catches me a few times. I have to leave now lest she think I have any interest other than uncovering a blogger and responds with interest or revulsion, neither of which I could handle.

I inhale my food and pay my bill.

I imagine that she is thinking, “wow, she reminds me of my mother”. I catch a cab and take to my bed.

Credit Card Companies Charge More and Are Meaner, to boot

Posted on November 6, 2009 by 40andover

I was just on the phone FOR THE SECOND TIME questioning some stupid fee charged by a credit card company. The first time I had to endure a surly response from my customer service representative — customer service in the credit card industry being the definition of oxymoron.

This time, I was greeted with serieuse attitude coming from the Mr. Customer Service who is not the mere definition of oxymoron but is the true personification of oxymoron.

Definitely a call center in the US because no one can fake that decidedly American accent. So, there’s a silver lining — the abusive person was a fellow American and his job was not outsourced. I don’t know if I would have remained as calm (a stretch) if an American job was lost so I could be berated in this manner.

The oxyMORON reminded me that the call was being recorded as was the call from my prior excellent customer service experience. I said that I was glad it was being recorded because I would love everyone and anyone to hear the tone and manner of the customer service representatives. We concluded our business and we ended the phone call.

I did not break the phone, which I consider a tribute to my self control.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Posted on November 4, 2009 by 40andover

I saw my sister in the gym tonight. Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out. I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled. You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights). I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister. I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor). I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment). She doesn’t flinch. She is not my sister. My sister would have flinched. I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow. Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know. I mention some things I had written in my blog. She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries. But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy. I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body. I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969. The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien. Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture. Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck. After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

Posted on November 4, 2009 by 40andover

Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness. According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender. (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.)

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders. None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2. Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender. Not that it matters. But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway. I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion. But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”.

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand. Not dispositive. No discernible Adam’s apple. Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand). Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive.

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess). But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams. And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

A schlepic

Posted on November 3, 2009 by 40andover

schlepic (n): [pron: SHLE-pic] a journey of epic proportions (from the Yiddish schlep). A schlepic is often measured by length and grueling effort or by short distance with emotional energy expended.

So, according to Vebster’s Dictionary of Yiddish phrases, a schlepic can be long but complicated and frustrating travel or a short subway ride full of bizarre behavior and emotional and psychic energy. Or anywhere along the continuum between those two points.

I had a schlepic this morning:

Although I am feeling “waist creep” — that terrible feeling that you can’t suck in your stomach to close your pants from last year — I am still a small person who can fit easily in the small space between two large passengers on a subway car.

And yet, I didn’t have to fit easily between two people in the subway car. I was at the end of the bench next to a hand rail, a comfortable distance away from the next passenger, who had a wide berth on the other side of him as well. Then, a large man squeezes in next to me.

The man on the other side of him still has room to move down a little, but insists on standing (er, sitting) his ground. So the force of gravity is heading my way on the right and there is a metal handrail on my left.

I lean over to assess the situation and see if I can ask the man on the other side to move down. As I lean forward, I realize that I have lost the back of the seat to my fellow traveller’s shoulders. He never looks up and he takes out a text book to read (very convenient on the subway). The man on the other side is looking down and is wearing ear phones, so my “excuse me, sir” falls on already noise-filled ears. I try to reach over to tap the man, because if I get up, then textbook man will slide into my already diminished space. Of course, I had to invade textbook man’s space to tap the other passenger. That turned out to be an affront to his G-d-given right to comfort and self-determination on the subway. I said, “I am just trying to get a little more room here,” and his response was a sigh of disgust, as if I am the interloper. Ok, ok, ok, how does this work? I am being squished out of my seat and I am the interloper and troublemaker?

Many mean thoughts raced through my head. Then rage. Then my stop came. No resolution. No catharsis. No release. Just a jackass on a train who thinks he is right. Ok, he represents a huge demographic in our country. Probably over 60% of the population.

Emotions and anger continue to rage as I walk up the steps and out of the subway.

It was short, but a schlepic nevertheless.

Cell YELLLLLLL

Posted on November 2, 2009 by 40andover

Cellphones are sometimes blessings but, most times, curses.

When your 89 year-old father is running late because of city traffic, it is a blessing not to start calling emergency rooms around the city. If you are on a bus and a teenager is talking about adolescent issues and her first visit to the gynecologist, well, then, it is a little like being in purgatory.

Recently, on a bus going uptown on the west side of Manhattan, a woman in her mid-to-late seventies was having a conversation on her cellphone. To be more precise, she was YELLING into her cellphone as if she were hard-of-hearing or had never used a cellphone before (or both). A man in his sixties turned around and told her he was very sensitive to noise and ask very politely if she would mind lowering her voice.

Her response was to tell her friend, “can you believe someone told me to quiet down? If you were next to me and we were screaming to each other, no one would say anything to us.”

You can’t argue with that, mostly because all you would get out of it is a headache.

Another Gym Moment

Posted on November 2, 2009 by 40andover

We had had friends over for dinner Saturday night and good food and wine doesn’t not go gently on the body anymore.

So, Sunday, at the stroke of 11:39am, I set off for a run. I cut short the run at a mile, because, well, the chill in the air was not helping the creaks in my knees and the gym is warmer. So I trot into the gym and, thinking about my new health regimen, I get one of those parsley, beet, cucumber, kale, blah blah blah drinks with some extra stuff for energy and focus. It is a gross green color and therefore it must be good for me, right?

I drink it up as I am inputting my weight and my age into the machine (I pause for a moment to shake my head at the weight creep up the scale) and I notice that I have a faint after-taste of garlic. Aaaargh. Garlic was not listed in the ingredients to this elixir. Luckily, I have one of those damp towels with eucalyptus in it (who knows why, but I took one), so I can breathe into it and not offend others near me.

This time I choose the recumbent bike, so that there is really no way I can fall off this machine, even if I faint from the garlic and the eucalyptus. The woman next to me is ten years older and is going further and faster on her bike. And she is burning more calories. It’s ok, I rationalize because if I went faster, I would sweat more garlic, and SHE would keel over. So my slow pace is actually altruistic. And not only that, I am breathing through my eucalyptus towel to keep the garlic smell quotient to a minimum.

All of this altruism, eucalyptus and garlic is making me tired and I still 25 minutes to go (I have only been pedaling for five minutes, but it was a complicated and emotional five minutes). The Marathon is on the TV and now I am psyched up to keep going. Then I turn to another TV and see John King on CNN asking dumb questions instead of tough questions and I get agitated. My bike starts making weird clanking noises. They are loud enough for the people next to me to look over because they can hear the noises over their iPods. The older woman is staring at me and I want to say, “hey, I am breathing into this stupid towel so you don’t faint from garlic, and you are running faster and further than I am, so you want to make something of my clanking bike?” But of course I don’t. I smile sheepishly as if I had been flatulent and everyone can smell it.

Oh, will the degradation ever end for this schlepper at the gym? No, I fear.

I am destined for every gym visit to be — how shall I say? — “schl-epic”.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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