Tag Archives: Life

Memory

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My great aunt Fanny has been dead for almost 40 years but sometimes a minor thing, like the posture of a stranger telling a story on a street corner this morning, can trigger a flood of memories. 

When we were young, Aunt Fanny would often accompany her sister, my grandmother, on visits to our house.  (I think she desperately wanted grandchildren.)  They would eat cottage cheese with cling peaches in heavy syrup in glass bowls for lunch, because that was the only possible kosher meal my mother could muster.  They would sit at the kitchen table, talking and eating (simultaneously) so I could see the cottage cheese move around in their mouths and creep into the corners and invade the lipstick on their lips.  They wore stockings knotted below the knees, because who needed to do the whole garter thing if it was just family. 

Aunt Fanny used to buy my sister and me matching little girls’ polyester underwear on sale at some discount place somewhere in the bowels of Brooklyn.  She referred to them as panties (eeewww) and danced them around to show everyone.  I felt soooo violated.  I longed for cotton even before I knew what that was.  She would also play a game of smelling our feet and shrieking, “Pewwwww!!” It wasn’t that much fun.  Kinda gross. 

Still, Aunt Fanny would play checkers with us, dance with us and always make Grandma laugh.  And Grandma wasn’t a very happy person, so that was a real, as we say, mitzvah. 

Sometimes Uncle Lou came along.  He blew up balloons (in the days when it wasn’t scary for little babies to play with them) and taught us the finer points of poker (in addition to some card tricks).  

Not long after Uncle Lou died, Aunt Fanny remarried.  We all visited her new apartment with the twin beds in the bedroom.  Someone must have asked, “why twin beds?” because I saw her roll her eyes and heard her respond something like, “he needs the exercise”.   I had no idea what the adults were talking about.  Only now, in this flood of memories, do I think that she was saying, “my new husband is a good companion but he is not much to look at.”

Aunt Fanny was Grandma’s much younger sister and she died young-ish for those days (in her 60s).  I think it might have been the first time I went to a funeral home.  I remember Grandma’s uncontrollable sobbing.  She had lost her sister and her best friend.

Memories of Aunt Fanny come in snippets unbidden, in no apparent order, without story to tell or even a point to prove.

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My Life in Abbott and Costello World

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It was 6:30pm and I was at a stopping point in my work.  I thought to call Dad and check in.

The phone rang busy.  Hmmmm.  It was 5:30pm BOB’s time, so maybe he was calling Dad.  But there was something about the busy signal that was more like a phone off the hook or a downed telephone line.  Of course, the image of a land line with an actual wire into the house is such a dated one.  Still, in my father’s house, where time has virtually stood still since my mom died in January 2003, it is not entirely outside the realm of reality.

I called compulsively for 10 minutes.  6:40pm.  I called SOB’s line in case she was talking to Dad, although she calls around 4pm.  Like clockwork.  Still, I call SOB’s house.

[SIDEBAR:  We, the kids and the kids-in-law, all have our roles that create the web of Dad oversight that we lovingly refer to as the “[Blogger family name] Protocol”.  Some day it will come out in major motion picture.  Don’t you worry.]

HOSOB answered.  Ok, Dad is not talking to HOSOB or SOB.  Problemmmmmmm.

I called Dad’s cell phone.  Ring.  Ring.  Ring.  Seven more times.  “The subscriber has not yet set up voicemail.”  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. 

Ok, panic was setting in.  But I knew it could take Dad a few minutes to react to the ring and then realize it is his cell phone.  Also, I know he has Life Alert, so I was much more calm than you would imagine.  (I.e., hysterical, but without the weeping and wailing.)

“Hellooooo?”  Dad answered.  PHEW.

“Hi Dad, it’s [BLOGGER]!” I say loudly.

“Hellooo????”

“Dad, it is [BLOGGER]!”

“[Blogger] darling!! How are you?!!”

“I’m great, Dad.”  I get right to the point.  “Your home phone doesn’t seem to be working, because I tried you a number of times.”

“Hellooo????”

“Dad, it is [BLOGGER]!”

“So good to hear your voice!!  Are you home?”

“No Dad, I am at the office, and I want to hear about your day, but, first, your land line is off the hook.”

“My whaaattt?”

“Land line.  Off hook.” (if you speak slowly and loudly, even a nonagenarian can hear you.)

“But, sweetheart, I am talking to you.”

“On YOUR cell phone,” I CELL-YELL.

“Your brother called just a moment ago and your sister called at 4pm and I am talking to you now . . . ”  Now, I was screaming into the phone.  The COB (my law partner) ran into my office to check on me.  I wave him away.

“Dad, since then, something is wrong with your land line.  So please check to make sure the phone isn’t off the hook.”

Of course, there are no “hooks” anymore, but for those of us who remember the days of rotary phones and the handset that needed to be securely in the cradle before the line cleared, you know what I mean.

“Ok, I shall check.”  [One of the only people who conjugates that verb correctly.] “No, nothing is wrong.  Hellooooo????  I hear you fine.”

“Dad, you are holding the cell phone so you hear me.  Dad, go into your office and check but Dad, please DON’T HANG UP.”

Ok, he hung up.  I called back.

“Hellooooo?”

“Hi Dad, it’s [BLOGGER]!” I say loudly.

“Hellooo????”

“Dad, it is [BLOGGER]!”

“[Blogger] darling!! My phone is fine.  I can hear you!!”

“Dad, I am calling on your cell phone.  I will call Time Warner and find out what is wrong with your LAND line.  I will call you back on your cell.”

“Ok.  I shall wait for your call.”

I spoke with Angenette, a lovely, lovely, customer representative at Time Warner.  She could not find my dad’s number or name in the system.  I called Dad back.

“Dad, Time Warner doesn’t have you listed.”  I tried to contain my alarm.

“Of course not.  I am on RCN.”

In my mind, I think:  Who’s on first, What’s on second and SHIT is on third.

“By the way,” he continued, “since you called, I received an automated announcement about a temporary disruption in phone service that has been successfully resolved.”

Before I could respond, Dad’s land line rang and it was SOB from the hospital.  HOSOB had had her paged because there was a potential “episode” requiring the EMERGENCY [BLOGGER FAMILY NAME] PROTOCOL.  This involves ambulances (for all members of the immediate family), a hospital ward (for all members of the immediate family) and sedation (again, for all members of the immediate family).

“Hi, dear!! Oh, yes, everything is fine.  [Blogger] is on the phone.  But I don’t hear her, so she must be disconnected.”

“DAD, I AM HERE!!!! PLEEEEEASE PICK UP THE CELL PHONE!!”

Ok, now COB rushed in from his office in a panic.  I am so loud that the building is shaking.

“Oh, dear!  There you are.  It is so wonderful to speak to all my children.  What a gift.”

What a gift?!  I have grown more gray hairs in this hour than I care to count.  But, he gets to speak to all his kids numerous times within one hour.  We continued to chat about our days and ended with mutual “I love yous,” as always.

I walk into COB’s office and lied on the floor and told him the story.  “Hey,” he said, “it sounds like he had a great time.  At the same time, however, your life? It sucked.”  The Oracle from East Windsor.

Another day in the life.

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The Checklist

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In my professional life, I always having a closing checklist for each transaction.  Every piece of paper, every action, every issue goes on a centralized list, with responsible parties, deadlines and status.  Good practice (or malpractice) starts with organization.

As for my personal life, well, not always.  I try to maintain some type of order amid chaos, but let’s face it:  without POB, my life would be a compost.  Even POB was surprised, initially, at what lurked under the veneer of successful urban professional: my bespoke blazers and trousers held together with staples and scotch-tape (but never spit).  Indeed a metaphor for my life then.  The saving grace:  I did have someone come in to clean, do laundry and re-stock toilet paper and other essentials.

So, I wasn’t joking 10.5 years ago when, during a discussion about whether to have a child, I asked POB, “am I not baby enough for you?”  And now we have SOS and I have matured beyond my post-adolescent years.  I am now a somewhat disciplined person in my personal life.

Still, a wedding.  That is a huge undertaking and our mothers are not alive (and even if alive would not be young enough) to take over the process, make it their own, and forget about the two main characters.  How I long for that.  Yes, I said it.  If I could outsource this to our mothers, I would in a heartbeat.   I would get endless blog material.  So, clearly, outsourcing to a professional wedding planner is, well, no fun.

So, here is where we stand (using lavender, as the official color of gay weddings):

  • Dresses:   √
  • Undergarments: next weekend (stay tuned)
  • Shoes: next weekend (stay tuned)
  • Flat tummy and chiseled arms:  works in progress
  • SOS’s suit, shirt and tie: next weekend
  • Rabbi:  √
  • Venue:  √
  • Caterer:  tasting √; final menu:  open
  • Photographer: √
  • Band: √
  • Centerpieces:  in process
  • Wedding cake:  √
  • Invitations: in process (proofed; waiting for printer to send)
  • Ketubah: in process (actually waiting for feedback from rabbi)
  • Chupah: in process (poles reserved; cloth to be determined)
  • Ceremony:  needs work
  • Vows:  oy, don’t ask
  • Our song: still need to tell the band
  • Get:  get what? 

A get.  Let’s just say that one of us needed a religious separation from a long-ago prior commitment.  Traditionally, a get is something that a man gives a woman.  But a man can say no and still, he can remarry (I think).  If a woman doesn’t get a get, she is in limbo; she cannot remarry and her community will shun her.  Forever.  And there are horror stories even today about women in this very circumstance.  It is a terrible rule that confirms a woman’s second class status in traditional Judaism.

In our case, the prior commitment was with a woman, so no need to get a get, right??  Pretty good argument, eh?

Well, since marrying two women under religious law isn’t exactly, let’s say, kosher, our rabbi considers that the getting of a get should also be gender neutral.  Especially since, according to our rabbi, in its best sense, a get is a mutual release from the past.   Really, rabbi?  Sometimes, the past should just hang out there in the ether.  No one ever got bit from a sleeping dog.

Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok.  Service of papers at last known addresses, summons to appear before a Beth Din, a religious court of three rabbis.  Pretty serious business.  The religious court convened on Friday, in the West Village.  The three rabbis, two lesbians and one transgendering person, conducted the proceedings and finalized the releases.  (To show our diversity, the rabbi officiating our wedding is straight.)

The ancients and the current, living orthodox would have keeled over.  But they would have keeled over at the thought of the wedding.  So, I say, let ’em roll, let ’em roll, let ’em roll.

So, to update our checklist:

  • Get:  GOT

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Good Medicine

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I have been sick this week.  I stayed home one full day (Tuesday) and, by this afternoon (Friday), it was clear I was not recovered.  My colleagues even told me to go home.  The COB even cheerfully took over responsibility for some thankless and unglamorous tasks so that I could just go home and climb into bed.  A true colleague.  Our assistant, who usually tortures me in that negative affection type of way, was actually kind and looked worried.  I must have looked bad.

I came home and collapsed into bed.  I was almost immediately overcome with the need to sleep.  As I was dozing, I half-dreamed of being sick as a kid.

Mom would hug me and say, “my poor tsatskele [Yiddish endearment], if I could have this for you, I would!”  Then she would kiss my forehead to check for fever.  Then she would direct me to my bed.  And to be doubly sure that I didn’t have a fever, Mom would get one of those mercury thermometers (on the list of pre-1980 household hazards) doused in rubbing alcohol (for sterilization) and tucked under the tongue.

“Tea and toast and rest” was the basic remedy.  If needed, I could have aspirin and, at night, cough suppressant. Mom would set up the vaporizer — that contraption that made steam heat and bred bacteria — to clear my clogged sinuses.  Ok, maybe a little Vaseline on my chapped nose and lips, but Mom was very cautious about its use. When she was young, there were instances when sick babies who suffocated because mothers applied Vaseline too liberally in their babies’ noses.

Throughout the course of my cold, she administered loving hugs and kisses liberally and got up every few hours during the night to touch my cheek and make sure all was ok.

There weren’t many over-the-counter products then to relieve cold symptoms.  But my mother would have had none of that.   If it was just a head cold to suffer through, a little extra tender loving care (and tea and toast) was medicine enough.

Mom was a working professional, so if any of us was sick during the week, Leta, our nanny, would be in charge.  But Mom lingered in the mornings, and came home early. Dad also canceled his last patient so he could be on hand for the evening love-not-drugs fest.

Leta was no slouch when it came to smothering us with love, under any circumstance.  And when one of us was sick, she outdid herself.  Leta would pour half a cup of sugar in the tea because she thought it was heartless of Mom and Dad to ration sugar (my Dad was a dentist, after all).  And she prescribed sucking candy (a banned substance in our house) as throat lozenges.

Sidebar:  I don’t think I told my parents about the candy and sugar and the other broken rules until after Leta died in the 1990s.  That was our secret with Leta.  Mom and Dad would have certain rules, and Leta would ignore those rules, much to our delight.

And, of course, my grandmother, Mom’s mother, couldn’t bear that any of her little darling grandchildren was sick.  So, she would come laden down with food like stuffed cabbage, potato pancakes, and a whole host of time-honored Jewish-Ashkenazic comfort food.   Grandma and Leta had a grudging respect for each other which over the years turned into real affection, but when one of us was sick, it was all-out turf warfare.  No wonder Mom went to her office.

Even with today’s magic potions, Nyquil or Dayquil or the equivalent, there is no better medicine than Mom’s hugs, Leta’s smother and Grandma’s food.  Just thinking about it makes me feel better already.

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Our Greatest Generation Losing the Race with Time

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Once there were five brothers standing tall.  A photo of them hung on my parents’ wall.

Dad had four brothers and (more than) four sisters-in-law.  They were our greatest generation.  Not because they were all wonderful people (not all were in fact good people).  But because they had the resilience, grit and determination to make it in 1940s and 1950s America and survive and thrive in the upheavals of the 1960s though the 1980s.

You need to listen to Cousin Gentle’s ballad of  The Family.  Our greatest generation fought in the war that America won, left the cramped apartment of their immigrant parents, and lived the American dream.  They cemented our family’s place in America.

Dad and AG (Aunt Glue) are who remain of the greatest generation. AG hosted every Rosh Ha-Shana of my childhood at their big house in the suburbs.  She introduced my parents.  She soothed her husband’s scars of life as an American POW in a WWII Nazi concentration camp.  She raised three sons, and buried one of them.  AG forced the blue grass band to play Hava Nagilah at BOB’s not-so-Jewish wedding in Texas.  While the band knew the music, they couldn’t pronounce the words, so they sang “Have a Tequila” instead.  She danced and qvelled at my sister’s wedding, and soothed the sadness of our own mother’s not being alive to see it.

AG is the venerated matriarch — the last surviving mother — of our generation.  Our generation’s ages range from 48 to near 70 years old; still, as old as we get, we never outgrow the need for a mother figure.  Her presence at our life cycle events is the seal of approval of the generation whose voices are mostly in our heads and hearts.

She will not make it to my wedding.  The trajectory of her recently diagnosed disease makes that clear.  It is so shocking because just 8 months ago she was able to travel by plane and negotiate some arduous travel.

On Saturday, Dad, Cousin Gentle, SOB, POB, SOS, BOB and I drove 3 hours each way to see her, near her new home.  BOB flew half-way across the country to make this trip.  Because we know too well the finality of death and the torment of missing what might be that last visit.

On the drive up everyone was subdued.  Dad didn’t even break out with “When the Saints Go Marching In” or “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again,” two of his favorite car ride tunes.  SOB and I didn’t even have the emotional energy to make our usual million dollar bets on these things.  (As a result, I am still $2 million in debt since January 1.)

And Dad was having his own crazy senior moments — from confusing family with friends to eating with serving forks — so it really added to the gestalt of the day.  He has known AG for 70 years and I think he was reacting to the situation but unable to express it.

Sidebar:  I, of course, was hungry (because sad things make me hungry) and, after a three hour car ride and visiting for an hour, I finally said to my cousin, “Look, I know we were rude not to bring house gift, but we are really starving and I would like to help you put out lunch.”  She said she was so glad that I was honest because she would have kept talking.  And then she did.  So, I asked, “Cousin, is it ok if I open your refrigerator and start taking out food??”  Because in our family, the strong eat the weak or, in this case, corned beef and knishes.

Sidebar on the Sidebar:  Corned beef, on rye with coleslaw and sliced pickles and a little mustard, is, as Mom would say “a little bit of Heaven”, with her eyes half-closed as if imagining Elysian Fields.

AG is very diminished physically (less so mentally); even when she forgets, her personality is still in tact.  She is at peace and grateful for the time she has left.

Yesterday, we were witness to the spirit of the greatest generation, facing down the darkest hours and the biggest tests, with a quiet determination and “we will handle what comes when it comes” attitude.

So much more is the profound loss when our greatest generation is no more.

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Absolutely Flabulous

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I am working on my abdominal muscles.  But the leaner I get in front, the flabbier I get in the back.  What is with back flab?

I asked POB who is my oracle on things like this.  She said that back flab is, in fact, a topic of articles in those self-help/keep-it-real magazines.

Essentially, it is an aging thing.

It’s a little like the hint of Hadassah arms (fleshy upper arms prevalent among members of the Women’s Zionist Organization of America) that appeared one day four years ago.  No amount of tri-cep exercises can change it.  Hadassah arms are a real advantage when entertaining young children — they make excellent flapping noises when one is trying to mimic a bird in flight (what, you mean, you don’t often, and spontaneously, do avian impressions?)

Despite my best efforts at the gym and POB’s best efforts at feeding us healthy, lean foods, I have a vision of turning into Grandma Dora, with the house-dress, the Hadassah arms, the corset pushing her sagging breasts up to her clavicle, and the bra-strap hanging half-way down her arm.  And those old people shoes that were gentle on the bunions.  And wait, the stockings knotted at her knees.  Just the vision could trigger a fatal seizure.

I know, I know.  I started with back flab and ended up with corrective shoes.  From the Upper West Side, Manhattan, 2012, to Pelham Parkway, Bronx, circa 1969 in three paragraphs.  But maybe I am just overreacting.

But the back flab is seriously unappealing.

 

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Hard of hearing? Well. . . .

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Dad has always been an optimistic and happy man.  So, he forgets the bad stuff, which is great for him and us.

Except when it comes to filling out forms about medical history.  And Dad needed to complete one as part of his Life Alert system service.  So, voila, instant family activity helping Dad recreate his past and present issues.  Some families go to museums for outings; we go over past illnesses, trials and tribulations.  Usually, right before a meal.

Sidebar:  For the record, today we went to a museum en famille.

Last Sunday, right before dinner, Dr. SOB (with SOS as her helper) did what she does “at the office”; she took a patient’s medical history.  This time it was Dad’s.  (Actually, she keeps a detailed one on each of us, but it was a good memory exercise for Dad.)  SOB helped SOS pronounce the words, like “emphysema,” etc.  Dad responded with the answers.  Then we corrected him on relevant issues.

But sometimes he didn’t hear that well.  SOS said “neurological” and Dad asked “urological?”  (I guess he does know his issues.)  In the middle of the recitation of possible respiratory ailments, I interjected, “hard of hearing?”  Even though I was on the other side of the room, Dad turned and said, “No, dear,” with a watch-yourself look.  Then, SOS was asking about skin ailments, and Dad (for whom none of these words is new) needed SOS and SOB to repeat them a few times.  So, I interjected, “hard of hearing?”  Dad shot me another look.  Ok, I don’t know when to stop.

The medical history was more arduous because my Dad was having trouble hearing or understanding.  So, from even farther away from him, I interjected, “some wine, anyone?”  “Yes, please,” Dad quickly responded.

He isn’t really hard of hearing.  Sometimes, he is practically deaf.  But, mostly, he is just tired of listening.

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Life Imitating Art

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Life Alert.  Remember when the company roared onto the home health care scene with the commercial about an old woman on the ground and yelling in a very nasal grandma voice, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”?

That commercial went viral — as much as it could in the 1980s before YouTube.  The Company went so far as to copyright that line.  Today their commercials are more respectable and less kitschy.  Still, they are morbidly amusing until you have to send away for information on the product.

In order to keep Dad in his home on his own, we needed to get Dad the life alert system.   Because we absolutely want him to have a hands-free intercom into which he can yell if HE has fallen and can’t get up.

Life Alert still has its quirks.  One of the selling points for the product is that there is a total refund if the person dies within 3 years of signing-up for the service.  No questions asked. Other than maybe, “may we see the death certificate?”  So, actually, at least one question asked.

Sounds like a stupid business model, since people who get Life Alert are not in the best of shape when signing-up for the service.  What will that person need with the money?  The person is DEAD.  Maybe the company banks on the fact that no one will remember about the money-back guarantee.  I guess it is a shrewd calculation about the probability of dementia afflicting the survivors rather than the probability of an aged, infirm person surviving another three years.

I went to Dad’s house today to have lunch and to try to reintroduce him to the Internet.  About once a month, we try this.  He doesn’t type well, so he is unlikely to send an email.  He can’t get the hang of the left click/right click, one-click/two-click protocols even though he was previously able to navigate them.

We spent an hour practicing getting in and out of Google, getting in and out of email, etc.  He would set up the email and I would type for him.  Then he would click send a few extra times.  We sent (mostly unintentionally) multiple emails to SOB and BOB.  They responded.  Uh oh.  Now what?  “Dad, do you remember which is the reply icon?”  He nodded.  “Great, now click.”  “Dad, click once.  ONCE.  only ONCE.  Ok Ok ok ok ok ok ok. Let me get us back to the right screen.”  And so it went.

SOB emailed me, “I am plunking down a cool million that by tomorrow he will be blaming something about the computer that is not allowing him to send or pick up his emails.”  So, I called Dad and said, “remember to try again a few times tonight to make sure you have the email and Google thing down.”  Either he will declare defeat tonight (and then I win the bet) or he will make it work and not try again until Monday (in which case I win the bet).  Insider information.   SOB uses her powers for good.  Me, not so much.

Time for a nap.  Tomorrow, POB, SOS and I are taking Dad to the Met to look at the new American Wing.  More bloggable moments.

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Love, Family and the Wedding

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Today, SOB (sister of blogger), Dad and I planned to have brunch and then go visit our cousins who sell antiques and are in New York City for a show on the antiques circuit.

SIDEBAR:  This is NOT Antiques Road Show, where a sculpture of a hand holding a bird is estimated to be more valuable than two birds in the bush.  How do I know my cousins are a notch above?  First, they travel the world over to buy the “stuff”; second, they charge a lot for the “stuff”; and third, they had to buy a whole other house to keep the “stuff”.  (One still maintains a day job.)

We told Dad to meet us at noon at a coffee shop not too far from his house (he likes to walk a little to get the blood flowing, which is essential at 91.5 years old).  Knowing that Dad arrives at least 30 minutes early, SOB and I decide to get there even earlier so we can have a pre-Dad schmooze.  We arrive at the coffee shop at 11:10am.  As we enter, we see Dad walking up.  (I am glad we said noon; if we had said 10am, Dad would have arrived at 11pm the night before.)

We had our usual conversations, punctuated by what was happening in the GOP primaries.   SOB and I are attuned to Dad’s rhythms.  We can tell from his body language that he is about to make a loud and slightly aggressive request for more coffee.  We also know that he did not hear the server say that a new pot was brewing and he would freshen up the coffee as soon as the pot was ready.  So as his hand is going up, SOB gently guided it back down to the table as I repeated (louder this time) that the coffee is coming.

SIDEBAR:  I attribute our gentle ballet to the skills we learned playing Capture the Egg on Sundays at camp.  For those of you unfamiliar with the “sport”, it is Capture the Flag but with eggs.  The winning team has the most number of intact eggs at the end of the game.  Some of the eggs are hard boiled, some are soft boiled and some are raw.  When your teammate runs into “enemy territory” and gets trapped, she then has to throw the egg to you as you stand on your side of the field.  You need to assume it is raw but hope it is hard boiled.  The trick in catching a raw egg is that you don’t catch it like a baseball; you catch it like a football — a cradle-like reception, as you gently reduce its spiral and speed.  And then, when the raw egg nevertheless splatters all over you, you call, “first in line for the shower!!!” Ok, I digress.

Dad is really steady at his age, but snow and ice is a challenge.  Of course, he wanted to take the bus.  I wanted to take a cab.  And I didn’t have enough on my Metrocard for a ride.

SIDEBAR:  It is true that my Metrocard was low; but it was convenient on a cold day on the icy streets of New York when I want my father to be in one piece for my wedding.

SOB said to Dad, “If we take a cab, we will save [Blogger] money on her Metrocard.”  We throw in test of logical thinking every now and again to assess Dad’s mental acuity.  He rolled his eyes, so we know he is ok.  SOB is non-confrontational, yet effective.  Strong work.

We arrive at the Antiques Show at the 26th Street Armory (in case anyone is wondering, I paid for a cab or two on this adventure).  Our cousins were there, as was another cousin.  The other cousin talked about his son’s engagement to an Iranian Muslim.  I noted that the successful marriages in our family were mostly mixed or same-sex marriages.  We all looked at each other.  Yep, we were all happy and either our partners were not Jewish or, if Jewish, the same sex.  So, I suggested to my cousin that we should all be relieved that his son was not marrying a Jew, for the sake of his future happiness.

One cousin asked about my upcoming nuptials.  Most of the details that are not quite settled relate to religious law.  Clearly, this makes no sense since a lesbian wedding is not sanctioned by tradition.   So why do we worry so much about complying with all of the rituals?  I tried to explain to this to our cousin, a non-Jew who married into the family, that Jews fearlessly go into absurd detail where others — except maybe the Vatican — don’t dare tread.  The mental gymnastics required to marry two women free and clear of prior entanglements are epic, as in Homer-like epic.  Too bad the Bard is not around to sing the tale of mighty warrior(ette)s slaying the various beasts, and overcoming the various challenges placed in their path by the gods on their way, so that they may seal their love and singular devotion (and have a little party).  All for a 20 minute ritual.  The things we do for tribal continuity.

Maybe PBS will do a mini-series.  The J-Word: Life Behind the Lesbian Chuppah.

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Friday, the day that the Rabbi ate at Metro Diner

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POB (partner of blogger) and I are going through the Jewish version of pre-cana.  Never mind that we have progeny and more than a decade together in our rear-view mirror.

The first time we met with the rabbi, she came to our house.  She couldn’t drink the Kosher wine because she was still nursing and she didn’t touch anything else, even though everything was Kosher and on glass plates (glass doesn’t absorb food particles so glass plates in a non-Kosher home are still ok).  I couldn’t concentrate on anything she said because I was thinking, “what Kosher rule did I forget that renders even Kosher things in my house treyf (un-kosher)?”  The whole session was a blur.  Then, the rabbi ate a grape.  My house was saved from shame.  But, I couldn’t tell you a thing about the discussion.

Today was our second meeting with the rabbi.  We met and ate at Metro Diner, a regular Upper West Side diner.  Really, rabbi?  So, I had to mention that I lived in shame for months after she came to our house last and ate only one grape.  “Oh, I had just eaten and I really wasn’t hungry!”  So, it turns out that there was no curse on my house, but just a rabbi — a JEW — who wouldn’t eat something right under her nose.  (She’s Jewish, right?)

So, I tried to concentrate on this session.  We planned the ceremony and talked about a bunch of things.  Very productive.  This marriage thing seems do-able.

Then, the rabbi reminded us we each had to write a letter to her about why we want to marry each other.  Don’t a child, a home, a mortgage in common qualify?  And I didn’t mention a joint retirement strategy.  That should just seal the deal.  Res ipsa loquitur, baby.

“Excuse me, these aren’t substitutes for the letter?  I’m sorry but I did not know that this was a term paper class.  I thought the final project was the actual wedding.”  Pause.  “Ok, when is it due?”  Pause.  “BEFORE the wedding?”  Harumph.

Not only do I have to finish all of my Continuing Legal Education credits AND lose 5 pounds before the wedding, I must write this letter.

Why is it such an issue?  I don’t know how to begin or where to end.

POB is my best friend and my favorite person in the world.  Her mere presence calms and comforts me.  I trust her implicitly.  I know she loves me like no else could.  I love her the same way.  I am safe with POB and she with me.  I adore POB, just adore her.  I have no logical explanation — I can’t help it.  She and I laugh together.  We think we are the luckiest people in the world.  We are strong because we helped each other grieve our mothers, nurtured each other during professional disappointments, supported each other during our son’s difficult early years and caught each other when we felt like we were falling.  We have gone through moments when we thought we wouldn’t make it together and then realized that we couldn’t make it EXCEPT together.   Now, we finish each other sentences and sometimes I think we are the same person (except she’s cuter). I will never cook, but I will do the dishes.  I have piles of clothes but POB has piles of magazines.  I let POB make the rules at home because she is a benevolent dictator.  I am responsible for customer service and technology issues.  POB never lets us run out of shampoo, moisturizer, food, and other necessities.  I will never be awake early enough to take our son to school, but I will stay up to help with math and science homework.  We are a team.

I am more in love with POB today than at any time before.  But check in with me tomorrow, and I will love POB even more.

 

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