Tag Archives: Life

Hammacher Schlemmer

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Hammacher Schlemmer.  What a mouthful.

When I was a kid I thought I would hear my mother say, “I went to HAMmacherSchlemmacheh” and I thought it was Yiddish.  I thought she was saying she went off the grid, as in had a knipshun fit.  If you went to “HAMmacherSchlemmmacheh” it was like you went berzerk, but not so berzerk that you couldn’t talk about it later on the phone.

Hammacher Schlemmer.

I kept trying to liken it to other Yiddish phrases and parse its etymology.  I couldn’t figure it out.  I accepted it as a one-off word without common roots that was just something you said in one breath and it meant bizarro-world.

Then one day, when I was about 16 years old, I was walking along 57th Street and saw a store with a Hammacher Schlemmer banner.  It didn’t say “HAMmacherSchlemmmacheh” but it was too close for coincidence.  I didn’t get two steps beyond the second set of doors when I was scared by my childhood images of going insane in town of HAMmacherSchlemmmacheh.

After a few years, I realized it was an emporium of cool, yet useless, gadgetry.  Before our personal austerity plan was enacted in 2007, I spent a fair amount of time and money at this emporium.  I felt bad — these were probably two anti-Semitic Germans whose names will forever sound Yiddish.  That thought made me smile.  Also that I, a second generation American, was a vociferous consumer of their useless over-the-top goods.  Wedding gifts, novelties — the Two-Germans-Who-Sound-Like-Yiddish-Purgatory was my store of choice.

The fact that I haven’t shopped there in 4 years doesn’t stop the emails about the new products.  Today’s made me laugh:  The Mold and Germ Destroying Air Purifier and the Hands-Free Hair Rejuvenator helmet.  http://hammacher.whatcounts.com/dm?id=C89617FFA81C5A49230781CDAA8D77348B67C265ED571C6B

The HANDS-FREE HAIR REJUVENATOR?  It looks like it could also double as a bike helmet.  Now, there’s value.

Sometimes, first impressions ARE right.

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The Sum of our Lives

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Don’t ask why I had reason today to meditate on the meaning of life and death, legacy and detritus.  For the purposes of this entry, please just accept that I did.

Much of the meditation happened today on the Cross Island Expressway, the Long Island Express Way, the Throgs Neck, the Northern Parkway and any number of other main arteries in and out of New York City.  Given the timing and the traffic, there was much time to ponder (and outrage that the tolls got to be so expensive).  Another story for another day when I am musing about driving as a contact sport.

After the mourning, and the tearful yet loving remembrances, comes the task of disposing of a deceased person’s worldly possessions.   Remember that bumper sticker, popular in 1980s or 90s, that adorned really expensive cars, “He who dies with the most toys, wins”?  Did the people in those cars think that they would be buried with the stuff?

Actually if that kind of acreage weren’t so expensive in this part of the country, that would be a great idea and soooo much easier on the rest of us.  No one would have the task of reducing it all to cash for the benefit of the heirs.

I don’t believe that “stuff” is the sum of our lives.  But it does bog down the survivors in details that make us forget those we mourn and celebrate the lives they lived.

What I learned today:

  • If  you believe that “stuff” is the sum of your life, just ask an auction house what you are worth and the answer will freak you out.

  • Things that carried enormous sentimental value or were mementos of wonderful experiences now become “stuff” to be sold off for distribution in accordance with a last will and testament.

  • If you want someone to have something when you die, give it to them in your lifetime, so you can see them enjoy it.   That someone may not be alive when your executor tries to carry out your wishes.
  • If you love your family and friends you will have only two nickels to rub together at the end of your life, because you will have given the rest away during your life time.  POB (partner of blogger) wants to time it just right, so we have EXACTLY two nickels, lest people say “they didn’t have TWO nickels to rub together!” (What would I do without my own personal reality check?)

 

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By the power vested in me . . .

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In six weeks, I am “officiating” at our goddaughters’ wedding (by the power vested in me by me).

I have been thinking about what I would say since the day I was asked.  I can’t settle on anything.

It can’t be too preachy or instructional — they have been together for years and have had ups and downs.

And, besides, I don’t have all the answers.  POB (partner of blogger) and I love each other deeply and our relationship is always changing and, we hope, growing.  And there are always tests.  I can only tell them what life and love feels like further down the road they already travel.

The Hollywood version of love is Ali MacGraw’s famous line in “Love Story”: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”  That is just wrong. 

Here’s what I think love means:

Love means listening to your partner’s hurt and saying “I’m sorry” if only because you didn’t mean to cause the hurt. Whether or not you are right or were misunderstood.

Love means that your partner’s happiness is a goal more important than making partner in a law firm or managing director at an investment bank.

Love means both of your being happy is more important than either of you being right.

Love means being gentler in your criticism than you actually feel sometimes.

Love means imagining life walking together hand-in-hand.

Love needs to be nurtured, renewed and romantic, even with kids.  Pay for baby sitters even if, after that expense, all you can afford on your date is a happy meal.

In times of pain and loss, try to give your beloved the support she needs in the way she needs even if that is the exact opposite of what you would need in the same circumstance.

And, don’t worry, if you didn’t go to sleep mad sometimes, you wouldn’t get any rest.

And it takes a lifetime to get it right.

So, take notes and relaaaaax.

 

 

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E-Mom, I have a question

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Tonight, we went out to dinner at a local place to celebrate SOS’s (our son, source of sanity’s) first half-week at school.  (Never mind that I pay something like $275 a day for him to go to this school . . . .)

I asked him about his day and what he liked about school so far.  He dutifully answered.  And then as I took a satisfying sip of wine, he asked, “E-Mom, what is the status of the euro crisis?”

Really?  Really?  Not, “can I watch TV when we get home?”?  Nooooooooooooooooo.  The euro crisis.

Yep, you heard me, the euro crisis.

(I remind everyone that he has not one of my genes.  So, I stand in amazement with all of you.)

So I told him about today’s high profile resignation and how that shook the markets.

“Why, E-Mom?”

“Because this guy was against the kind of measures we took in the US to put more money in the economy.  And people don’t know if that is a signal of a different policy.”

“What does that mean?”  I proceeded to discuss the ramifications of those who worry more than others about inflation or deflation.  He stayed with me, which is amazing.  I ended with the reason that people have different views:

“Well, there are different countries that use the euro and they have different degrees of prosperity and recession.  And the rich countries don’t want to carry the debts of the economically troubled countries. “

“Can’t the federal government do something about it?”

“Well, it isn’t like the US.  These are different nations.”

“So they are like separate towers on the map of medieval Europe.”  (We are reading about medieval times and the great explorers.)

“Well, ok, that is true to an extent.” (More true than he realizes.)

“How is Asia doing?” (Really, how is Asia doing?)

“They are trying to slow their growth. While we are in a terrible recession where it is hard to find a job, some countries in Asia (although not all of Asia) have the opposite problem.  They are creating too much wealth.  And prices aren’t connected to value anymore.  So, we might pay $10 for something for which a person in China pays more than $100.”

“Are they all talking to each other?”

“Well, just like we talk to some of our neighbors and not others, countries do the same.  Remember the guy in our building that Mommy [POB (partner of blogger)] accidentally said was an idiot? Well we don’t hold the elevator for him anymore, but we hold the elevator for other neighbors, like Sophie and her parents.”

SOS’s hamburger and french fries came.  Thank G-d.  I was committing the conversation to memory so I could blog about it.  To that end, I didn’t have a second glass of wine.

We got home and the idiot’s wife was at the elevator.  SOS pushed her floor button for her.  She asked how SOS liked the first week of school. He said he had fun.  He paused, and then asked after her (and the idiot’s) children, “How were Isaiah’s and Gertie’s first week?”

My son, the bridge across the divide.

So, tonight, he can watch TV until he drops.  He has come in several times to ask if I will watch TV with POB and him.  Coming, buddy, right after I blog about you, I say to myself.

Real time memories.  I hope he smiles in 25 years when he reads this.  He had the wisdom of the ages and the “can do” simplicity of children.  Oh, how we need the latter right now to save our world.

 

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Why clothes shrink

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There is a time-release formula for medicine, right?  (I don’t really get it but the commercials say it.)

There must be a time-release formula for shrinkage in clothes.  Otherwise, how could clothes that fit me for 10 years suddenly, SUDDENLY, be snug?

Clothes also get really, really, heavy over time.  Tonight, at the gym, when I was doing my awesome pull-ups, I felt like someone attached a kettle bell to my body, as I tried to complete my three sets of three.  What’s that about, huh?

And, have you noticed that the labels have teeny, tiny print?  What, they are saving on ink?

My clothes and I are going into counseling with a fitness trainer on Saturday.  We have to work this out; we have had way too many years together to break up now.

 

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Wait, I can’t hear you. Let me put my glasses on.

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When you were a kid, didn’t you think, “Wait, I can’t hear you.  Let me put my glasses on” was one of the most bizarre comments your parents and grandparents ever said?

Glasses are for seeing.  Not for hearing.  But now I get it.  I really do hear better with my glasses on.  And not only that — I hear only certain tones of voice.  Disappointment, nope.  Irritation, nope.  Boredom, nope.  Frothy exuberance, yes!!  You may deduce then that I do not hear sounds that often.  Brilliant, isn’t it?

Not that I need glasses.  In fact, with the help of ginormous magnification, I am typing without my bifocals, which I can’t seem to find anywhere.

Yes, sir.  I am the female version (ok, uglier female version) of Brad Pitt in that media debacle about the reverse-aging man.  Except my chestnut brown hair with auburn highlights is gray.

But I learned today from a questionable site featured on Yahoo that some scientist (and possibly of questionable moral rectitude) determined that as we “mature” we no longer break down the hydrogen peroxide that forms in our hair follicles.  So, the hydrogen peroxide bleaches our hair white.  And, to think, from Marilyn Monroe to Lady Gaga, they tried for the so-blond-it-is-almost-white look and I, for one, now get it naturally.

I bet you wondered why I am rambling on like this.  Answer:  I am losing my mind, of course.  It is still probably in my head, near where my glasses are perched, which is why I couldn’t find them until now.

Tomorrow I am going to wear a hard hat and ear plugs to keep my brains in place.  And I will try not to sneeze.

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Blogcation

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Our [rental] house is a very, very fine house.  Wait for it . . .  yes!  Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mst5ln5AAqI

Except it has a buffalo skull and a shot gun over the fireplace.  A gun?  a GUN?  A GUN?  Omigod, that thing could kill a person!!!

More about this later, but first:

Thursday was a crazy day.  I kept thinking this sounds like a movie, “A Boy, His Friends, Their Dogs, A Cousin and Assorted Adults”.  Our dear friends and their kids and their two chihuahuas were still without power after Hurricane.  5 DAYS.  Camping out at home cannot be that much fun even if you are outdoorsy people like they are.  (And if you are an indoorsy person like me, a minute in suburbia is too much contact with nature.)

We told our friends to pack up everything in the car and come over.  We were happy to have them.  If their power hadn’t come on while they were over on Thursday, we insisted that they would stay with us through the weekend.

We helped unload the car when they arrived.  In came the ice chest that they have been schlepping around with their perishables, as well as non-perishables that no Jew could live without: garlic, onions and antacids.  They stopped off at a farmer’s market, so when they walked in, one said in way so reminiscent of my grandparents, “we brought such a sweet melon, we should eat it right away!!”  And the stuff kept coming:  the beds for the dogs, the beach and swim gear. . . It was amazing.  It reminded me of when my family used to pack up to go to our weekend house, and my father would look at all of the stuff and say, “we could travel to Europe for six months with less!”

Once the unpacking was complete, I offered alcohol, homemade potato salad (delicious, really), or whatever else would make the adults calm and happy.  They just wanted to turn on and off the lights and keep flushing the toilets.  After five days, this woooosh sound is apparently as soothing as waves at the beach.

Then our nephew and sister-in-law came over.  Three young boys in one house for a “play date”.  Three boys looking longingly at the rifle.  Testosterone on full display.

Oy, Oy, Oy, Oy, Oy, Oy,  “It’s for show”.  “It doesn’t fire.”  “It is ORNAMENTAL.”

That’s what these boys hear from an overabundance of mothers and an absence of fathers.  Do they believe us?  They better, else the rifle will be the least of their worries.  The boys know this but can’t help but focus on the real rifle that we say is ornamental.  Let me take a moment to reflect on the little sleep I have gotten knowing there is a gun in the house. I need another vacation in a Quaker commune to make up for this.

Power was restored in our friends’ house, so we packed EVERYTHING back into the car.  What a monumental task.  It jogged another memory of my Dad’s also telling the doormen of our apartment building that we weren’t really going away only for a weekend; we were actually moving out west to start a farm but since we don’t know anything about farming, we needed to bring a year’s worth of food.

Friday was a relaxing day.  SNOBFOB (see prior blogs about the Alternate View) invited us over for dinner at her house in the area.  What a fabulous, relaxing evening.  SOS (our son, source of sanity) thinks SNOBFOB is awesome and loved looking at the moon and stars from her deck.  He also loved that SNOBFOB let him explore the house.  And a specially made cheeseburger, potato chips and vanilla ice cream just made a little boy soooo happy.  “E-Mom, I like your friends.”  “Thanks, buddy.”  “We can go back tomorrow if you like.”  “Buddy, we have to wait for an invitation first.”  “But [SNOBFOB] said we could come over any time!!”  “Dude, we are going to bask in the glow of having been good guests for a little while.”  “Mommy, what is E-Mom talking about?”

Saturday, another chill out day.  The pool.  The beach.  The pool.  Rest hour after lunch.  The pool.

We had our nephew, POB’s (partner of blogger’s) sister and POB’s father over for dinner.  Again, three little boys over, although the 84 year-old one was slow moving and just wanted to watch the Mets game.  The two boys played in the pool before dinner. And we played basketball in the driveway.  So much fun.  POB got it on tape and she promised me that there is no footage of my slightly thickening waistline.

It was a lovely day.  The COB (colleague of blogger) sent me a message on Facebook making sure I knew that a pile of stuff awaited me upon my return.  The COB was being funny and I got the humor.  Still, I logged off Facebook.

Today is our last full day here. . . .

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Staycation

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We are heading out tomorrow for vacation.  So, today, was the last day of staycation.  It was a gorgeous day in New York City today.  After POB (partner of blogger) came back from the gym, I got ready for my run and 2 hours of mindlessness.

As I left POB and SOS (our son, source of sanity), they were fighting over the TV remote control, because POB wanted to watch the rest of Phineas and Ferb (Dr. Doofenshmirtz’s embarrassing high school tape and the importance of the aglet — ok, you had to see it) and SOS wanted to watch something about swamp monsters.  Ah, a typical day in Paradise.

I only run because it is quick and easy (I stop shortly after starting).  And, clearly, I don’t run very far.  And running doesn’t accurately portray that which I do, which is a lazy, and somewhat resentful stumble. To the casual observer, I might be late for an appointment and haplessly jogging, all the while looking over my shoulder to see if a cab were coming.

But my knees and my back hurt, even from this pathetic display at athleticism.  So, a few weeks ago, I went to the Super Runners Shop and bought these crazy slipper-like sneakers that are supposed to make me run toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel.  Apparently, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe is bad for aging knees and backs.

So I tried toe-heel and for a while (ok, three minutes) I felt great — I was using my calf muscles and I got into a toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel groove.  Actually, I couldn’t figure out about the heel thing.  So I was doing toe toe toe toe toe toe toe.  My ankles hurt and what do you do with your heel?

These shoe-slippers of Mercury (or Hermes, depending on your preferred mythology) were just a waste of money, although my calves have some definition (if you use a magnifying glass).  Ok, so these were for super runners.  I need shoes for stupid runners.

I went back to the shop wearing my fab footwear and asked for something with some cushion and a little less emphasis on what hits the ground first.  If I am running fast, the balls of my feet hit first.  If I am jog-running, who the hell really knows.

So I have new running (ok, schlepping) shoes.  The least offensive color combination was white and hot pink.  And that required me to pay more (of course).  But I figure the pink will be an important feminine counterpoint to my accidentally severe haircut (IFOB (Italian friend of blogger), I will never let you live this down).

(Janet Napolitano (US Secretary of Something), I hope you are reading this.  You need an emergency hair style consult.) 

Then I napped and, since we had a rental car, we were off to the BIG Fairway on 125th Street, where you could spend the gross domestic product of a third world nation on what we term “essentials”.  And we were stocking up for the beach in case supplies were still short in Hurricane affected areas.

Stores that big scare me and I was getting a little unhinged as POB was discussing the pros and cons of a new blend with the coffee guy.  Also, POB is a comparison shopper.  Even in the Cold Room (the room where the temperature is below 40 degrees so that fewer refrigeration units are necessary).  I am in a t-shirt and we are shivering and POB wants to compare the prices of various organic yogurts.  REALLY?  REALLY?  REALLY?  Is this vacation or is this hell?  Would I rather be checking my work email in the warmth than comparing biotic statistics and price of yogurt in a subzero room?  At this point, I am thinking that a run even in my toe toe toe toe toe toe shoes from hell seems like an inviting activity.

I guess the point is (do I ever have a point and does that matter?) that tomorrow we start a vacation.  And we are all really glad about it.

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Vacation Day 2

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I got my haircut at 9am.  I was still a little foggy so I forgot to say, “Mary, just a trim this time.”  She gave me a beautiful, feminine haircut; it is just that it is short and I have gray hair and I think I look a little, shall we say, dyke-y.  Her haircuts grow in beautifully, so as long as POB (partner of blogger) is ok with it, I am ok with it.  It just means I have to be more vigilant about lipstick and less willing to do errands in my gym clothes.

It was a beautiful day.  I started to run, then walk, then run along the Hudson from Charles Street back up to the upper Upper West Side.  I meandered some, too.  What a gorgeous day.  Hard to believe a Hurricane was bearing down on us.  I walked into Duane Reade on my way home and bought two gallons of water.  No long lines; lots of water.  It was 12:30pm.

POB and SOS (our son, source of sanity) came home from the beach (thank G-d) and we had lunch and POB went for her hair appointment (for the importance of this, see prior blogs).  SOS and I go to Duane Reade to pick up more water.  No more water.  It is 2pm.

In that 90 minutes, New Yorker started to panic.

We have supplies.  I checked.  We are pretty much set for a short term problem.

Later, we have dinner out, since I know we will have cabin fever during the hurricane.  POB went to the store for produce and SOS and I went to RiteAid for some more candles, etc.  The line is insane.  New Yorkers really started to believe in Hurricane Irene.

We passed a bodega and sandwich place and we walked in.  Plenty of gallon jugs of water.  No lines.  We got four gallons.  We passed a wine store.  We got four gallons of wine, also (just joking).

Ahead of the Irene, local governments shut down harbors and establishments along the waterways.  I got a call from the bride of Saturday’s wedding, saying that her venue was shut down and that she was getting married in two hours.  I was still so happy for her.  She is now married to the man she loves and that is really all that counts.

Oh, yeah, checking my blackberry?  Not so much.

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Chopped Liver

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Since POB (partner of blogger) has been “at liberty” this summer, she feels the need to explain the incredible discounts she gets on everything she buys.  I absolutely don’t care.  I trust POB with my heart, our son and our bank accounts.  It is her meshugas (craziness).

A typical conversation:

“I bought these pants but since they are last year’s color, I got them for $40 and you always need another pair of khaki-colored pants.  I know I have three pairs now, but the others don’t fit me anymore. . . .”

“If the others don’t fit you, then you only have one, which you bought.  So, you needed it.  They look great.”

“I didn’t really need it [air quotes], but they are good to have.”

“Why are we having this conversation?  I am really glad you have something that fits and looks great on you.”

“But it was a good deal.”

“This is your meshugas, right?  I am here so you don’t look like you are talking to yourself, right?”

[Mean, but loving look in my direction.]

********************************************************

Last week, I noticed that POB’s roots were growing in a little.

Remembering her meshugas, I say to her, “Please don’t try to save money by not getting your hair done regularly.  I am committed to your blond hair.”

You might think because I am a girl, I can get away with saying that to POB, whereas a guy couldn’t.  WRONG. 

“Are you trying to say my hair looks bad?”

Aaaaargh.  If only we can rewind the tape in life, I would have said, “I see your roots.  Make an appointment with your colorist.”  Instead, I had to backpedal with, “what’s important is how you feel.”

POB thought about it for a moment.  “After we get back from vacation, I’ll get it done.  Who am I going to see until then?”

WHO?  WHO?  WHO?

“Really, is that your final answer?”  Oooops, I guess POB forgot I would be seeing her.  What am I?  chopped liver?

Thank G-d she joined me on the seventh rung of Hell.  Otherwise, it could have been a “situation”.

What is even better is that the appointment is this afternoon and POB had already had reservations on the Jitney in from Long Island.  The only issue last night was whether SOS (our son, source of sanity) was staying with his cousin and aunt out at the beach or coming back with POB.  (SOS is coming home, thank G-d.)  There is a hurricane coming after all.

After the hurricane passes, POB and I are going discuss elevating my status to paté.

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