Tag Archives: Life

Our Trip to Philly

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The six of us set out yesterday morning for the City of Brotherly Love:  POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), DOB (Dad of Blogger and SOB) and me. Three generations. One car.  Four sets of directions.

DOB sat up front will me.  HOSOB and SOB took row two.  POB and TLP were in the third row, practically a full block away from me in the driver’s seat.  In fact, the car was so huge, that I entered New Jersey and Pennsylvania a solid two seconds before they did.  I was surprised the car didn’t take diesel and we didn’t have to park with the trucks at rest stops.

As soon as DOB got settled, he offered me some hard candy.  You know, the kind that old Jewish ladies carry in their pocketbooks for decades and old Jewish men have in every pocket of every jacket they own.  Those candies.  I make it a point not to eat anything that I think may be older than 9 year-old TLP.  I declined.  SOB, ever the intrepid one, said yes.  She took one for the rest of us, because she knew DOB wouldn’t stop offering until someone said yes.

DOB read every sign out loud from the Lincoln Tunnel to Elizabeth, New Jersey.  But he didn’t sing.  And SOB was counting on having him sing to see just how crazy I would get.  SOB finally asked DOB, “Dad, doesn’t that sign remind you of a song?  Like, ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again?'”  SOB was soooooooo trying to win our bet about how quickly, how much and what DOB would sing.  Of course, that kind of cheating is only allowed when I do it.

Soon after Elizabeth, New Jersey, there was a multi-generational bathroom emergency.  So we stopped at a rest stop that was named for someone whom I am sure would be horrified if he/she were still alive.  As SOB and I walked into the women’s room, our faces already had the scared-and-disgusted-look in anticipation of what we might see in the stalls. We caught sight of each other and laughed but we didn’t have the camera to record.  Our looks were not in vain.  Nasty.  Nasty.  Nasty.  POB yelled out a helpful, “Use your hamstring muscles, girls!!!”

As I left the bathroom, I noticed the medical waste dispenser with a sign that said, “For your sharps”.  I made SOB go back in with a camera and take a picture.  When she sends it to me, I will post it.  SOB is a doctor and always optimistic: “it must be for insulin”.  Really, SOB?  You run an ICU in an urban hospital.  Are you kidding me?  If only the needles were for insulin . . . . We beat it out of there.

We were soon back on the road with traffic, narrow lanes and fellow travelers seeking to go 70 mph in work zones.  Of our four sets of directions, two were written, and two were saved on handheld electronic devices.  No GPS with the automated voice.  No map.  Still we had six or seven different opinions on the way forward.  TLP (the only child) offered constructive critical questions, like: “Emom, are both hands on the wheel?”  “Did you signal long enough to practice safe driving?”  “Are we there yet?”

Rules:  Always have a diversion for your child.  Always have a bona fide map.  iPhones and blackberry screens are tooooo small and, with two sets of directions, there is no agreement on the correct exit until after we have passed it.  In fact, even when we were within one block of the hotel, no one could make out the directions, and ended up back on the highway and in a traffic jam. One hour later, we got to the hotel.  And all the time TLP is asking, “did we get lost?”  AAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaargh.

When we arrived, I had to go to the gym, sit outside for a bit and then nap.  No sightseeing.  I knew I couldn’t sit outside the old Custom House anymore when men dressed in Revolutionary Era clothes tried to show kids how to hold fake bayonets and march like militiamen.  I met SOB and DOB as we were all on our way back to the hotel.  DOB couldn’t really handle that much sightseeing. His stamina and physical stature have declined markedly this last year.  Still, I think he enjoyed the trip.

DOB doesn’t hear very well and therefore can’t follow conversations so closely anymore.  And over dinner, the restaurant music included “The Girl from Ipanema”, and HOSOB and I were trying to remember the woman who sang the original with Jobim.  DOB didn’t remember the song, so he just started singing something else that he knew, “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess.  But The Girl from Ipanema was still playing overhead.  HOSOB started singing a combo of “When Johnny Comes Marching With the Girl From Ipanema . . .” .  Then TLP abandoned singing  the Louie Armstrong part of the duet with DOB, and chimed in with “La Cucharacha”.  (Not sure why.)

The rest of us started to lose our minds a little.  SOB and I took pictures of each other’s exasperated, disbelieving looks.  POB retreated to a happy place in her head where her family was not re-enacting a scene from a psychiatric ward.

As we were walking back to the hotel, everyone was amiable and quiet.  TLP was holding DOB’s handing, HOSOB was holding SOB’s hand and I was holding POB’s hand. Unwilling to let a wound heal, I started to sing the “Ants Go Marching Two by Two, Hurrah, Hurrah,” to see if I could get a rise out of SOB.  She was engaging in willful deafness.

This morning we went to the Franklin Institute, which is worth a return visit.  It took us a few tries to leave Philadelphia and at least one electronic device conked out after the second escape attempt.  We went a little too far on 295 North (or East, whatever), and had to stop for food and directions at the Frying Skillet, a real trucker stop in Bordentown, New Jersey.  Everyone looked at our posse of three women, a child, middle-aged guy and nonagenarian, who were tattoo-less and looked every bit like effete New York liberals that we are.  (What kind of lettuce is in your house salad?  Just what’s been out on the salad bar that looks like wilted spinach?  Hmmmm.  Pork, bacon and burgers are the house specialties? I guess I’ll have a grilled burger.  Oh, ok, pan-fried in a skillet is fine.)

On the way back, TLP and DOB had quite a sing-along.  I wanted to press an eject button but I was the driver.

We powered through and all were safely deposited at their doors, happy to have had an adventure and even happier to be home. Safe and sound and exhausted.

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Mad Vow Descends on New York — And How Wonderful It Was!!!

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It was overcast.  It was pedestrian.  It was a long line on Worth Street.  I bet a few wondered if they could get their driver’s licenses renewed while they waited.  It was spectacular.  It was thrilling.

It was a jumble of emotions.

It was, except for the lines (and that it was a Sunday),  so unremarkable in its normality, that I wanted to cry for joy.  Yet a whole community celebrated standing in line for a marriage license — something that everyone else, until now, took for granted and, frankly, groused about.  Young and old, of every nationality and race, same sex couples stood on that line.  Four couples with whom we are especially close took their vows yesterday.  We couldn’t find them.  G-d bless texting and emails because we all knew we were there somewhere standing as witnesses.

Even Samantha Bee and Jason Jones from the Daily Show were on hand to mock the events.  That is how you know you have arrived.

Some sang and danced around and under the rainbow chupah (wedding canopy) [see above shot, looking up].

There was a lone protester.  He said terrible things that TLP (our son, the little prince) asked about.  TLP also asked why I said, “Shame on you!!” to the protester.  I told him that the protester used bad words and is spewing hate in the name of Jesus who was a man of love.  “Well, E-Mom, maybe it is because you and Mommy won’t be married until June.”

G-d bless TLP.  He thinks the problem is that we are living in sin.  But all will be ok once we get married in June.  In fact, he told some people on the subway who got married, “don’t worry, WE are getting married in June!!!”  Yep, the whole family.

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Sometimes it is ok to wish away a day

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I know that each day is a gift, but some days, you wish you had the receipt so you could exchange it for a better day.  Today was one of those days.  Humbling, tender, sad, crazed, scary, and ultimately safe at home with my beloved family.  It was not about too much work, which is a blessing in this economy, but a lot of other things which, suffice it to say, sucked.

I went out with a colleague to commiserate over a glass of wine about mutually horrific days.  Afterwards, I was thinking about the blessing of coming home to my family.

And this Dan Fogelberg song started an endless loop in my head — “I have these moments all steady and strong, feeling so holy and humble.  The next thing I know I’m all worried and weak, feeling the world start to crumble. . . .”

Happiness is having loved ones who will abide you when you are all holy and self-righteous and shore up your foundations when you are feeling about to crumble.

It is a moment to be thankful for the spirituality gained from a day’s worth of testing one’s sanity.  It is also a moment to go to sleep, with rejuvenating cream slathered on, and promise yourself you will never have such a shitty day again.

Martin Buber meets Scarlett O’Hara.  I am feeling a cosmic shift toward the drain. . .

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Take-Out Take-Away

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From age 21 to 44, I lived on take-out food.

In the beginning, it was cool to order during a late-night at the office especially since I couldn’t afford to eat that way if I were actually paying for it.  Then I had dreams of eating tuna fish out of a can over my kitchen sink if only I could be at home at dinner time.  And then I realized that I never had time to be in my kitchen, much less clean my kitchen, so I really wouldn’t want to eat anything in there.  The dream remained, even though interrupted from time to time by reality.

At some point, I was living with someone who cooked (pre-POB (partner of blogger)) and the food was good but hard on my digestive track.  And before the days of blackberries and remote access, I had to go to the office with my intestines in a twist.  So, as a matter of honor and sacrifice to my colleagues, I was forced to stay late and eat Shun Lee and other take-out so that I didn’t smelled of garlic or other spices anymore than anyone else.  In typical blogger family fashion, it was, in fact, the least I could do.

When POB came along and beepers were available, we would work long hours, meet at the gym, have a little falafel and hummus with hot sauce that tested our abs of steel — in a slightly different way.  We learned that some days were more — how do you say? — microbial than others.  But these are the sacrifices we make to “have it all”.

Then came TLP (our son, the little prince) and there was no time for sleep, let alone cooking or even eating.  Exhaustion won over hunger every time, except when we absolutely, positively needed energy.  “Don’t talk with your mouth full” became “don’t-sleep-with-your-mouth-full-because-I-am-too-tired-to-do-the-Heimlich-and-I-can’t-stand-the-smell-of-whatever-you’re-eating.” As many of you will remember, love is an emotion that is felt but not expressed when you have a newborn.

Then, came the Great Recession.  Time for family and friends.  Time for hanging out.  Time to have our families over for Sunday night dinners.  POB decided after a while that she would rather cook than order another dinner from Saigon Grill (and we were supposed to be boycotting them anyway for labor violations).  So, she started cooking.  And she didn’t stop.

And the take-out stopped and the cook-in began.  POB cooked, I cleaned.  When she needed to prove a point, she dirtied every pot and utensil in the house.  Point taken and respect paid.  Harmony restored.  Paradise, momentarily lost, was regained.  A possible script for a Sunday night movie, although no one is dead or psychotic — yet.  (I’ll get back to you on this.)

Tonight, these many years later, we are companionably cobbling together dinner from the fridge — cold carrot soup with cumin and lime, quinoa with tomatoes, onions and black beans, a salad and some wine.  A perfect repast for a hot summer’s night.  And our kitchen is cozy (yet cool thanks to air-conditioning) and inviting.

Take-out was my food source for over 20 years.  I don’t miss it at all.  And now we have a kitchen in which I would eat tuna out of a can just to be home with my family.

And to think, she still wants to marry me next year.

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The bet

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DOB (dad of blogger) came over for dinner.  We were without reinforcements.  And SOB (sister of blogger) and I had the bet.  SOB said DOB would sing Sholom Aleichem within an hour of arrival and I bet that it would be well before then.

About one-half hour into the visit, DOB was in the bathroom for too long and, well since he is almost 91, I became concerned.  “Dad, are you all right?”  “No problem,” he shouted, “just a little [insert scatological issue].”  I had to call SOB at the hospital about intervening events that might either delay the bet or give me an automatic compassionate win (depending on the judges).

SOB was adamant that the bet was still on.  SOB is tough, but loving and caring.  So, the bet was still on.

With DOB back in the living room, we discussed certain issues relating to the pain, tightness and possibly a little blood relating to the unnamed scatological issue.   I think, “this is sooooo not what I bargained for.” But time was running out.  I thought, “how will I explain to POB (partner of blogger) that I literally bet the house on whether DOB would sing Sholom Aleichem within the first hour of his arrival?”  This would not go over well.  POB might even cancel the wedding and kick me out with a frying pan, like Felix Unger’s wife did to him. Determined not to be a divorcee on a 1960s TV sitcom, I became desperate.

Desperation propelled me into action, even though I know that the final accounting between SOB and me on these types of bets will be at the gates of Hell.  [As an aside, SOB claims that she engages in this kind of infantile behavior to make sure she goes to Hell with me because she would miss me too much if she were in Heaven.  Haven’t I a wonderful sister?]

With little time left, DOB starts singing “Happy Birthday” to TLP (our son, the little prince) to whom we have sung happy birthday ad nauseum.  However, DOB never tires of singing random songs like, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” or “Yes Sir, She’s My Baby”.  In what can only be described as a Hail Mary play, I say, “well, that is better than singing Sholom Aleichem!!”  And, G-d bless DOB, he starts singing at minute 58 and 45 seconds.  I call SOB at the hospital, “I won because even though I affirmatively coaxed him into singing it, there was a whole lot of information beforehand that was unnecessary for the non-doctor child to know!!”

SOB, a saint of a woman, wanted to come and save me.  I said, “no, but we will call this a draw, ok?”  She agreed.  What an awesome sister.

POB asked, “why did you have to call your sister twice?  She usually reads things on your blog and then you discuss.”  I didn’t want to tell POB how close we came to financial ruin at the gates of Hell (of course, she’ll be in Heaven, hanging out with our Moms).

A typical Sunday night chez nous.

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Another Family Dinner

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It is always so wonderful when family shares a meal.  The family gathers at 6pm for wine and hors-d’oeuvres (chaseri, or pig food, in Yiddish).  POB (partner of blogger) made a great lentil dish, roasted tomato soup accompanied by green salad and bread, all served cold for a great summer time meal.

Dad, of course, came early.  Not just a little early.  4pm.  A reminder to discuss whether the “Early-Bird Special” was an invention or just putting a name to a syndrome of old age.  But I digress.

Yesterday, Dad and SOB (sister of blogger) saw the movie about Sholom Aleichem, the great Yiddish writer.  So, Dad was waxing philosophic about his mamer loshen (mother tongue), repeating much of the Reform Jewish rationalism for stamping out a “ghetto language”.

My generation thinks very differently about Yiddish. We wish we knew it.  Many of us wish we could have spoken to our grandparents in Yiddish.  We could have had more than broken, basic conversations with them.  We could have learned about our history in one of the most expressive languages of our day.

TLP (our son, the little prince) was excited to learn how to respond to Dad, when he said “vus machster?” [what’s doing?]  TLP said, “Ich ikh bin leyenung” [I’m reading].   It was a great moment.

Still, Dad has to be at peace with the choices he and Mom made and I need to let him have that peace. But it was a grueling 1:45 hours until SOB and HOSOB (husband of SOB) showed up (they know that Dad comes early).  Dad continued to talk about Yiddish and Sholom Aleichem and then started singing “Sholom Aleichem”.  SOB shut that down in record time.  She came over to tell me that he kept singing that in full voice at lunch after seeing the movie.  Somethings should stay in synagogue.  That hallel is one of them.

By the time we exhausted ourselves and the topic, Cousin Gentle and CB (Cousin Birder) arrived.  The full complement.

As always, the conversation ranged in topics and sentiments.  Dad worried that we had chocolate-covered peanuts on the table — AS IF we would have anything on the table to which anyone is allergic, much less have them in the house if OUR SON, TLP, were allergic.  (Dad, do you know me?)  But I let that roll off me.  I counted backwards from ten multiple times.  We started talking about politics, always good for the heart rate.  Cousin Gentle worried that John Boehner was having a deleterious effect on my health.   Actually, I was still gobsmacked that my father would think I would put poison on my table.  Cousin Gentle tried to share some of his Buddhist enlightenment.  I tried to be receptive, all the while repeating, “Dad is almost 91 years old.  At least he still worries about other people, even if his comments suggest that his daughter could be the headline story of New York Post edition.”

Unfortunately, Cousin Gentle thought he might have offended me.  He called after dinner to make sure all was ok.  It seemed time to reiterate the rules of Sunday night dinner:

Premise:

It is so wonderful when family gathers.

Sacred Rules:

  1. You can say anything at our table if said with a good heart.
  2. No holds barred.
  3. Everyone has to be able to kiss and say I love you at the end of the night.

Corollaries and Commentary:

  • You can be:
    •  critical (did HOSOB really say something critical about marriage when he married SOB?),
    • questioning (to wit, Dad’s thinking we would put peanuts on the table if someone were allergic),
    • fun-loving (CB’s teasing TLP), and/or
    • torturing (ok, that’s all me)

with impunity.

  • If you do any three out of four in the same sentence, we’ll give you a door-prize.

To review:

Come with your love, your opinions (except Dad) and your insights. Oh, and your appetite.

 

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The times they are a’changing

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I always knew I was gay.  People often ask, “how could you know before you were ever with a woman?”  “The same way you always knew you were straight,” I say.  But the truth is that kids don’t think in terms of gay or straight.  They are who they are.  So, I knew as much that I was gay as straight kids knew they were straight.  Labels didn’t apply yet.  It only became an issue in the teenage years and beyond.  I desperately tried to be like everyone else, to the point of going overboard.

In the 1970s-90s, it was something to be hidden if I wanted to be a successful lawyer, if I wanted to fit in, if I wanted to get into the right social and professional crowds.  By the late 1990s, the gulf between who I was and who I pretended to be was wider than the San Andreas fault (gee, I hope that the fault line is wide, or I bungled this analogy).  I was tired of the schism, and so tired of the inevitable lies that somehow never fooled anyone, that I was willing to give up some measure of “success” and “acceptance” for peace of mind and peace of being.  That’s when the journey toward self-acceptance and family acceptance began.  A long, winding road, filled with pot holes, and yet, at various critical points, surrounded by warmth and beauty.

Today, the Ninth Circuit ruled that the military must end “don’t ask, don’t tell”.  Last week, New York legalized same-sex marriage.  A recent poll reported that more people in the country support gay marriage than not.

Still, I am not equal in the United States of America, the beacon of liberty to all nations.  But I am closer to equal than ever before.

I just hope that there comes a time when people wonder why there ever was a need to fight for equality — for anyone, anywhere.

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July 1

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July 1.  Day of doom.  Why, you ask?

Because, all over the country, newly-minted graduates from medical schools are in hospitals and each is called “doctor”.  Enough said.

SOB (sister of blogger) is an attending physician at a hospital and the head of the medical intensive care unit.  Each year I offer to have a talk with anyone she deems a “007” (licensed to kill) about other potential career paths.  It is my annual charitable event; I think of it as saving lives.  Every year, she demurs.  No one is quite the Austin Powers version of James Bond.

But the offer still stands.

When TLP (our son, the little prince) was born, it was July 11.  The interns were 10 days old.  POB (partner of blogger) had to have an emergency Caesarian.  In order to get to the baby in a Caesarian procedure, a lot of organs need to be taken out of the way.  So when TLP was born and I heard the OB-GYN say to the intern, “where would you put the uterus?”  I offered, “back where it belongs!!!!”

If it is July, don’t ask for just any doctor.  Ask for a REAL doctor.

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POB

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I love POB (partner of blogger).  She is the better half of my soul.  She is extraordinary.

She is also “at liberty” these days, since losing her job in a corporate restructuring.  To my mind, she can rest on her laurels and eat bon-bons for the rest of her life. I want her to be happy.  But recently, I think she needs to have a job for her sanity and well, frankly, for mine.

A few weeks ago, I learned from POB all about the scam of recycling plastic bottles.  The bottles are shipped to China (add to carbon footprint) where the process of recycling those bottles causes noxious gases to be released into the atmosphere (EPA would not allow such recycling in our country) and then the recycled product is shipped back to us (add to carbon footprint). All this, over dinner, after a long day trying to woo clients and bring in business.

Last night, we were at dinner at a restaurant with friends and POB had questions about the fish special.  Was it farmed? Was it certified as “happy fish” before it was fooled by bait and impaled on a hook?  Where was it fished? (as in, was it fished in a place that is overfished?)  I had an extra glass of wine that had a huge carbon footprint.  I felt bad but the wine felt good.

But it was really the other week that I decided that POB needs a job, ANY job, with or without pay.  POB announced over a gluten-free, nut-free and (dare I say) taste-free dinner that we should get one of those apartment-size composting kits so that we can create fertilizer and then drop it off at compost-receiving stations in Central Park.  That way, the parks will be greener and we will be, too.  Ok, ok, ok, ok, at age 47, I am composting nicely, thank you.  I will disintegrate enough just in time for the worms, etc. to break down the rest of my cells at my death.  POB is not mollified by the knowledge that I am in slow-burn compost mode.

What, am I not compost enough for POB????  At long last, has it come to this?

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My son’s 9th birthday party

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It is so hard to imagine that TLP (the little prince), is turning 9 years-old.  Because his birthday is in the summer, we have his party before the end of the school year.  So, today, we had a bowling party for him and invited his friends and family.  I think back to the days when he couldn’t navigate a mainstream class or party.   And then I see him connecting with his friends today.  Night and day.

The other night, POB (partner of blogger) took him to a pre-camp orientation meeting.  In previous years, these were unmitigated disasters.  Yet, this year, TLP was engaged, engaging and actually enjoyed the event.  POB told him how proud she was of how he navigated that social situation.  He replied, “Mommy, I have evolved.”

Evolved, he has.  In so many ways.  Today, my young son is a gracious host, laughing and enjoying time with this friends and happy to see assorted cousins, aunts and grandfathers who all wore ear plugs to brave the event.  Night and day.

Yesterday, at the end-of-Hebrew-school picnic, another mother came up to me to tell me what TLP had said about what he learned at religious school this year.  (Generally, we like to give TLP space and not sit in on classes, so it is good to get information from the even more neurotic parents.)  TLP said, “I learned about the meaning of social justice and I am really happy that my moms can have more than a ceremony — we can all get married.”  (Yes, TLP refers to our 2012 nuptials as our wedding.) Night and day.

Back to today and the party.  The kids are screaming at a decibel level heretofore unknown in humans.  They are wild, obstreperous, very physical and sometimes even rude.  In short, they are normal 9 year-olds.  It is a two-hour party that seems to last for days.  POB and I need a nap when we get home.

So, as Gay Pride floats down Fifth Avenue, I celebrate all that I already have: an exhausting 9 year-old, a birthday party with his friends, an extended family who come to share these milestones and for Sunday night dinner, life-long friends, and my partner in life, POB.

Thank you, Governor Cuomo, because you made sure that, with your signature, the law recognizes the universality of our aspirations and the ingredients of our happiness. Night and day.

 

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