Tag Archives: Life

The New Me (In the Test, Day 7-ish)

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It is hard to describe how I feel as I watch the events unfold around the world, but let me try:

say you are in a bath (reading a book, sipping red wine in the hypothetical awesomely fabulous Manhattan apartment) and you pull the stopper to let the water drain.  At that exact second, you hear a big BANG from somewhere.  So what do you do?  You put the stopper back in the drain and shiver a little.

Powerless and with shivers of fear.  (FYI:  I don’t live in the hypothetical fabulous apartment, I am drinking an unfortunate Sauvignon Blanc (I don’t even like white wine) and I have no time to expand my intellectual acumen (maybe when my son is 10).)

In truth, I never thought anything was out of my control until TLP (the little prince) was born.  Now, I worry about the world after I am dead because (I hope) he (and his children) will still be alive. THAT makes what we do now even more important.  Because we all know that the harvest reaped in two generations will be directly related to the seeds we sow now.

My mom always believed that if you can’t change the big things, then start with the little things, but you must always, always, strive to repair the world (tikkun olam) — תיקון עולם

Here is the difference between Mom and me.  Mom just did things.  I, first, need a whole new outfit and work-out regimen.

Did you think I could stay so serious and not deflect my fears, hopes and dreams by lapsing into (sometimes, forced) humor?  DO YOU KNOW ME?

Sooo, deflectors are engaged.

One has to have strength to repair the world, no?

Ok, so let’s critique my old gym regimen, also known as, NP2 — “no pain, no pain”:

  • 3 times a week, get on the stationary bike for 30 minutes, but quit after 25 minutes.  Don’t even break a sweat.
  • Think about doing sit-ups. Hyper-ventilate about the anxiety of dealing with my expanding midriff. Suck in my stomach and do something else.
  • Do push-ups because I actually can do them.  And not the girl-y ones, either.
  • Do back muscle exercises because I don’t want to stoop too much in my dotage.
  • Talk to some people, less now that some gym friends have moved to other locations.
  • Notice the time and realize I have to get home.

There was a time when I could suck in my tummy, arch my back a little and my stomach would be flat and my breasts “perky”.  One cannot leave on memories of prior glory.  Starting tomorrow (because I am drinking wine and might hurt myself if I tried it out now):

My new, Spring, regimen, also known as SPB2 — “some pain, but buff”:

  • Buy some new outfits for my new gym state of mind.
  • Do Michelle Obama arm exercises because we all deserve to look like we could go sleeveless on national TV.
  • Do something cardio for 40 minutes. And actually break a “glow” but no sweat because I am becoming more genteel (and eccentric) as I age.
  • Stop watching the TV because next year Oxford English Dictionary will declare “pundit” a synonym of “idiot” and people who watch pundits “vidiots”.

I promise, Mom, in the midst of my self-absorption, I won’t forget about tikkun olam.  For your grandson and your great grandchildren.  For everyone’s children and grandchildren.

תיקון עולם

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In the Game

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So, SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) jetted off to Rome today.  They were there two years ago (and Florence and Venice in the two years before that), but got excited about our trip and decided that one can never go to Italy enough. (I believe our family has only grown higher in the esteem of IFOB (Italian friend of blogger).)

So, they are going to a country that, Thank G-d, is just providing bases for the sorties over Libya and not missiles or planes.  So, there is a lesser likelihood that Italy, in general, and Rome, in particular, might be bombed in retaliation.

YES, I have gone through the disaster scenarios and I am comfortable that they are traveling to Italy.

It is a sad, sad, truth that war is only real, if — to quote a business axiom — you have “skin in the game”.   Otherwise, it is a statistical variance on the number of humans in the world.

Our family doesn’t have “skin in this game”.  But some of us now are closer to the “game”.  And it is no longer a GAME.  It is war.

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An Olympic Win

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Last night, POB (partner of blogger) and I had our usual Wednesday night date.  POB brought me flowers because I had been feeling down about the world and work (that is, prior to my vow of one month of cheerfulness).

When we got home, TLP (our son, the little prince) was still awake.  He had called each of us earlier in the day to tell us that his team won the finals in his sports group, he scored the winning run and everyone on his team got a medal. 

We rushed into his room, humming the Olympic anthem, as I handed him the flowers and POB found the medal and put it around his neck.  Then I announced, “Please stand for the national anthem.”  So, POB and I stood, with our hands over our hearts, singing (croaking, in my case) the Star Spangled Banner, as TLP looked up from his bed — somewhat shocked and maybe even horrified — with a bouquet of flowers on his chest, hand over his heart and his medal around his neck. 

When we finished, I asked, “hey, buddy, how was THAT?”  I, of course, was thinking we were being totally awesome parents.

“Um, great, E-mom, but I was really hoping for a Star Wars action figure.“

I am still glad I shared my flowers.

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THE COB

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For the record, THE COB (THE colleague of blogger) felt bad that I wrote that he is the colleague worth writing about. 

He was happy that I wrote it, but he is being self-conscious about the obvious implication as to all of our other colleagues.  So, he wants me to retract it.  And I want to retract it, too, since it was a short-lived thrill for him and now it is over.

Kumbaya.

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The Test: End of Day 2.

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Ah, ’tis the Spring of my Content.  (Apologies to Willy Shakespeare.) Because the Test continues.

COB (colleague of blogger) felt bad that I thought he was stacking the deck against my being upbeat for one month (the Test), so he was in and out of my office all day saying cheery and pithy things.   He also wants to be known as THE COB, because there can be no other colleague who merits mention in the blog.  Well, he is right about that.

I am trying, really.

But there is so much static interference.

Yet, I didn’t curse the man who crushed my arm by swinging open a door and catching my arm. The EXCRUCIATING pain only lasted a few minutes and the bruise is not so bad.  So, I remain cheery and hopeful and am spreading that karma like a boomerang, I tell you.

I am waiting for POB (partner of blogger) for our Wednesday night date.  I arrive early and sit at the bar. The drunk man at the other end (who is talking too loud to be ignored) is pontificating to his poor date about 1888 Germany being an example of an evolved society. Funny, how it devolved into chaos and demagoguery in just a few, short decades. But I digress.

Ok, so I am being grateful for all that I have and now I hear the drunk man claiming that, although he is Caucasian, he is Indo-European because we all descended from that part of the world.  So, now he gets to go off on Indians and Europeans.  Whoa.  He needs to stop, because even I am offended and our family fled Germany and Central Europe.

But using his theory, he can rail on whomever because we all came from Adam and Eve.  He, on the other hand, definitely came from apes or, possibly, the ever-adaptive rodent family.

Ok, a history book is committing suicide every minute this guy speaks.

I am good with his being pedantic, insufferable, and patronizing because I am focusing on the good in the world notwithstanding the current chaos. So, THE COB, you haven’t won this bet yet.  I am in a good place.

But I am drawn again into his conversation because his date is countering his ramblings with a little fact checking. Mobile Google is awesome. She is in solid fighting form now that she decided there is no future in him.   So, if I could paraphrase, “Dumb@ss, you got your facts from reenactments on the History Channel”.

He realizes, too, that this date is going nowhere.  So, he says he is rich. Dude, you need the wealth of a Saudi prince to save this date and she sounds like she has too much pride for that anyway.  Good for her.  Tragic for you.

Now this is adding to my month of contentment and karmatic equanimity.  Boy meets girl, gets drunk and offends everyone within earshot.  Girl ditches boy with facts, fabulous diction and perfect grammar.  Boy tries to get girl back with money.  Girl gets the check.

In full disclosure, I negotiated a clause in the Test that I could think about the people, not only in Japan, but all over, whose lives have ended, or been upended, by natural and man-made disasters.  So, in the midst of my ramblings, I don’t forget about them and their suffering.  I hope that relief comes in time.

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The Test, Day 2

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COB (colleague of blogger) came into my office to test my resolve to be hopeful and content for the next 29 days.

He came in and talked about his commute from hell, and a deal we lost to a firm that undercut our very modest pricing.  Then he told me about his friend’s blog that has way more followers than mine and provides a day-by-day  exercise and eating regimen to an awesome body in one year.  She is 23 years younger than I am and I don’t think our realities of “awesome body” achievement can be the same.

But I feel hopeful and happy.  I put on moisturizer this morning so my wrinkles are muted.  I brought in make-up in case I am so moved to spruce up my look.  And I haven’t yet spilled my coffee all over my tan slacks.

Is this an awesome start to the day or what?

Click to hear the Seeker’s rendition of Kumbaya:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vo9AH4vG2wA

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The Test

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COB (colleague of blogger) is tired of my doom and gloom. (Really?  I thought it part of my magnetic personality. . . .)

And that, in and of itself, is shocking, since COB was discussing that the end of the world could occur on December 21, 2012.  Something about the Mayan calendar, Nostradamus and planetary alignments. Not that COB BELIEVES it, or anything.  But he was just putting it out there.

Probably to stack the odds before he dared me to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  ONE MONTH.

In case you didn’t read carefully enough, I was challenged to be hopeful and cheerful for one month.  (COB is a poker player and probably has side bets on whether I will sink into despair in 5 minutes, 10 minutes or 2 weeks.)

I think it is funny that people are talking about the end of the world being in 21 months away, since Japan lies devastated (and its nuclear rods laid bare) by an earthquake and then tsunami, Libya is in civil war, Bahrain and Yemen are in chaos, the Ivory Coast is a bloodbath, we are in two wars, our deficit is out of control, the recession hasn’t ended for most Americans and we have a dysfunctional Congress, and on and on and on.  Sounds like the end of days now.

BUT, I digress, comme d’habitude.

Back to sweetness and light and kumbaya.   A dare is a dare and I have my pride.  So, forget the images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Forget images of breadlines during the Depression.  Forget the daily carnage for an acre or two of oil fields.  I am going to be happy, hopeful and cheery, Gosh darn it.

So, here is what I did today to make good on the dare:

  • When I was at the gym, I didn’t tell the stinky man that he was curling my nose hairs, as we took turns on the same machine.
  • I made sure that all elderly, infirm or pregnant people on the bus had seats.  (Yes, I know I am too pampered to hang with humanity, but the recession hasn’t ended.)
  • I swore to POB (partner of blogger) that I would take a time-out from the 24-hours news REcycle, where the object is to scare us more than to provide information.  (Note to self:  If Wolf Blitzer or Anderson Cooper is at the nuclear power plant in Japan, it can’t be releasing THAT much radiation.)
  • I kissed and hugged my son, as I asked G-d (and whomever else with power over these things) to protect him from the chaos.

Not bad for my first few hours of Blogger-High-On-Happiness.

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The moment of learning

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DOB (Dad of blogger) brought more pictures of the family from the 1920s to the 2000s.  Quite a span.

I saw two pictures of my Mom attending Cousin Gentle’s Tai Chi class.  She still had hair, so it had to be 1996 or 1997.  It was part of her regimen to control the pain from cancer.  She had such faith in Cousin Gentle, and illness opened her (and the rest of the family) to non-Western medicine.  It was the age of humility for our family.  We learned that being doctors and lawyers was not the only measure of success and that we needn’t exclude ancient practices when western medicine had no answers.

We learned.  We evolved.  We opened our minds and our hearts.  And we resolved we would not close up again when Mom died.  Here are pictures of the turning point of the trajectory of our family:

Together we moved, slowly, in the beat of Tai Chi, to a more open, more humble place.  I remember that time, that moment, when we didn’t have the luxury of smugness and hubris.  We are better for it, although it was sickness that opened our minds, our hearts and our soul.

 

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Charlie & Co.

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For the record, I have never seen Charlie Sheen in anything, at least to my recollection.  I have only seen clips of the recent media circus surrounding the disintegration of his connection with reality. 

Why are people following him on Twitter?  Why are people tuning in? 

No one interviews a homeless, psychotic person.  But the media is making money on ad revenues by showing Charlie talking about being a warlock and transversing the space-time continuum.  Why?  Because people tune in to feel better about themselves by watching a TV star dive head first into mental abyss.   Just my theory.

This reminds me of an old tale about a media circus surrounding a young girl’s fallinto an abandoned mine shaft or water well.  Everyone was so busy getting the news story and the hard-luck backstories of the townspeople, that no one bothered to save the little girl.

And if that is true, both Charlie and we need serious medical help.

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Life is a Cabaret, my son, but don’t learn the lyrics

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TLP (our son, the little prince) loves Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.  That’s pretty awesome since he is 8.5 years old.  The problem is that his two favorite songs are Mack the Knife and Cabaret because of the tunes and the instrumentals.  When we looked up the lyrics, it was a little ooky.

First, Mack the Knife doesn’t sound like it will be about wine and roses.  Mack the Knife is based on the dashing highwayman Macheath in John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera.  Murder and blood.  And Cabaret involves a prostitute who charges by the hour.

And now my son wants us to purchase the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated.  I draw the line there — he is too young.  But why the heck I am letting him listen to songs about violence and prostitution? 

There is a bright line here, somewhere.

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