Tag Archives: family

President Obama, I am here, I am queer and I am “over” your speech

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You gave a campaign speech.

You re-told the story of the LGBT fight for equality.

Mr. President, how will you add to our collective story line?

I know that you need to get the economy, health care and two wars under control and then, if you still have enough political capital, you can make good on your promises to our community.  That is the way it should be. 

We are Americans, after all, and jobs and economic recovery and health care come first.  

But, please don’t keep promising.  What is the status of the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?  In your speech, you essentially said that a national hate crimes bill is effectively a done deal.  I sure hope you are right.

By the way, Mr. President, you could have carried off a lavender or rainbow tie.

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School days

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Today was our parent-teacher conference.  Our son is blossoming at his new school.  The feedback is that, although he has some areas that require work, he is smart, well-liked and presents as a kind, warm-hearted kid. (Note to self: confirm we are really talking about the same child.)  That is great news.

After the conference, we wait because he wants to come out and greet us.  He runs into our arms and then runs away because he is in the middle of something he finds fun. (Note to self: wait until later to cry over how independent he is.)

After last year’s terrible experience in a large public school, my son who needs some extra attention, is finding his place in his new school.  And we, his moms, are slowly shedding the stress of last year and enjoying the re-kindled love of school and learning.  (Note to self: approach networks about a made-for-TV movie.)

It is true that a parent is only as happy as his/her saddest child.  Today, my son is happy.  And if my son is happy, then the economy can stink (but not for much longer).  Life is good today.

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Fighting the Hopelessness

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I come from strong stock. My parents were born in the 1920s to immigrant, semi-literate parents.  My parents were in their late 30s and early 40s when they had us.

They lived through the depression, the wars and made the galactic leap beyond the Lower East Side and Pelham Parkway (in the Bronx) to settle down in midtown Manhattan. We had all of the advantages and none of the handicaps of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations. My grandfather would shake his head — anything is possible in America.

We were raised to expect to work hard and succeed. Success was the inevitable end of hard work. You could miss Mother’s Day or a family celebration — even great uncle Lou’s retirement party — if you were working. (But you couldn’t miss a funeral or a shiva because even if you didn’t like the person alive, G-d forbid you wouldn’t pay your respects after the end. But I digress.)

Success was measured by your ability to give more to your children and community than your parents did. A Nobel Prize was not required but not off the table either, so to speak.

I can’t live up to my heritage. Why?  I am a formerly successful lawyer, whose practice continues to crater in the aftermath of the greatest economic meltdown since the Great Depression.

But failure is not an option. No matter what, we are responsible for our lives and fear of homelessness is good.

Fear is a motivator but hopelessness is the enemy. I try to imagine that I am the protagonist in a Robert Ludlum novel about an anemic looking, gray-haired, 40-something desk jockey — ok, work with me — who fights against the great evil of NO HOPE.  So call me Joan Bourne (Jason would be too butch).

I want my family to live in comfort and I want this world to be a better place for my having been born into it. But fighting the hopelessness is overwhelming.

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Dad’s 89th birthday dinner

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So, another family celebration.  We all talk at once so no one hears anyone else’s opinion.  When we don’t want anyone to argue with us, we start our opinions with, “unencumbered by fact or information.”  Of course, no one is really listening. 

At one point we were talking over each other about which candidates won the run-off primaries in New York City.  My 7 year-old son asked innocently, “who did you vote for and why?”  So we all talked at once but at some point we fell quiet when my brother-in-law was explaining in earnest to my son the differences between the investment strategies of candidates Yassky and Liu, and the issues of defined benefit plan. 

Trying to stop my brother-in-law from needlessly getting over-wrought at the flagrant injustices of our system and my son’s seemingly impassive expression, I kept interjecting, “he is only seven” and “he was born in 2002” and finally, “you need to be more specific about the meaning of the defined benefit plan and the applicable law.”  It took my brother-in-law a minute to realize the joke.  By this time, my son had already tuned us out and was reading his magazine.

The good news is that Dad was just happy that three generations were gathered around the table, celebrating his birthday, and my sister let him have a second glass of wine.  (And, since we weren’t really listening to each other, we can have the same conversation on Sunday night when we have our weekly family dinner.)  

Another successful family gathering.

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David Letterman, Senator Ensign, Roman Polanski

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There are no parallels among these men.

David Letterman did get out in front of the “scandal”. That was smart media.  As long as the women with whom he was intimate were consenting adults — that means without fear for their jobs or career advancement — then it is just another philandering person.  What makes it news is that he is a TV star.  What is sad is that sexual harassment happens everyday and there is no famous star to blackmail to make it stop.  David Letterman has a lot of heartache ahead of him.  But he doesn’t need to apologize to me.

Conversely, Senator Ensign needs to apologize to his voters because he is a fraud — he is not the “family values” candidate that his constituency elected and he broke the public trust in the cover-up. His extra-marital affair was not criminal or actionable — consenting adults without any specter (so far) of harassment in the workplace.

Roman Polanski is, based on the information available, a scoundrel and a sexual predator.  A thirteen year-old is a child and is not capable of consent in sexual circumstances.  Justice delayed is justice denied.  Lock him up and throw away the key.

Let’s not lump these men and their actions together.  None is a shining star, but in only one case was there a sexual criminal.  In another, it was the cover-up that is criminal.  The third, well, unless we hear more, is just disappointing and ooky.

There is one guy, whose handle is TheFlaCracker on Twitter, who refers to all Libiots (liberal idiots) as defending Roman Polanski.  That’s unfair.  I am a G-d damn Democrat and liberal and a Hillary-lover.  I am proud of it.  But, child abuse is not a liberal or conservative issue.  It is solely about our expectations and demands for the safety of society’s and our children.

The true measure of our society is how we treat the children others have “cast off”and those who abuse them.

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Dear Mom

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It’s almost Yom Kippur and I have that rage inside me again.  I am supposed to seek forgiveness and I am still waiting for an apology from On High for making you suffer and taking you away.  Just an acknowledgment of a “Heavenly oops” would work. 

Two of my friends are dealing with the terminal illnesses of their mothers.  I just try to offer my ear because, as you know, it is all of jumble of good, bad, generous and selfish emotions.

The one thing that stays with me always is your last day.  “Your girls” knew from the change in your breathing — the increasingly shallower breaths and the elongation of your breathing rhythms — that the end was near. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

I even went to the medical supply store to get a suction machine to suction out the mucous because it sounded like you were choking and couldn’t clear your throat (I later learned that is known as the death rattle).

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

At the end, Dad was holding you in his arms and your children were touching your hands and your legs and we watched and we listened. Your breaths were even more shallow and the length between them got even longer.  We stayed with the rhythm and we were breathing with you. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six. . . .

And then you didn’t take the next breath and you were gone.

There was an eternity in that time between the last breath and the next one you didn’t take. 

In that eternity was the difference between life and death.  In that eternity was the secret of what makes a person alive.  What was that infinitessimal change that made the difference between life and death? 

I am not religious (as you know) but I really believe that we helped put your soul on the wings of angels.  And I am glad.  And then I think: angels, shmangels.  I just miss my mom. AND I am waiting for that apology.

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The rest of Rosh HaShanah

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Saturday the family came over for our traditional New Year’s lunch.  It was pleasant and generally uneventful.  Which is why I thought aliens had taken over my family.  My sister did not go as far as to say that she agreed with my assessment, but she did note the absence of the usual guaranteed bloggable moments.  The rest of the day was a blur except that I chugged Pepto Bismol.

Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) roused everyone to go to synagogue on the second day of the holiday.  We went Friday night, we went Saturday morning (and dashed home to prepare for the luncheon).  And now we are going to shul for the third day running?  Did I go to sleep a Reform Jew and wake up Conservative?  Is this my beautiful house, Is this my beautiful wife?  How did I get here?  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Theological arguments were a non-starter.  So, schlepped we did.  Our son was fraying through this.  After all, up to this point he was lovely and gentle and sweet-looking in his oh-so-cute bowtie.  And he is a boy.  And boys need to run around.  A LOT.  But, he was in services, I was chugging Pepto-Bismol, and he was acting out.   

We went to a luncheon at our dear friends’ house that afternoon.  Those present at the luncheon played connect the riffs of the rabbi’s talk on Saturday, to see who could string them all together into one message.  People did brilliant jobs and came up with different conclusions.  (After Friday night, I just played it safe at the children’s services.)

Bottom-line:  Two days of RH are too much for me.

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Rosh HaShanah evening chez nous

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Friday night is the birthday of the world.  The world is 5770 years ago, or so the Jewish tradition would have it.  And, since global warming has kicked into high gear, it is not looking so good.  Especially after the immense amount of war casualties this year.  And the fall-out of the financial crises.  The world needs a spa millenium.

Anyway, we sang happy birthday in that Jewish way of taking a happy moment and pointing out how bad the world looks and how bad we look in the world’s reflection.  So, no cake for the world.  Anyway, there is not a cake big enough to fit 5771 candles, so a piece of sponge cake will have to do.

Services start at 6:30pm.  I meet POB (partner of blogger) who pulls out Pepto Bismol from her bag and offers me a swig.  This is not a required Jewish ritual for Rosh HaShanah, but many Jews do use the stuff because we have a high incidence of irritable bowel (that’s part of why we complain so much).  I have been suffering mightily recently and since I read the article on social contagion theory, I am sure that my cousin who has irritable bowel syndrome passed it on to me.  But I digress.

It is hard for a room full of Jews to stop talking so the rabbi’s job is hard.  That’s why there is at least a half-hour flex time between when the service starts and when it REALLY has to start. 

When we walked in, we thought we belonged to the synagogue “servicing the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered Jews, their families and their friends.”  Apparently, that is soooo older generation.  Now the synagogue “serves Jews of all sexual orientations and gender identities”.  Ahhhh.  Wait, there are more than two genders?  This is its own separate bloggable moment.  We have established, however, that POB and I are here, we’re queer and we are out of touch.  Ok, I digress again.

So, we sit through a lovely service (comfortably, thanks to POB and Pepto Bismol).  There is something comforting about the rhythms of the seasons and the traditions and chanting the prayers using melodies and tropes that have gone from generation to generation (even if one generation doesn’t understand that there are more than two genders).  The rabbi gets up and starts speaking.  She uses beautiful imagery but I get lost in the imagery and cannot follow what she is talking about.  I am thinking she doesn’t know either.  First, we learn that the founding of the Hudson River shares a birthday with the world.  400 years ago.  There is probably a cake big enough for 401 candles.  Soooo special.  The river flows in two directions.  The river’s water has lapped these shores as change has to come to the river and Manhattan Island.  Change is not fast, but a slow progression of miniscule changes the cumulative impact of which is only visible in hindsight. This is an excellent metaphor for the process of changing the nation, the world and humanity.  Then, the rabbi gets a little lost in the poetry of light beams dancing on the river and the blue of the river changing with the light.  I am hearing about lots of different blues.  I check my blackberry.  POB nudges me.  I stop messaging and start listening.  Still, lots of blue water lapping the shores while we fail to notice.  Lots of lapping blue that we could notice, but then we wouldn’t make it to work or feed our families.  I am really losing the point here.  I am dizzy.

We get home, where my sister and brother-in-law are staying with our son.  This is their way of observing the birthday of the world — watching videos and eating pizza and lying on the couch.  My sister is wearing my sweatshirt .  Apparently she was cold and didn’t want to hunt through our stuff (remember only two weeks ago, they hunted for a bird caught in our apartment), but knowing me, she could just go to my side of the bed, look down, and find something that was only partially worn that day.  Life is good when your sister knows you and loves you and will wear your slightly worn clothes.

POB and I went to sleep that night exhausted and dizzy, but happy because a new year brings new beginnings (and for me, more bloggable moments).

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It is a beautiful morning in a house of mirth

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Mornings are always hectic in our house. But not for me (note to self: be grateful; gloating could get you in trouble).

My partner (POB) is an early riser. My son has to be, too, since he needs to get to school on time. I hear the noise, confusion and (mostly) gentle prodding of our son to get ready. I am still lying in bed with a pillow over my head. Then in barrels our son, ready for some rough-housing in the morning (which he quaintly calls cuddling — even when we play two crashing trains). I rise to the occasion and then fall back in my bed when he scampers off to school.   Off they go to school via bus or subway — more than I could ever manage.

For the first week of school, POB was away on business and our son was anxious about his new school. The cajoling and prodding took a long time. Plus, POB told me that we had to be there a whole 15 minutes earlier than necessary — a lifetime in the morning. Hmmmmm. She now feigns innocence as if I conjured this up out of the air. Obviously, since I was barely compos mentis at these early hours, we took cabs to school.

The minute POB returned from her trip, our son gave me up but said helpfully, “We were running late.” Thanks for the cover, bud.  I appreciate your sticking by me as you rat me out. Note to self: have his aunt, “the vault”, teach him some pointers about secrets.

So, POB is strong, fearless and awake enough to take public transportation.  Our family fisc thanks her.

The good news is that she is adaptive to any situation.

This morning I get an email from POB that recognizes and affirms me in all my frailties and is also practical:

“[Our son] had to use the bathroom on the way to school [NOTE: he never wants to go before he leaves so we get into this problem] so we ducked into McDonalds which took FOREVER so I channeled my inner [me, the blogger] and we took a cab. We made it just in time – and [our son] was truly apologetic so we vowed to launch the Morning Team to better figure this out.”   [Note to self:  keep your head down and don’t make eye contact, lest you are picked for the team.]

An episode in the morning of a house of mirth.

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107 year old woman is looking for husband no. 23!!!!

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107 year old woman is looking for husband no. 23!!!! (Even Liz Taylor can’t beat that.) 

It is so odd on so many levels.  The math suggests an analogy to buying a new car every few years (a new riff on the cash for clunkers campaign) or changing husbands every time your car gets an oil change (no lubes, please).  Her current husband is 70 YEARS younger.  No visual, please.  AND, he is a drug addict.  But that only adds a seamy aspect to this otherwise perfectly rational story. She thinks he is going to leave her for someone he met in rehab.  Isn’t that always the way it is, huh, Britney and Lindsay?  (I am guessing here, because I don’t keep up with either of these “stars”.)

What happened to the other husbands?  Hmmmm. Would she be eligible for health care coverage under the Obama plan if she didn’t live in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia?

The truth is the best fiction.

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KUALA LUMPUR (AFP) – A 107-year-old Malaysian woman says she is ready to marry for the 23rd time because she fears her current drug addict husband might leave her for a younger woman, a report said Monday.

Wook Kundormade headlines four years ago when she married Muhammad Noor Che Musa, a man 70 years her junior in northern Terengganu state, with pictures of the couple’s wedding splashed across regional newspapers.

But Wook is now looking for new love as she fears that Muhammad, 37, who is undergoing voluntary drug rehabilitation treatmentin the capital Kuala Lumpur, will leave her once the programme ends, she told the Star newspaper.

“Lately, there is this kind of insecurity in me,” the paper quoted her as saying, showing a photograph of the smiling, wrinkled-faced centenarian wearing a Muslim headscarf.

“I realise that I am an aged woman. I don’t have the body nor am I a young woman who can attract anyone.”

“My intention to remarry is to fill my forlornness and nothing more than that,” she said, adding that she felt lonely without her husband by her side to celebrate the coming Muslim festival of Eidal-Fitr next week.

Wook said she planned to visit Muhammad on the second day of Eid if her neighbours were willing to drive her to the capital.

Muhammad, who was a lodger in Wook’s house, had previously said it was “God’s will” that the couple fell in love.

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