Does anyone like that it gets dark at 4:30pm? How many people really benefit from extra sunlight in the morning? (Not being a morning person, I need some help here.)
My favorite day of the year? December 22. Why? Because the days start to get longer. Let there be light.
Yesterday op-ed by Bob Herbert of the New York Times really got me nuts. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I don’t care which party “gets it” or not. That is not even a relevant question.
That we have a president named Barack Hussein Obama is in fact a delivery of his campaign promise of change. The fact that he is decried as not that much different from other presidents is another delivery of his campaign promise of being President of all citizens, not just blue states.
You see, you may not have noticed, but the President of the United States is African-American. Now, I am a middle-aged, white, Jewish lesbian (MWJL). And I have no idea what it is to be anything or anyone other than who I am. But from my perspective (for what it is worth):
The President may be post-racial, but the country is not. (We are making progress and, as we do, sometimes there is backlash that makes us think we are losing ground.) The fact of his presidency is a challenge to much of the nation. The fact that he is continuing some of the Bush policies in matters of war means that his opponents (the Grand Old White Man Party) need to frame his domestic policies as so radical as to threaten our very existence as a nation. Thus, the charged rhetoric.
Because it is, at least in part, about race. (Please no eye rolls — I am a MWJL, remember?)
Lest we forget that John McCain and Sarah Palin got a lot of votes and stirred up fears of the end of the reign of the Old White Man.
Remember when he let a little of his anger show when Professor Gates was arrested? You would think that he created an international incident. All he did was call the actions of white cops stupid. Imagine George Bush doing that. Not even a blip on the radar.
Listen to the racist language of the Tea Party. These people are scared that they will be treated the way they have treated minorities. They know that karma can be a painful boomerang. So, now that the Establishment is run by an African-American, they are fighting the Establishment tooth and nail.
I had an epiphany the other day about DADT. The President is Commander in Chief of a military run by conservative white men. When he leads, they need to follow. So, he needs to show he will listen, too. So, maybe he needs to protect DADT for now as it winds it way through the courts and the Congress.
The President is the embodiment of the American dream, with the picture-perfect American family. But he is not a reflection of America yet, but an aspiration of what America can be. We all have some work to do.
I am the archivist for my original nuclear family (FOB (father of blogger), MOB (mother of blogger, may she rest in peace), SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB). And of course, for my nuclear family, POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger). I also have archived pictures of some of POB’s extended family.
After struggling to identify people in old photos, I decided that we need to catalogue pictures with names because the people who would know are forgetful or “no longer with us”.
So, I upgraded my iPhoto program so now I have face recognition software. I will have to press FOB about some people; MOB would have known. Thank Goodness, Aunt Betty was at FOB’s party and helped with some identifications.
Still, there isn’t room for the stories behind the pictures, but I will work on that next.
But there are some people in these photos who were important at one point but turned out to be rotters. But if we don’t name them, then later generations might think they remained important but their names were lost to history. THAT won’t do. So we have to name them, but in a way that conveys the backstory.
In the pictures of my sister’s wedding, there are many – dare I say TOO many — pictures of the one-time fiancé of one of SOB’s dearest college friends. Subsequent to the wedding, problems arose and we took to calling him Stan (not his real name) so that if they patched things up, we could revert to his real name without negative attachments. (Brilliant idea by HOSOB.)
Well, they didn’t patch things up and he is figuring TOO prominently in the wedding pictures. (see back story http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1907) Just to call him “Stan” would only convey his loser-ish behavior to very few people in the family, leaving subsequent generations to think his name was Stan and there is nothing more to the story. No, this will not stand. He was horrible to a dear friend of SOB, whom we have all known for 30 years and, despite her Republican party identification, is FAMILY. Every time he ruins a perfectly good wedding picture by his mere image in it, I become enraged. Yet, I am a mom, so I have to be careful how I characterize him (i.e., no profanity). I tried out a name, but I wasn’t sure.
As I was doing the endless name recognition (10,000 faces can be daunting), SOPOBAB was looking over my shoulder and asked, “Who is ‘Stan the Loser’?” And so I explained to the next generation the sins of Stan. And now the back story won’t be lost.
And then I knew I got the name just right.
On Thursday afternoon, I slipped into the bathroom of my office and transformed into a girlie-girl. I traded my clogs for pantyhose and heels and my turtleneck and blazer for a sleeveless black number that swirls when I walk, along with some serious bling and a full face of make-up. POB (partner of blogger) insisted on the serious bling (she wanted anyone who might flirt with me to know I was expensive). G-d bless her to think that someone at this outrageously hetero event (for which I was dressing up) would even look twice at me.
Of course, I ripped the hose as I put them on and — uh oh — this was not my pair of hose. POB and I are different sizes, so I felt the sli-i-i-i-ide down below my waist happening almost immediately. Ripped and sliding. Dressing up is always epic.
The event was a fundraiser for one of the most worthwhile organizations (outside of refugee relief) — The Hole in the Wall Gang camps for kids with life threatening illnesses.
I left my office to meet a colleague who was flying in for the event. We were going to the pre-party that started at 5pm. Nothing like alcohol at 5pm for pickling your brain. And goyishe hors- d’oeuvres — meat and cheese or pork. Not even mixed nuts for the Jews. I realize this is going to be a long night featuring a liquid buffet. And that is so not my cultural upbringing — run out of booze, ok. Run out of food? Change your name and leave town because you’ll never live it down.
We attended the main event — a concert at Avery Fisher Hall, featuring Meryl Streep (looking fab without plastic surgery), Emmy Lou Harris, John Cougar Mellencamp, Bill Cosby, Lyle Lovett (I kept thinking, Julia Roberts, really?), Bette Midler (who got middle-aged), Renee Zellwegger (she looked so much better before all the plastic surgery) and Stevie Wonder.
More important than these luminaries were the campers who helped emcee the show, and the video of Paul Newman, who together with Joanne Woodward, founded these camps. One of the campers belted out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. I think everyone was crying. Here is a terminally ill tweenager singing THAT song. A song of the downtrodden, the sad, the defenseless, those with hopes and dreams that seem destined not to be realized. THAT song. My heart ached and my mascara ran all over my face.
Paul Newman (may he rest in peace) was so eloquent — in the video made some years ago — about why he started these camps. (I am paraphrasing, but I recollect it this way:) “I have been lucky all my life and I wanted to help people who only knew the other side of luck.” He is a good man but I hate his salad dressings.
He looked at luck as a zero-sum game. And if luck is a zero-sum game, then our luck means someone else has less (or no) luck. Contrast that with people who say today, “I make my own luck.” As if to impart that those who are “unlucky” don’t deserve success. Ok, let’s super-impose this paradigm on children. Can anyone with a sense of humanity say to a terminally ill child, “you could’ve made your own luck”?
Surely, we can share our good fortune — our luck — with the children. The children.
Of course the evening got lighter when Stevie started playing Cherie Amour and a few other standards. My colleague and I were standing and singing in Avery Fisher Hall while everyone else politely sat. After an evening of ill children with fight in their hearts, it was good to be on our feet and singing. It was life-affirming.
There was an after-party. Cheeseburger sliders were served. Really? Goyishe v’hetzi (150% non-Jewish). Still with the vodka drinks.
There was a Motown band and singers who were awesome. I dragged my colleague out on the dance floor. I told her, it’s New York, no one cares if two women dance. We totally rocked out. Of course, at that point my hose were dangling dangerously low like the pants on some young men and I was scared that they would just drop. And it was getting late and really I wanted to get home, get in bed and feel the serenity of having my family safe and asleep around me. We were waiting for Stevie Wonder to show up at the after-party so my colleague could meet her idol.
Finally he showed up and she was star struck and frozen in place. The batteries in her camera ran out. I had to elbow my way to spend a few minutes talking to Mr. Wonder while I motioned for her to get next to me. Mr. Wonder’s bodyguards were concerned that I was doing something dangerous and were ready to drop me. Finally she got near enough to put her hand on his shoulder and I snapped the photo using my blackberry. I thanked Mr. Wonder for his patience (and holding on to my hand for what seemed an eternity as my colleague got close) and the conversation and I receded into the crowd.
My colleague is on Cloud Nine. We have bonded. I can call her “friend” now. Without a hard-headed New Yorker, she would not have even gotten close to Mr. Wonder. As a friend, I tell her, “I have been in heels for seven hours, my pantyhose are almost falling off, and I need to go home now that we have a picture with you and Stevie Wonder.” I am walking you to your hotel and I am throwing myself in a cab. The alternative is to put a sign on you that says ‘return after 3 days to . . . .’ I would get to sleep but I would get fired. So you decide: How is this evening turning out?”
Having gotten a picture of Stevie Wonder, she didn’t put up a fight. Thank G-d. I got her back to her hotel and in 15 minutes I was in my comfy apple-green jammies in my comfy bed and ready to sleep.
I laughed, I cried, I danced, I shook hands with a celebrity, I was moved to help others. A great day.
Just last night over dinner out, POB (partner of blogger) and I were discussing our different approaches in dealing with annoying people or circumstances.
POB is from a “good home”, has wonderful manners and rarely curses. Even though I , too, came from a “good home”, I have a potty mouth.
The practical difference is that POB can be baited for a long time before she boils over. Someone has to dangle that fish hook at her for a good, long while. In contra-distinction, I will drive to some barely noticeable bait, put in the water by a sleepy fisherman and impale myself on the hook, squirm and cuss.
Who knew that our theoretical conversation would almost immediately have practical application.
Our son’s teacher sent around an email that all the kids need to bring 2-litre clear bottles for a science experiment. Because POB is a class mom (and so am I, by extension), we decided to get some extra ones in case some of the kids’ parents did not receive the email blast.
Thinking, “reduce, re-use, recycle,” we went to the basement of our building to get used soda bottles. It was an event so I had to document it (pictures are a little unclear; darn that blackberry camera).
Last night late, POB sent around an email suggesting that the recycling in everyone’s apartment buildings’ basements would be a good place to look for this particular “school supply”. Just keeping with the “reduce, re-use, recycle” mantra.
One of the parents needed to send around an email this morning, “I was rummaging around our basement recycling area at around 7:00 AM this morning – not part of my usual morning routine. . . .”
Ok, AS IF any of us rummage through our building garbage as part of our daily regimen?
So, I had to, had to, had to email back (hitting reply to all, of course), that it was foreign for us, too, so much so that I took pictures to document the event.
POB emailed back to me (not reply to all, thank G-d — that good upbringing is so important):
“you just had to impale yourself on that hook, didn’t you?!”
Yes, yes, I did.
Our god-daughters come over every other Friday night for family dinner. (I think “goddaughter” doesn’t sit so well with one, but it is just too impossible to explain the depth of our relationships, so it will have to do.)
We’ve been through a lot together. J. started out 9 years ago as a perfectly lovely undergraduate with lovely light brown hair. One day she came over having gotten a blond buzz cut and some metallica in and around her face.
Then she started playing rugby which is football without all of the protective gear (and we know that even that doesn’t help much).
Then she came out as a gun owner (her family is from out in the country where hunting is the norm). This was a difficult issue because we are good New York liberals and my mother helped found New Yorkers Against Gun Violence. She probably enjoyed the irony of my playing with light sabers yesterday (see prior blog entry).
Then, as a senior she brought home a peppy young undergraduate for us to meet. (See below about K.)
Then, there was the living on our couch for a while (she can come back in a New-York minute).
Then, she decided, contrary to my better advice, to go to law school. Nooooooo comment.
Most recently, she came out as a vegetarian (remember, she is from a meat-loving, hunting family). We are fine with that, really, we just would have preferred to know ahead of dinner that evening. So now we are searching for good, vegetarian recipes for Friday nights. (I bet you thought I was going to say that she came out as a lesbian, but that is soooo old school.)
So, K. came into our lives about 8 years ago after we had gotten a little too much information about her for any self-respecting godparents to handle. Also, I think I intimidated K. in the beginning or, more to the point, she didn’t really “get” me. Maybe I was too over-protective of J. (Ok, I was too over-protective of J. but sometimes family is a burden in that way.)
Anyway, K. schlepped J. out to New Jersey (which was beyond the three-mile radius rule I thought I had set down firmly). Already not good.
But as time and life enfolded, we love and adore K. and she loves POB, and even I am growing on her (like moss).
Now she tells us about her crazy externships and the dangerous crisis circumstances (without breaking any confidentiality) in which she does her clinical work, and we try to stay calm and not scream, “Get the HELL out of that place!! Who the HELL needs that kind of insanity?? Can’t you find a wellness clinic and practice there???” Neither POB (partner of blogger) or I actually say it. We listen with concern and interest and try to keep the internal screaming, well, internal.
And there have been sad and heart-breaking bumps in the road that needn’t be re-hashed.
So, when on Friday night, they said they had an announcement and a question, POB and I were both panic-stricken. They saw this in our eyes, so they tried to calm us but not give away the surprise. I think I reminded them that we have middle-aged hearts and sudden shocks to our systems are dangerous and cruel.
It was good news: they are having a wedding!!! So, I figured the question was, would we host the rehearsal dinner or help pay for the caterer. They talked about the place they picked and told us every detail and all the time I am thinking about the question. Maybe it isn’t about money. Maybe we are not invited and they want to explain why. Maybe they want our son to the ring-bearer. Maybe they ARE converting to Judaism (they are Jewish culturally now anyway) and want recommendations for rabbis to lead the service. Ok, ok, ok, ok, I think. Please ask the question because I am still concerned that it is a scary, sad or bad question.
Drum roll. Since they are married in Connecticut and New York doesn’t allow same-sex marriage, they asked me to officiate the wedding and be the general emcee of the weekend. I was honored, humbled, scared, disbelieving all at once. What an immense honor. I couldn’t speak. I kept trying to say something, but I couldn’t formulate a sentence — I was still shocked that they would give me this honor. Tears started to well up. I am still so overwhelmed and honored.
And as J. and K. probably figured, I couldn’t sleep on Friday night because ideas about the ceremony were flooding my brain. (Some were really good; some not so much.)
What an honor and privilege. I am indeed blessed.
Yesterday, my son had a friend over in the afternoon. The ground rules were no electronics — no computer, no video, no TV. His parents are rather concerned about the amount of time he spends on Wii and on the computer generally. So, low-tech play date. No problem, right? Now, remember it is 2010 and we are taking about an 8 year-old and a 10 year-old. BOYS.
First my son refused to stop what he was doing when his friend arrived. His friend was kneeling in front of the Wii remotes. Ok, ok, ok. POB (partner of blogger) took out all of this cool building sets, some even have circuitry (electric ok, but electronic, no). No one tried anything. Variably mournful and angry eyes were watching us. I started helping the friend put some circuit boards together and we made lights flash on and alarms ring. Just like those awesome kits that you could do at camp if you brought an extra $5 dollars which in 1972, was a lot for an 8 year-old. We were having an awesome time although my son was still pouting by reading train books, hoping that I would cave and let them watch a train video. Nooooo. Then his friend got up and knelt by the Wii again. I said no, and we had a tense moment when he kicked something over angrily. We walked back into my son’s room. At that point, the friend tried to make conversation with my son, but my son, who figured he was punishing me by being rude to his friend, was unresponsive. So I sat down with this friend and played scrabble and asked my son to help me. Finally, finally, my son decided that fun was a good thing to have and they started to play together. Phew. All is good, right? Ten minutes later, “we’re booooored.” Really? Really? With all of the toys in this house, you kids can be bored?
Then I remember what withdrawal was like when I quit cigarettes. And, I realized that neither of them bargained for a non-electronic play date, although we did tell our son the ground rules. So, in a lapse of parental judgment, I started a pillow fight in the living room with the couch pillows — some cushions, some just decorative. All fair game. POB looked on in horror and amusement as there were many near-misses with the lamps, etc. But the humans were each in one piece.
They were able to amuse themselves for a little while. But the electronic-free play date was running a little too long for anyone’s patience, let alone those of pre-tween boys. Recently, I bought a Star Wars light saber to match our son’s (Mom, please forgive me, for buying something that is a weapon, but your grandson is a boy.) My son didn’t want to play but his friend did. So, I handed him a pair a protective glasses (see, Mom, you did raise me right) because I cannot live in a world where a child is blinded while playing while fencing with light sabers in my house. Ok, I never, ever, imagined that I would be condoning, much less partaking, this behavior, but, sometimes, one has to stand less on principle in order to survive your child’s play date. Then the boy’s father came to pick him up just as he was striking me in the gut with his light saber. Score one for Luke Skywalker.
Luckily, POB and I had a dinner date with our machertunim (the parents of the girl that our son is intent on marrying). Machertunim is the Yiddish word that describes the parents’ relationship when your children are married to each other. This play date also did not have electronics. We coped very well with these parameters, since we have great fun talking and laughing, and there was wine and great food. Did I mention the wine?
Both play dates were fun. But I suspect that they won’t need my facilitating non-electronic play dates after a while. And to tell you the truth, the second play date was awesome.
Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok. I am not good in the morning. Mostly, because I have very unrestful sleep. All day, every day, I am tired to the bone. That is just life for me. I yawn even when I work out because even that much adrenaline doesn’t keep me awake. I would drink coffee all day if that burning sensation in my stomach or esophagus would quit. You get the point.
POB (partner of blogger) has been away on business and is coming home late tonight. Our son remarked that “Mommy will be so tired tomorrow she’ll seem as lazy as you, E-Mom.” Shock. Disbelief. Dismay. My son is calling ME, lazy? At first I think maybe he understands the concept through comparison with his own exemplary model of laziness. But then I realize there is neither an introspective aspect nor an attempt to bond with a fellow lazy person.
This is what “we in the Tribe” would call a Jewish compliment — an insult made less stinging by including someone, i.e., POB, with otherwise excellent qualities in your category of degeneracy. So, since he has never been around Yiddish speakers or members of the immigrant generation, there must be a genetic component to his uncanny ability to deliver a stinging, yet subtly amusing Jewish compliment.
I would have appreciated it more had I not been appalled and yelling. Yelling is the one throw-back parenting technique that is still grudgingly allowed by the good parenting police. But it can only be used when you have had another stressful day at the office, working ever harder to mute the effects of a bad economy on your sense of self-worth and your ability to provide for your family. So, I properly invoked the technique.
But then I know that my son was just expressing things as they appear to him, unencumbered by a social filter. I know that others his age have some form of social filter. My son is different that way. And most times we work through the issue without my resorting to yelling, “how dare you say something like that?” My son was a little freaked out but not the least bit bowed by the event. Only now I have to put me in a time-out and have a serious talk with me about my behavior and how to channel my emotions in more socially acceptable ways.
And my son? He had dinner, shower, books and music before bed. I told him I love him and nothing changes that even if I was angry at what he said. And I do love him, and I always will.
But I am NOT lazy. (Ok, not compared to him.)
How can we call ours a civilized society if politicians, pundits and preachers gain support and power for demonizing Muslims and gay people?
I would appreciate hearing any thoughts on this.
Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success. It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.
One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private. They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years. I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me. Crazy.
Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity. Follow me on this one. My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s. (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry). Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced. (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.) Blossom then married Aaron. Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie. The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah. But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start. POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”. POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered. I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter. I love this family.
My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s. Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game. It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game. Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.
Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera. All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War. They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle. It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.
One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other. He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight. SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order. Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.
SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed. At about 3am, she got a page. It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive. She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.
Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding. BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us. I was so moved. But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante. But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.
My dad is such a sweet, and humble man. When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words. The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?” Aaaaargh. My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility. Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.
We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave. In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people. The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again. I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours. Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving. Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish. I wish I had pictures of that.