Tag Archives: Life

Just the G-d-Awful Flu

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Since Friday, I have been felled by the flu.  I don’t have mad sow flu, or H1N1, as it is supposedly called.

I am now recovering from the usual, seasonal, G-d-awful flu.  It happens.  The non-designer, non-pandemic one.  I even had a flu shot which I have to say probably made it less horrendous than it could have been.

My sister the doctor was concerned that I was dying of the plague because I didn’t blog for days.  Yes, I had to have been pretty hard hit not to blog, or, for that matter, to pay a shiva call to my friend whose mother’s funeral I attended last week (see prior blog entry).

The flu, once medicated, is the moral equivalent of a stubbed toe.  Yet, I longed to hear my mother say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would,” as she looked into my eyes and caressed my cheek in that way that mothers do that make you feel better just by having them there.

POB, partner of blogger, has been in the trenches with our son, getting him from place to place, while I lied in bed doing the least I could do.  Really, the least I could do.  And she is a trooper (who is now coughing, because I share too much).

I took a walk yesterday because I was becoming self-radicalized watching CNN and MSNBC in between naps over the last few days.  I was woozy and thought it would be a great idea to go to the gym.  (I need a personal attendant.)  I went to the gym and did nothing except watch the people who are able to go to the gym on a Monday at 3:30pm, while I scrubbed with Purell.  Luckily the medication dried me out so much that I neither blew my nose or coughed much.  One general observation:  the beautiful, the buff and the young don’t go to the gym in the afternoon.  The older, schleppier and grayer do.

I left the gym having not sweat or done anything to shore up my sagging self and walked south for no reason (ok, no sane reason).  I went into PC Richards and Sons and looked at Plasma TVs.  I thought maybe if I bought a big plasma TV, I could tell POB that it was the delirium that did it.  Even in my delirium I knew that was stupid, yet wishful, thinking.

Friends tried to make me feel better by emailing me stories of the weird and blog-worthy.   My old friend started out his email by writing: “My dear son didn’t really do anything wrong (that’s what every parent says).”  Followed by, wait for it . . .

“Gotcha!!!”

Walk-weary, I took to my bed and resumed doing the least I could do.

Dr. SOB (Sister of Blogger), are you satisfied that I am on the road to recovery?

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Imagine Peace — Part 2

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I know my mother sounded a little saintly and we like a family of do-gooders in a prior entry, Imagine Peace, so we need to set the record straight.  We have our moments of community service but we are Seinfeldian in the usual ways.

First, the email from a friend of MOB [mother of blogger) and a co-founder of New Yorkers Against Gun Violence from FOBM (friend of blogger’s mom) to SOB (sister of blogger).

“Dear SOB:

Thank you for coming on Tuesday and for helping to make the event a great success.  I still miss MOB and would love to have her see how the organization has progressed from its fledgling days when she did so much to nurture it.

Also, would you send me blogger’s email address – she was quite a bidder at the Silent Auction and won a Fire Island week as well as French lessons.  Many thanks again for your continued support.

Fondly, FOBM”

Very lovely note, indeed.  So glad that Mom is remembered. SOB follows up with this email to me:

“Blogger:

I am forwarding an email from FOBM. That’s great that you won that Fire Island week.  (Have you heard there is a recession going on?  What else did you bid on?  What if you won everything you bid on?  Are you CRAZY?)
Actually, I was looking at that myself and considering bidding but then got distracted and didn’t return. When are we going?!! I hope it’s not a dump. You don’t have to invite us.

I feel very good that our family supports this organization – a way to honor Mom and her vision.

Kumbaya, babe.

Love, SOB“


It is important to be honest that we are riding our mother’s coattails.

Yep, Kumbaya, SOB, Kumbaya.
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Lip Creep

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For the last few days I have been wearing lipstick because I finally accept my mother’s opinion that a little lipstick hides that washed-out look that comes with age.  And, lipstick is a good lip moisturizer.

Still, I have noticed that not only does the lipstick make my lips look bigger, it is actually making them bigger. 

Lip creep is the culprit.  Tiny wrinkles around the lips allow the lipstick to run into the crevices that the wrinkles create which, as I grow older, will become ravines. 

Now when I see an old woman with lipstick down to her chin, I will be more kind.  Or as kind as I can be.

For now, back to Chapstick for me.  Sorry, Mom.

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The Blogger in my midst

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So, after the funeral, I decide to work from home since most banks are closed (and my clients are banks).  I return the rental car and make the mistake of hearkening back — with no one else in room — to the earlier conversation about menopause that I had with the same rental car sales assistant.   She was not pleased.  She had mentioned earlier that she has mood swings.  I notice as I stand over the counter that she still hadn’t taken her vitamins.  I decided not to mention that the name of the GPS NeverLost is a misnomer.  And, I assume I am going to get a schmuck tax on top of the usual rental car costs.  I am fine with all of it because, well, it is what it is.

I go to grab lunch and there is a woman sitting opposite me at the communal table in Le Pain Quotidienne.  She looks at me as if she recognizes me.  We hold a gaze for an extra second. I know that I don’t know her so I assume that she asked me a question and is waiting for a response.  So, I say, “excuse me?” as if she said something.  She didn’t.  I apologize.  I go back to my various devices of connectivity.

She types furiously on her laptop.  I think she is a blogger.  I wanted to say, “Hi, I’m 40andoverblog.  Who are you?” But that would have sounded like the ookiest come-on line and that was not my intention.

I surreptitiously glance over at her from time to time, trying to see what she is typing.  She catches me a few times.  I have to leave now lest she think I have any interest other than uncovering a blogger and responds with interest or revulsion, neither of which I could handle.

I inhale my food and pay my bill.

I imagine that she is thinking, “wow, she reminds me of my mother”.  I catch a cab and take to my bed.

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Imagine Peace

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Imagine peace.

That was Yoko Ono’s ad in the journal for last night’s benefit supporting New Yorkers Against Gun Violence (NYAGV).

My mother helped found the organization.  I remember vaguely that she would go up to Albany to lobby for tighter gun laws, coordinate the silent marches (the sea of empty shoes for those killed by gun violence) and generally be a nudge for the public welfare.  She was unassuming about her efforts for this cause.

I sat at the benefit and I was both stunned and brimming with pride at the flourishing my mother’s “seed” work, about which she was very quiet and very determined.  A young woman spoke about her work for the organization, doing outreach to youths at risk.  She spoke from the heart.  My eyes welled up.  I went over to her afterward to tell her how I was so taken with her words and her work.  I mentioned that my mother helped found this organization and she looked at my name tag, and then hugged me, saying “I have heard stories about your mother.”  Then a board member came over and said, “I knew your mother and we still talk about her and use her catch phrases.”

My mother has been dead for nearly seven years.  And she is remembered by both colleagues and people who never actually met her. A life well lived.

My sister is standard bearer for our generation.  Her wedding registry was composed of two charities, one of which was NYAGV.  When same-sex marriage is legal in NY, I am going to follow my mother’s and sister’s examples and make it part of my registry.

My mother’s legacy is a challenge to me to leave this world a better place than it was when I was born.  Not fix everything, just fix or enhance something.

Imagine peace. I hear her saying, “now go and make it happen”.  Mom is a tough lady in death as in life.  And an inspiration.  May she rest in peace.  Her memory is always a blessing.

Imagine peace.

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Today I went into work in jeans

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Going to work in jeans on a Monday was not a rebellion against “The Man,” but an acknowledgment of the realities of aging — the rounding out of one’s waist and tummy. 

I scoffed at low-rider jeans until some years ago, POB (partner of blogger) told me I had to stop wearing “Mommy Jeans”  and she took me jeans shopping.  Little did we know that years later the President would make Mommy Jeans famous as necessary nerd wear.

Today I am grateful for these low-riders because they fasten below the waist and tummy.  Some days, my full-waisted dress pants don’t close without a fight and I am tired of popping buttons.   And when a button pops, it does so with enough velocity to hurt someone unfortunate enough to be in its trajectory.  Soon, I will have to register my tight-fitting clothes with the local police precinct, as is the rule with assault weapons. 

So, until I lose a few pounds or feel that it is ok again to spend money on new dress pants, low-rider jeans are the way to go even though, by every demographic study, it really NOT a look I should sport.

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Chicken in so many ways

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I can eat cooked chicken, I can cut a cooked chicken and I am not bothered by chicken remains.

But, I cannot buy a raw chicken.  It was on the list of groceries and I had to tell POB (partner of blogger) that I could not cope with that.   The chicken is well, recognizable as a chicken, although it is headless and dead.  And there is always a scare about bacteria with a raw, dead, chicken.

Meat is so much easier, because you don’t see the cow. 

Thanksgiving is a nightmare in this regard.  Not just some small bird, but a huge beast that is so big it needs a special pan.  And then people talk about dressing the turkey.  Work with me on this.  On the start of Thanksgiving Day, there is a naked, dead, headless turkey with a plastic bag holding the gizzards stapled to it.  Loooooooooovely.  Does dressing the turkey make us feel better about a roasted dead, headless, naked bird on our dinner table? And what message am I sending to my son and brother-in-law who are bird nerds?  That we will eat you one day?  (We are tough family, but we only figuratively chew people up and spit them out.)

AND, eating leftovers means reliving this for a week. 

So, this year: BRISKET. 

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Credit Card Companies Charge More and Are Meaner, to boot

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I was just on the phone FOR THE SECOND TIME questioning some stupid fee charged by a credit card company. The first time I had to endure a surly response from my customer service representative — customer service in the credit card industry being the definition of oxymoron. 

This time, I was greeted with serieuse attitude coming from the Mr. Customer Service who is not the mere definition of oxymoron but is the true personification of oxymoron.

Definitely a call center in the US because no one can fake that decidedly American accent. So, there’s a silver lining — the abusive person was a fellow American and his job was not outsourced. I don’t know if I would have remained as calm (a stretch) if an American job was lost so I could be berated in this manner.

The oxyMORON reminded me that the call was being recorded as was the call from my prior excellent customer service experience. I said that I was glad it was being recorded because I would love everyone and anyone to hear the tone and manner of the customer service representatives. We concluded our business and we ended the phone call. 

I did not break the phone, which I consider a tribute to my self control.

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Taking Candy from Your Baby

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So, here I am at 7:25pm on Thursday after Halloween and I am eating candy that my son gathered on his trick-or-treating extravaganza.  I am feeling guilty, but only a little.  My son is 7 years old so it isn’t exactly like taking candy from a baby (she writes defiantly).

Halloween was its usual hell-ish experience.  As I have written before, I don’t like the holiday because of, among other things, the ghoulish costumes and behaviors, and I didn’t know what to do with the carved pumpkin except put it in the refrigerator where one would normally put ripened or cut fruit.  Leave it out for the bugs and the vermin?  Now, that’s not a plan for an urban dweller who likes to keep both nature’s jungle and the urban jungle at bay.

A major issue was my son’s costume.  He did not want to dress up and wanted a general pass on the occasion (that’s my son!!).  POB (partner of blogger) had long ago convinced me that Halloween was important (as were scooters and other toys of potential death and dismemberment) because we should stress social inclusion (but not assimilation or group think).

As you can tell POB is the intellectual in the family because I am still trying to apply these principles to daily life and parenting.  Realizing that I was still struggling, she recently restated her position in words I can understand: having two moms will be tough enough when he is a teenager, do you want to add the deficit of Halloween?  Because we are two women, our son’s societal acceptance depends on celebrating Halloween.   Ok, I get that thinking. Sort of.  My straight parents were dismissive of some societal norms and my college friends thought I was a Soviet spy.  It was lovingly meant as weird and kooky, I think.

So, Halloween it is.  It took some cajoling for our son to agree to a costume: “why can’t I be ME?” he asked. As part of the inclusion model, I did not say that a transitive verb takes a subjective pronoun and the question is “why can’t I be I?” which, while non-sensical, is grammatically correct.  But I digress.

He loves the Natural History Museum which was founded by early 20th century President Teddy Roosevelt.  So, he decided that he would be Teddy Roosevelt in the age of the Rough Riders.  We got a rough rider hat, bandana, round spectacles and I taught him to say, “bully, bully!!” just like Roosevelt.  But it was a little — how shall I say — cerebral for a 7 year-old.

Mindful of inclusion model, I tried to get him to think more commercially — work with me on the inclusion part here — and I asked, wouldn’t you like to be a Power Ranger or an X-Man?  Nah, not so much.  Teddy Roosevelt it was.

My parents would have beamed with pride and joy if I wanted to dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt for Halloween.  One generation later, I am begging my son to be an X-Man.  There is a PhD thesis in here somewhere but not now.

Needless to say, in No-Where-istan, there is no Halloween.

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Deja Vu All Over Again

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I saw my sister in the gym tonight.  Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out.  I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled.  You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights).  I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister.  I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor).  I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment).  She doesn’t flinch.  She is not my sister.  My sister would have flinched.  I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow.  Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know.  I mention some things I had written in my blog.  She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries.  But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy.  I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body.  I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969.  The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien.  Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture.  Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck.  After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

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