The Checklist

Posted on March 10, 2012 by 40andover

In my professional life, I always having a closing checklist for each transaction. Every piece of paper, every action, every issue goes on a centralized list, with responsible parties, deadlines and status. Good practice (or malpractice) starts with organization.

As for my personal life, well, not always. I try to maintain some type of order amid chaos, but let’s face it: without POB, my life would be a compost. Even POB was surprised, initially, at what lurked under the veneer of successful urban professional: my bespoke blazers and trousers held together with staples and scotch-tape (but never spit). Indeed a metaphor for my life then. The saving grace: I did have someone come in to clean, do laundry and re-stock toilet paper and other essentials.

So, I wasn’t joking 10.5 years ago when, during a discussion about whether to have a child, I asked POB, “am I not baby enough for you?” And now we have SOS and I have matured beyond my post-adolescent years. I am now a somewhat disciplined person in my personal life.

Still, a wedding. That is a huge undertaking and our mothers are not alive (and even if alive would not be young enough) to take over the process, make it their own, and forget about the two main characters. How I long for that. Yes, I said it. If I could outsource this to our mothers, I would in a heartbeat. I would get endless blog material. So, clearly, outsourcing to a professional wedding planner is, well, no fun.

So, here is where we stand (using lavender, as the official color of gay weddings):

Dresses: √
Undergarments: next weekend (stay tuned)
Shoes: next weekend (stay tuned)
Flat tummy and chiseled arms: works in progress
SOS’s suit, shirt and tie: next weekend
Rabbi: √
Venue: √
Caterer: tasting √; final menu: open
Photographer: √
Band: √
Centerpieces: in process
Wedding cake: √
Invitations: in process (proofed; waiting for printer to send)
Ketubah: in process (actually waiting for feedback from rabbi)
Chupah: in process (poles reserved; cloth to be determined)
Ceremony: needs work
Vows: oy, don’t ask
Our song: still need to tell the band
Get: get what?

A get. Let’s just say that one of us needed a religious separation from a long-ago prior commitment. Traditionally, a get is something that a man gives a woman. But a man can say no and still, he can remarry (I think). If a woman doesn’t get a get, she is in limbo; she cannot remarry and her community will shun her. Forever. And there are horror stories even today about women in this very circumstance. It is a terrible rule that confirms a woman’s second class status in traditional Judaism.

In our case, the prior commitment was with a woman, so no need to get a get, right?? Pretty good argument, eh?

Well, since marrying two women under religious law isn’t exactly, let’s say, kosher, our rabbi considers that the getting of a get should also be gender neutral. Especially since, according to our rabbi, in its best sense, a get is a mutual release from the past. Really, rabbi? Sometimes, the past should just hang out there in the ether. No one ever got bit from a sleeping dog.

Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. Service of papers at last known addresses, summons to appear before a Beth Din, a religious court of three rabbis. Pretty serious business. The religious court convened on Friday, in the West Village. The three rabbis, two lesbians and one transgendering person, conducted the proceedings and finalized the releases. (To show our diversity, the rabbi officiating our wedding is straight.)

The ancients and the current, living orthodox would have keeled over. But they would have keeled over at the thought of the wedding. So, I say, let ’em roll, let ’em roll, let ’em roll.

So, to update our checklist:

Get: GOT

Good Medicine

Posted on February 24, 2012 by 40andover

I have been sick this week. I stayed home one full day (Tuesday) and, by this afternoon (Friday), it was clear I was not recovered. My colleagues even told me to go home. The COB even cheerfully took over responsibility for some thankless and unglamorous tasks so that I could just go home and climb into bed. A true colleague. Our assistant, who usually tortures me in that negative affection type of way, was actually kind and looked worried. I must have looked bad.

I came home and collapsed into bed. I was almost immediately overcome with the need to sleep. As I was dozing, I half-dreamed of being sick as a kid.

Mom would hug me and say, “my poor tsatskele [Yiddish endearment], if I could have this for you, I would!” Then she would kiss my forehead to check for fever. Then she would direct me to my bed. And to be doubly sure that I didn’t have a fever, Mom would get one of those mercury thermometers (on the list of pre-1980 household hazards) doused in rubbing alcohol (for sterilization) and tucked under the tongue.

“Tea and toast and rest” was the basic remedy. If needed, I could have aspirin and, at night, cough suppressant. Mom would set up the vaporizer — that contraption that made steam heat and bred bacteria — to clear my clogged sinuses. Ok, maybe a little Vaseline on my chapped nose and lips, but Mom was very cautious about its use. When she was young, there were instances when sick babies who suffocated because mothers applied Vaseline too liberally in their babies’ noses.

Throughout the course of my cold, she administered loving hugs and kisses liberally and got up every few hours during the night to touch my cheek and make sure all was ok.

There weren’t many over-the-counter products then to relieve cold symptoms. But my mother would have had none of that. If it was just a head cold to suffer through, a little extra tender loving care (and tea and toast) was medicine enough.

Mom was a working professional, so if any of us was sick during the week, Leta, our nanny, would be in charge. But Mom lingered in the mornings, and came home early. Dad also canceled his last patient so he could be on hand for the evening love-not-drugs fest.

Leta was no slouch when it came to smothering us with love, under any circumstance. And when one of us was sick, she outdid herself. Leta would pour half a cup of sugar in the tea because she thought it was heartless of Mom and Dad to ration sugar (my Dad was a dentist, after all). And she prescribed sucking candy (a banned substance in our house) as throat lozenges.

Sidebar: I don’t think I told my parents about the candy and sugar and the other broken rules until after Leta died in the 1990s. That was our secret with Leta. Mom and Dad would have certain rules, and Leta would ignore those rules, much to our delight.

And, of course, my grandmother, Mom’s mother, couldn’t bear that any of her little darling grandchildren was sick. So, she would come laden down with food like stuffed cabbage, potato pancakes, and a whole host of time-honored Jewish-Ashkenazic comfort food. Grandma and Leta had a grudging respect for each other which over the years turned into real affection, but when one of us was sick, it was all-out turf warfare. No wonder Mom went to her office.

Even with today’s magic potions, Nyquil or Dayquil or the equivalent, there is no better medicine than Mom’s hugs, Leta’s smother and Grandma’s food. Just thinking about it makes me feel better already.

Love, Family and the Wedding

Posted on January 22, 2012 by 40andover

Today, SOB (sister of blogger), Dad and I planned to have brunch and then go visit our cousins who sell antiques and are in New York City for a show on the antiques circuit.

SIDEBAR: This is NOT Antiques Road Show, where a sculpture of a hand holding a bird is estimated to be more valuable than two birds in the bush. How do I know my cousins are a notch above? First, they travel the world over to buy the “stuff”; second, they charge a lot for the “stuff”; and third, they had to buy a whole other house to keep the “stuff”. (One still maintains a day job.)

We told Dad to meet us at noon at a coffee shop not too far from his house (he likes to walk a little to get the blood flowing, which is essential at 91.5 years old). Knowing that Dad arrives at least 30 minutes early, SOB and I decide to get there even earlier so we can have a pre-Dad schmooze. We arrive at the coffee shop at 11:10am. As we enter, we see Dad walking up. (I am glad we said noon; if we had said 10am, Dad would have arrived at 11pm the night before.)

We had our usual conversations, punctuated by what was happening in the GOP primaries. SOB and I are attuned to Dad’s rhythms. We can tell from his body language that he is about to make a loud and slightly aggressive request for more coffee. We also know that he did not hear the server say that a new pot was brewing and he would freshen up the coffee as soon as the pot was ready. So as his hand is going up, SOB gently guided it back down to the table as I repeated (louder this time) that the coffee is coming.

SIDEBAR: I attribute our gentle ballet to the skills we learned playing Capture the Egg on Sundays at camp. For those of you unfamiliar with the “sport”, it is Capture the Flag but with eggs. The winning team has the most number of intact eggs at the end of the game. Some of the eggs are hard boiled, some are soft boiled and some are raw. When your teammate runs into “enemy territory” and gets trapped, she then has to throw the egg to you as you stand on your side of the field. You need to assume it is raw but hope it is hard boiled. The trick in catching a raw egg is that you don’t catch it like a baseball; you catch it like a football — a cradle-like reception, as you gently reduce its spiral and speed. And then, when the raw egg nevertheless splatters all over you, you call, “first in line for the shower!!!” Ok, I digress.

Dad is really steady at his age, but snow and ice is a challenge. Of course, he wanted to take the bus. I wanted to take a cab. And I didn’t have enough on my Metrocard for a ride.

SIDEBAR: It is true that my Metrocard was low; but it was convenient on a cold day on the icy streets of New York when I want my father to be in one piece for my wedding.

SOB said to Dad, “If we take a cab, we will save [Blogger] money on her Metrocard.” We throw in test of logical thinking every now and again to assess Dad’s mental acuity. He rolled his eyes, so we know he is ok. SOB is non-confrontational, yet effective. Strong work.

We arrive at the Antiques Show at the 26th Street Armory (in case anyone is wondering, I paid for a cab or two on this adventure). Our cousins were there, as was another cousin. The other cousin talked about his son’s engagement to an Iranian Muslim. I noted that the successful marriages in our family were mostly mixed or same-sex marriages. We all looked at each other. Yep, we were all happy and either our partners were not Jewish or, if Jewish, the same sex. So, I suggested to my cousin that we should all be relieved that his son was not marrying a Jew, for the sake of his future happiness.

One cousin asked about my upcoming nuptials. Most of the details that are not quite settled relate to religious law. Clearly, this makes no sense since a lesbian wedding is not sanctioned by tradition. So why do we worry so much about complying with all of the rituals? I tried to explain to this to our cousin, a non-Jew who married into the family, that Jews fearlessly go into absurd detail where others — except maybe the Vatican — don’t dare tread. The mental gymnastics required to marry two women free and clear of prior entanglements are epic, as in Homer-like epic. Too bad the Bard is not around to sing the tale of mighty warrior(ette)s slaying the various beasts, and overcoming the various challenges placed in their path by the gods on their way, so that they may seal their love and singular devotion (and have a little party). All for a 20 minute ritual. The things we do for tribal continuity.

Maybe PBS will do a mini-series. The J-Word: Life Behind the Lesbian Chuppah.

Friday, the day that the Rabbi ate at Metro Diner

Posted on January 20, 2012 by 40andover

POB (partner of blogger) and I are going through the Jewish version of pre-cana. Never mind that we have progeny and more than a decade together in our rear-view mirror.

The first time we met with the rabbi, she came to our house. She couldn’t drink the Kosher wine because she was still nursing and she didn’t touch anything else, even though everything was Kosher and on glass plates (glass doesn’t absorb food particles so glass plates in a non-Kosher home are still ok). I couldn’t concentrate on anything she said because I was thinking, “what Kosher rule did I forget that renders even Kosher things in my house treyf (un-kosher)?” The whole session was a blur. Then, the rabbi ate a grape. My house was saved from shame. But, I couldn’t tell you a thing about the discussion.

Today was our second meeting with the rabbi. We met and ate at Metro Diner, a regular Upper West Side diner. Really, rabbi? So, I had to mention that I lived in shame for months after she came to our house last and ate only one grape. “Oh, I had just eaten and I really wasn’t hungry!” So, it turns out that there was no curse on my house, but just a rabbi — a JEW — who wouldn’t eat something right under her nose. (She’s Jewish, right?)

So, I tried to concentrate on this session. We planned the ceremony and talked about a bunch of things. Very productive. This marriage thing seems do-able.

Then, the rabbi reminded us we each had to write a letter to her about why we want to marry each other. Don’t a child, a home, a mortgage in common qualify? And I didn’t mention a joint retirement strategy. That should just seal the deal. Res ipsa loquitur, baby.

“Excuse me, these aren’t substitutes for the letter? I’m sorry but I did not know that this was a term paper class. I thought the final project was the actual wedding.” Pause. “Ok, when is it due?” Pause. “BEFORE the wedding?” Harumph.

Not only do I have to finish all of my Continuing Legal Education credits AND lose 5 pounds before the wedding, I must write this letter.

Why is it such an issue? I don’t know how to begin or where to end.

POB is my best friend and my favorite person in the world. Her mere presence calms and comforts me. I trust her implicitly. I know she loves me like no else could. I love her the same way. I am safe with POB and she with me. I adore POB, just adore her. I have no logical explanation — I can’t help it. She and I laugh together. We think we are the luckiest people in the world. We are strong because we helped each other grieve our mothers, nurtured each other during professional disappointments, supported each other during our son’s difficult early years and caught each other when we felt like we were falling. We have gone through moments when we thought we wouldn’t make it together and then realized that we couldn’t make it EXCEPT together. Now, we finish each other sentences and sometimes I think we are the same person (except she’s cuter). I will never cook, but I will do the dishes. I have piles of clothes but POB has piles of magazines. I let POB make the rules at home because she is a benevolent dictator. I am responsible for customer service and technology issues. POB never lets us run out of shampoo, moisturizer, food, and other necessities. I will never be awake early enough to take our son to school, but I will stay up to help with math and science homework. We are a team.

I am more in love with POB today than at any time before. But check in with me tomorrow, and I will love POB even more.

Songs in the Key of Life

Posted on January 15, 2012 by 40andover

This was a particularly hard weekend. In the Jewish calendar, Friday was the 9th anniversary (a Yahrzeit) of my mother’s death. We went to synagogue together: Dad, SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB) and I. We endured the endless rituals that preceded the recitation of the names of those with Yahrzeits and saying the mourner’s prayer. Each year, SOB and I ask each other “why is Mom on the list with all the dead people?” Both of us pull out worn pictures of Mom and run our fingers over them. I also have an emergency Mom slideshow on my iPhone in case we still do not feel her presence. “Blogger family does death” is not for the faint of heart. We pick every scab, open every wound, dredge up every Hallmark moment.

Dad loves the Oneg (the after-service nosh and schmooze) especially when there are Bar and Bat Mitzvahs the next day because there are really good hors d’oeuvres. The rest of us wanted to get out of synagogue because HOSOB and SOB were particularly afraid that my constant transgressions might cause a biblical conflagration that would consume the congregation and they didn’t want blood on their hands. Wow, they think I have power. I surveyed the attendees at the service and I assure you that there are others whose trespasses run afoul of Big Ten (the Ten Commandments) constantly and consistently. So, my snarkiness and anger at G-d (we are not close, G-d and I) pale in comparison. Mom might send a flicker to remind me to mind my manners, but there were way bigger fish should G-d want to fry.

Dad poured himself a wine in a water glass (good thing he is still steady at 91) and dug into the not-so-very-kosher looking edibles (it is a Reform synagogue, but STILL). The Onegs also attract homeless people who don’t abide by ritual cleansing before entering a house of worship. They should eat and be full, without curling my nose hair. But I digress.

SOB and I were heartened when people came over to say Shabbat Shalom and tell us that they still remember Mom and miss her. Each said that how shocking it was to hear Mom’s name on the Yahrzeit list. Once we counted 10 people who remembered Mom, we were ready to have dinner. We made sure she lived on in others, even nine years later. Mom was indeed remarkable and her memory is a blessing.

We peeled Dad away from the cheese tray and went off for some indigestion-inducing Indian food. We had a lively conversation because, around Mom’s Yahrzeit, Dad is really clear-headed and “present” in the way he was when Mom was alive. As sad as it is to hear her name on the list with the dead people, the people who remember her and our presence at synagogue invigorate Dad. He said he feels as if Mom is right next to him.

The conversation went along crazy tangents about Dad and others his age finding new companions and his comments about the capabilities of men his age made us need to stop the conversation and move to another direction. His comment about what an 85 year-old man can really do with a 45 year-old made us laugh, cry and turn purple. He is still married to Mom, he says. Somehow, it makes us want him even more to find a companion to fill his days in his final years.

It was a cramped place and Dad is hard of hearing so we had to talk very loud. Dad says there is nothing wrong with his hearing. I tell him he can’t hear when the ear doctor recommends a hearing aid. At various points in the conversation, I needed to repeat things right into his ear so he could catch the conversation. I always started by saying, “I love you Dad and you need a hearing aid. . . .” He laughed and repeated that his hearing was excellent. But then why was I screaming into his ear? “Everyone mumbles.” Look, everyone needs a good dose of rationalization every single day.

POB (partner of blogger) left a Yahrzeit candle out for me to light in Mom’s memory. The acts of striking the match and lighting the wick really personalize the moment in the way a recitation of a prayer in a congregation cannot. In the darkness of my kitchen when my family was asleep, I lit a candle to remember my mother and bring light into the darkness she left behind. Imagine Carly Simon’s song about losing her mother. Weep.

HOSOB had lunch with Dad on Saturday and took him to a museum. Dad called each of us Saturday night, a little bored and somewhat despondent. Imagine Jim Croce’s “Photographs and Memories.” It is a hard time for all of us. We are glad he reached out but we cannot fill the void. We can just be on the other end of the phone line. I wonder how much that helps him but I hope it eases the loneliness.

Dad is man with a past much fuller than his future. I love him because he kind, generous and able to be vulnerable in front of his children, and acknowledge our love and trust our decisions. Enter a medley of “Sunrise, Sunset” with a smattering of “Circle Game” and “Life is Eternal”.

But then there is Sunday night dinner. The weekly ritual during which my father pushes my emotional buttons the way Cole Porter could make a piano sing.

Since I was kid, Dad and I fell into this rhythm that a 8pm on a Sunday night, we would get into an argument about something. Many times, neither of us had any basis for our opinion. Other times, one was indeed an expert (me, for example, when it comes to life as a lawyer in law firm) and the other (Dad) was not. Most times, it was about politics; sometimes it got personal. Mom and SOB used to set their watches by the argument because it was more regular and constant than any clock in the house — 8pm. Mom and SOB also tempered the “conversation” and brought us back to civility.

Over the years, we have dinner earlier because of SOB (son of blogger, our source of sanity), so the argument starts promptly at 7:15 and lasts to 7:45pm. Usually, Cousin Gentle, CB (cousin Birder), HOSOB and SOB come over, too. So there are plenty of people to help Dad and me back from the brink. Tonight, everyone was busy. Dad came over at 4pm because he was lonely.

Tonight’s argument was triggered by my young cousin’s desire to go to law school and my visceral “NOOOOOO!!!!” response. I thought he should do something with a better business model and that could not be outsourced, like plumbing. My point was that law school is not the default choice of this generation if the student was paying for his or her own education. For me, it was easy. Mom and Dad were paying. But life in a law firm is hardly the easy life or the cash cow it was a generation ago. Dad wouldn’t listen to me and continued to discuss how important and rewarding was the practice of law. He did admit that it was snobbery that precluded him from considering non-professional avenues. I applaud his self awareness.

Of course, I went to law school because I was not fit for medical school and I didn’t want to be a pariah in my family. I guess I wanted some acknowledgement, at long last, that my parents’ dreams were not mine and didn’t turn out the way everyone imagined. I wanted Dad only to say, “we did the best we knew how.” That would have been enough.

These arguments are about mental exercise and the eternal struggle between parents and children for acknowledgement, acceptance, honor and respect. We have settled the struggle, more or less, but there are occasional border skirmishes. But we always leave the table hugging and kissing and saying “I love you”. And then, if SOB is not present, I call her immediately after I come back from putting Dad into a cab. I must download the events — for guilt, for the collective memory, for the continuity of family. What guilt you ask? The guilt of putting the welfare of sick people in the hospital over the mental health of her sister. SOB should be indebted to me for decades to come. [There must be some song from old Yiddish theatre that captures all of this. If I find it I will update my blog.]

Of course, notwithstanding the sometimes harsh words, Dad is coming with us to the Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow, because . . . he needs us and we need him.

Happy New Year

Posted on January 6, 2012 by 40andover

Hello. Yes, it has been a while. I hope you had wonderful holidays and are looking forward to good things in 2012.

I took a true blogcation. Time to reflect. Time to re-calibrate. Time to chill. Time to ponder the fragility and resilience of human beings.

Yes, that last sentence was a lead-in to talk about Dad. Before I discuss some moments in the last two weeks in the lives of two dutiful daughters, I would just like to prepare you for the cosmic fate that will befall me for being snarky about my father (Mom, aren’t you looking out for me?):

Not Lightening, BUT (click)

Dad spends four half-days each week at his sculpture studio, doing as he says, “chopping stone”. He is really quite good. And that he can chisel stone into art at any age, let alone, at 91 years old, is well, remarkable. He is remarkable.

But, let’s get into the nitty gritty, shall we?

The sculpture studio was closed for the holidays so he was on involuntary vacation for two weeks. Dad lives without Mom because of two things: his art and his family. He needs both (and, well, so does his family).

Dad is a lovely man and so it isn’t hard to want to spend time with him. Because we lost Mom, we know how precious is the time we spend with him. And he needed us more than usual.

SOB (sister of blogger) tried to find a movie that Dad would like. It needs to be historical and, if it is about an atrocity or two, so much the better. (For example, he never tires of seeing movies about the Holocaust or the Great Recession. So, no light-hearted holiday fare for Dad. Dad needs to leave a movie with a healthy dose of righteous indignation (why DOES SOB constantly say that I am Dad’s clone?).

Iron Lady, about Margaret Thacher, seemed like a winner: a mean, Conservative, Cold War warrior and leader of the UK who broke gender barriers (never mind Indira Ghandi and others), all with a hairdo that withstood whipping winds and never-ending London drizzle. Better than New Year’s Day or Kung Fu Panda II.

SOB is always upbeat if unrealistic. She emailed me: “I’m going to meet Dad – lunch and movie – Thatcher. I expect that he won’t hear any of the dialogue. Bet you $1 million that he says all actors mumble.” (Dad has yet to realize that he has a hearing impairment.)

From the movie, she texts: “The movie Iron Lady is great – Meryl Streep is of course fabulous. [Blogger] — I will give you $1 million if you can guess what Dad said after each and every preview – and another $1 million if you can guess what he said at the end of the movie, as tears were going down my face. I await your response.”

[Sidebar: The truth is that SOB and I go for broke like this all the time, we bet a couple of million every day. We never actually hand over our 401ks and deeds to our homes, etc. because we figure we will true up in front of the gates of Hell (SOB promised to come down with me instead of going up to Heaven because she would miss me). After the first gasps, POB (partner of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) are don’t bat an eyelash as SOB and I casually wager more than the value of our worldly possessions. Who can keep track anyway?]

Thinking that SOB gave the answer away in the first email, I confidently texted back: “At the end of the movie: all the actors are mumbling. After every preview, what kind of nonsense is this? Is this what we are teaching our children?”

I lost according to SOB: “End of the movie – beautiful, touching scene of Meryl Streep, and tears are streaming down my [SOB’s] face, Dad says: ‘What a strange movie, I won’t be recommending it.’ After each preview – Dad says in a stage whisper [with an incredulous and disgusted tone]: ‘G-d Amighty…'”

Also, Dad “stage whispers” at the top of his lungs. AND, if you knew my dad and his intonations and what thoughts and phrases follow which, you would know that the judges might be split on whether I got the response to the previews right. Just sayin’. But like I said, we have the rest of our lives and purgatory to figure out who — SOB or I — really won.

We saw Dad the next day and he thought the movie was short on the historical, political backdrop and too heavy on the emotions. “But what are people learning from this movie?” “Dad,” I said, “people who go to the movie know about Margaret Thacher. It is all about the commonality of the human experience, whether you were Prime Minister of England or an apple vendor. And, the acting brilliance of Meryl Streep.”

[Sidebar: Of course, I didn’t see the movie before I weighed in emphatically, but it is a free-for-all in our house and no one is required to be encumbered or constrained by fact or physics. And I only started liking Meryl Streep when I realized she was growing old gracefully and not getting face-lifts.]

Dad rolled his eyes and looked displeased.

He was still complaining about the movie a week later. So, it was a successful outing.

STILL, if only the director had thrown in some World War I or II footage — anywhere, in the credits or in the middle of a poignant emotional scene — it would have saved the movie for Dad. It would have also relegated the movie to the ranks of “Springtime for Hitler” and that cult fave, “The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”. But, SOB and I would have been grateful.

Maybe, there is an uncut version somewhere . . . .

A Merry Little Jewish Christmas

Posted on December 26, 2011 by 40andover

Even though I believe that one respects other’s traditions by not co-opting them, I do live in the real world.

In the real world, my partner and I are lesbians moms to a boy, my sister is married to a Catholic, my Jewish cousin has secretly (all his 67 years) wanted to decorate a Christmas tree and my son thinks that Hannukah wouldn’t be Hannukah without presents. There, you have it. A typical American family trying to navigate the traditions without losing our minds in the process.

Friday night, we started the festive weekend at the children’s Hannukah service and potluck at our synagogue. Our synagogue meets at the Church of the Holy Apostles (Chasidim Kadoshim, to the Jews). As if to show me that I am not the clueless among Jews, someone said, “It smells so wonderful in here, like pine trees!” Really? Really? Ever hear of “deck the halls with bows of holly . . . ” and the recipe, “kill a tree, attach chachkas to them, and one week later reduce to mulch. Repeat each year.” ??????

We also stayed for the adult service. It is difficult to take seriously a rabbi who has a Santa’s elves’ styled hat with a menorah on it but she did take it off when she spoke some words of Torah. It was an important drash to hear. There were three main themes: our viewpoint is imbued with our baggage, for every light there is a shadow and vice-versa and, finally, don’t accept the heroes of a story at face value.

First, the baggage. The story of Hannukah is simply the miracle that oil enough for one day lasted eight days so that the Jews who recaptured the Temple could perform the necessary re-sanctification rituals. But if it is 1948 Palestine, the story is about a military victory by a small group against mighty armies. If it is 1498, during the Inquisition, it is about the subjugation of a people. If you gather rabbis, it is about a miracle. If it is 2011, you might wonder if the Maccabees were zealots somewhat akin to today’s radical fundamentalists. (In fact, history bears that out.) So, who you are, where you’ve come from, and who you want to be, can shade the way you tell the story, and emphasize the elements.

Light of the Hannukah candles casts a shadow. For advance, there are detractors, some of whom are merely engaging in a power struggle. The shadow can be dangerous and it can be restful. The light can be the path but it can also burn. Light and shadow need each other. Success lies in the right balance. And that is the greatest challenge. The rabbi told us of settlers in the Israeli occupied territories who, whenever there is a threat to their settlement or way of life, burn down a mosque inside Israel. (Israel immediately rebuilds the mosques and other Jewish organizations provide Qurans and prayer rugs.) In the light of peace there is darkness. Darkness of zealots who use the cover of Judaism to perpetrate atrocities. Have they forgotten their parents’ and grandparents’ ordeals in Europe? How could this be? The light needs to shine a light on this darkness. These “Jews” do not deserve a place in Israel or anywhere in the quasi-civilized world.

For the first time in a long time, I was glad to to synagogue and learn about things that the mainstream media doesn’t cover. It made me think, rather than go to synagogue again, I should visit a mosque, Sikh temple or a church and listen.

After leaving synagogue, we looked up at the Empire State Building. Blue and white adorned two sides, and red and green, the other. I love New York.

Saturday, the Blogger family gathered with assorted cousins and in-laws to celebrate both traditions. In my sister’s house was a small Christmas tree decorated in blue and white with a rabbi as an ornament. Cousin Gentle was so excited because he thinks ornaments are sooooooo adorable that he wants to decorate the tree next year. I told Cousin Gentle that it had to have an irreverent theme, like that the Hasidic rabbi and the dreidel that was at the foot of the tree. He had a look of total inspiration that I believe he may have been visiting after-Christmas sales these last two days.

I LOVE how politically and religiously incorrect it was. And, of course, there was a Yahrzeit candle burning for my Catholic brother-in-law’s father who recently died. And my brother-in-law made the latkes.

Saturday night, everyone was Jewish and Christian and all was good with the world.

The Wedding Dress Part II

Posted on December 20, 2011 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

First, I never thought I would get married. Second, I never thought that if I ever did get married, it would be without you. I will be 48 (52 if you’ve read my other blog entries) at the wedding, so what did I expect? You ask. You’re right. But I am your last born, the baby of the family. I expected that you would live until, I don’t know, forever.

I know you are hovering in Heaven, but, right now, that is not good enough. And I am a conscientious objector when it comes to G-d but, because your soul cannot have dissipated into nothingness and because POB (partner of blogger) and I found each other, I hold out some specter of belief in some divinity in a world that is otherwise in decline. So, it is big that I believe, and this belief thing is, how they say these days, “on you”.

As an aside, does this Jewish guilt work on the other side? Am I wasting my time here? Drop a lightening bolt if guilt doesn’t matter in the hereafter. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.

So, I couldn’t call you when POB and I found the dresses. (Did you register any guilt feeling? Ok, I drop the question.) You would have been so excited about it (and relieved that we didn’t make you schlep to SoHo). You would ask about the wedding plans and then let your preferences be known in a velvet fist way that sounded soothing yet non-negotiable. Confrontational and gentle all at the same time. You should have been Secretary of State.

Thank G-d DOB (Dad of blogger)is healthy (for a 91 year-old) and seems like he will be there, G-d willing. (There I go again, with the G-d thing. I might lose my objector status, if this keeps up, so really let me know if guilt works up there.)

Speaking of DOB, I spent Sunday morning trying, in vain, to reconnect him to his email and the internet. SOS (our son, source of sanity) came with me on this mission of uselessness. I got DOB all reconnected and did a learning-by-doing tutorial that I custom-tailored for him. I did that tutorial more times than I can to tell. Nothing. NADA. He can play Free Cell and access his list of of charitable contributions without assistance. But, when it comes to the Internet, he can’t really type, he can’t really see the screen and he can’t really understand how to read and send emails. Still, he is righteously indignant that he doesn’t have much personal email in his inbox. SOS tried really hard to understand why DOB didn’t really understand computers, the internet or, quite frankly, the 21st century. Imagine if I listened to BOB (brother of blogger) and tried to get DOB on Facebook. Neither DOB or I would have survived the attempt.

But I digress. Back to me. I mean you. I really mean you and me.

It is crazy how something as anti-feminist as parents walking their child down the aisle seems so quaint and wonderful now. If only we could hold hands as you walked me down the aisle. Yes, life has dulled some of my sharp edges and quieted my doctrinaire ways. Because life, love and loss are complicated and our responses to them are idiosyncratic.

But what is simple is that I wish you were here to celebrate with us.

Really, come visit in my dreams and tell me about guilt in Heaven. It is the least you could do after having left us almost 9 years ago. (Did that rate on the Heavenly Guilt-o-Meter? Just asking. No offense intended.)

Love,

Blogger

Epic and Less-Epic

Posted on December 18, 2011 by 40andover

Saturday, POB (partner of blogger) and I had an appointment at a bridal salon. We arrived fashionably late at the SoHo boutique.

We were greeted by a girl who looked too young to drink or smoke legally. She is our WDE, wedding dress expert. I wondered, “Expert? Expert? Do you get a diploma in this?” I started humming “Beauty School Dropout” (how else does someone become a WDE?) but stopped in a great show of restraint and good manners.

We were ushered into this large room with a rack of sample WHITE and off WHITE dresses on either side. WDE says in a half question/half statement, “There are two brides?” Yes, I said, motioning to POB and me. She looked surprised momentarily, but recovered surprisingly gracefully. Nevertheless, I immediately started rethinking my haircut next week.

She offered water and wine. I asked for red wine. Pause. Now she had the upper hand — what kind of idiot asks for red wine in a room with white dresses? Ooooops.

The dresses looked so, so, so, soooooo bridal. I know, I know, what did I expect? But, but, but, after 12 years and a child, I just didn’t see us, in this room, with a WDE of the tender age of 23 (I asked; ok, she is marginally beyond the legal drinking and smoking threshold).

We decided to take turns trying on the same sample dresses (some were a little worn out and in need of a good cleaning or retirement). POB put on a dress that was spectacular. I tried it on and we all scrunched our noses. POB tried on another dress — half tried it on, because she knew she hated it even while she was putting it on. I, however, loved the dress. And so it went.

We settled on a different dress for each of us (so no match-y-match-y ookiness), but we wanted to put a hold on them until January.

Why? Because we had appointments at Kleinfeld’s, the wedding mecca for Jews. We thought we should experience this rite of passage even for our non-traditional wedding. At Kleinfeld’s, each bride is limited to five guests at the appointment. Really? I was surprised. I was told that I need to watch, Say Yes to the Dress,” and then I would understand the limit. But I didn’t understand why I would bring anyone. Another reason to go — I obviously need a lesson in my heritage.

WDE, who is young but still good at the hard sell, convinced us that we were losing the opportunity to have these limited edition dresses and we might not be able to purchase them in January and then there wouldn’t be enough time, and then what would we wear . . . (I was thinking, we would wear a dress of all the money we saved by NOT finding dresses) . . . .

Then I had a vision of one month before the wedding, my combing through the Lands End catalog for dresses, with free shipping and complimentary flannel nightgowns. I started to feel a little sweaty — panic or hot flash? Oh, damn this wedding craziness!!!

POB and I looked at each other. This WAS in fact the least we could to find dresses. And we always do the very least we can do.

I handed my credit card to our young, yet sly WDE. I emailed SOB (sister of blogger/bride) and my college friends (the Soeurs) — so, no turning back. POB and I don’t have our mothers (on this earth) but we have our 10 sisters: SOB, SOPOB (sister of POB) and the Soeurs. Now that I think of it, we would have just made the Kleinfeld’s limit, without a seat to spare. Pheeeewwwww.

Time Again for the Stupid, Stinking, Painted Ponies (with apologies to Joni Mitchell)

Posted on December 6, 2011 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I had dinner tonight. FILSOB’s (father-in-law of SOB’s) death has startled us anew about the fragility of life and the incomprehensible temporal divide between life and death.

FILSOB’s death also made us think of you, even though it is a week early for the “dark days” — the time, 9 years ago, when you started your month-long goodbye — December 13 to January 10. In truth, the “dark days” of 2002-2003 were not all sad; some, in fact, were the most honest, most hilarious and most screwball-comedic of our lives. The others were, well, depth-defying in their crushing pain.

You died before your peers. They were there to mourn you and comfort us. What will happen when Dad, MILSOB (mother-in-law of SOB) or FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) — each should live to 120 like Moses — dies? Who will still be alive, other than us (G-d willing), to mourn them?

Marty Hertz from the synagogue died and his funeral was today. SOB saw it in the paper and told Dad. He was grateful to SOB for telling him and glad he went to pay his respects. He heard that most people get these announcements on email and so he wants us to fix his email so he can have access. But we have tried dozens of times, and then we get calls from Dad saying, “somehow I can’t get on”, as if it has nothing to do with his pressing buttons in an arbitrary and explosive fashion. The definition of crazy is to keep trying day after day, month after month, to teach Dad how to use the Internet. So, since you’ve been gone, your daughters have become certifiable lunatics.

(As an aside, BOB (brother of blogger) wanted us to sign Dad on to Facebook. What a nightmare that would be. I told BOB not to have a thought about Dad unless he cleared it with SOB or me first. Talking Dad down from the Facebook ledge took some serious cajoling. “Are you telling me I CAN’T be on Facebook?” Dad asked defiantly. “Yes, yes, I am, Dad — not because we don’t want you to be on Facebook, but because you can’t master email yet.”)

What to do about the email Bulletin of Death from the synagogue? SOB and I decided that we will ask the synagogue to put us on the recipient list. Then we can call Dad every day for his Day in Death minute and recap the day’s sad events. That way, he’ll get the news and we will keep what is left of our sanity.

SOB and I can’t linger on the negatives for more than an hour or so. We also talked about all of the fabulous life experiences you and Dad gave us. You had no role models for parenting. You both grew up poor and in dysfunctional homes. And yet, you gave us things you never had and were loving and wonderful parents. And your loving relationship has been a model for your children.

We, your children, are the culmination of generations of strengths, weaknesses, aspirations, stubbornness, love and combativeness. Who will remember you, your parents and grandparents when SOB, BOB and I are gone?

Maybe, by remembering us, our children will remember the part of you that is in us. Because your time on this earth cannot be forgotten.

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Tag Archives: love