Tag Archives: Life

No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

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Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness.  According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender.   (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.) 

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders.  None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2.  Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender.  Not that it matters.  But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway.  I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion.  But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”. 

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand.  Not dispositive.  No discernible Adam’s apple.  Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand).  Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive. 

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess).  But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams.  And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

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A schlepic

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schlepic (n): [pron: SHLE-pic] a journey of epic proportions (from the Yiddish schlep).  A schlepic is often measured by length and grueling effort or by short distance with emotional energy expended. 

So, according to Vebster’s Dictionary of Yiddish phrases, a schlepic can be long but complicated and frustrating travel or a short subway ride full of bizarre behavior and emotional and psychic energy.  Or anywhere along the continuum between those two points.

I had a schlepic this morning:

Although I am feeling “waist creep” — that terrible feeling that you can’t suck in your stomach to close your pants from last year — I am still a small person who can fit easily in the small space between two large passengers on a subway car.

And yet, I didn’t have to fit easily between two people in the subway car.  I was at the end of the bench next to a hand rail, a comfortable distance away from the next passenger, who had a wide berth on the other side of him as well.  Then, a large man squeezes in next to me. 

The man on the other side of him still has room to move down a little, but insists on standing (er, sitting) his ground. So the force of gravity is heading my way on the right and there is a metal handrail on my left. 

I lean over to assess the situation and see if I can ask the man on the other side to move down.  As I lean forward, I realize that I have lost the back of the seat to my fellow traveller’s shoulders.  He never looks up and he takes out a text book to read (very convenient on the subway).  The man on the other side is looking down and is wearing ear phones, so my “excuse me, sir” falls on already noise-filled ears.  I try to reach over to tap the man, because if I get up, then textbook man will slide into my already diminished space.  Of course, I had to invade textbook man’s space to tap the other passenger.  That turned out to be an affront to his G-d-given right to comfort and self-determination on the subway.   I said, “I am just trying to get a little more room here,” and his response was a sigh of disgust, as if I am the interloper.  Ok, ok, ok, how does this work?  I am being squished out of my seat and I am the interloper and troublemaker?

Many mean thoughts raced through my head.  Then rage.  Then my stop came.  No resolution.  No catharsis. No release.  Just a jackass on a train who thinks he is right.  Ok, he represents a huge demographic in our country.  Probably over 60% of the population.

Emotions and anger continue to rage as I walk up the steps and out of the subway. 

It was short, but a schlepic nevertheless.

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Punditry

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On the urging of my college friends, I entered the Washington Post contest for a new pundit/columnist position.  Ok, they were looking for a fresh face and mine is 45 years old, but, hey, I am younger than some people.

I submitted a short piece about the mixed legacy of Ted Kennedy (whether our nation’s ideals would have been better served if he didn’t get a free pass on his transgressions) and referred them to this blog. 

I had dreams of having a by-line on a column next to those of Pulitzer Prize winners.  My mother would have beamed from Heaven as if I had received a Nobel Peace Prize. 

So, by entering a contest, I was three degrees away from a Nobel Peace Prize.  Three degrees. 

So, I didn’t get a bronze, silver or gold.  But I was a contender. 

And that, I think, is close enough for my mother, who believed that EVERYONE is entitled MY opinions.

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Another Gym Moment

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We had had friends over for dinner Saturday night and good food and wine doesn’t not go gently on the body anymore. 

So, Sunday, at the stroke of 11:39am, I set off for a run.  I cut short the run at a mile, because, well, the chill in the air was not helping the creaks in my knees and the gym is warmer.  So I trot into the gym and, thinking about my new health regimen, I get one of those parsley, beet, cucumber, kale, blah blah blah drinks with some extra stuff for energy and focus.  It is a gross green color and therefore it must be good for me, right?

I drink it up as I am inputting my weight and my age into the machine (I pause for a moment to shake my head at the weight creep up the scale) and I notice that I have a faint after-taste of garlic.  Aaaargh.  Garlic was not listed in the ingredients to this elixir.  Luckily, I have one of those damp towels with eucalyptus in it (who knows why, but I took one), so I can breathe into it and not offend others near me.

This time I choose the recumbent bike, so that there is really no way I can fall off this machine, even if I faint from the garlic and the eucalyptus.  The woman next to me is ten years older and is going further and faster on her bike.  And she is burning more calories.  It’s ok, I rationalize because if I went faster, I would sweat more garlic, and SHE would keel over.  So my slow pace is actually altruistic.  And not only that, I am breathing through my eucalyptus towel to keep the garlic smell quotient to a minimum.

All of this altruism, eucalyptus and garlic is making me tired and I still 25 minutes to go (I have only been pedaling for five minutes, but it was a complicated and emotional five minutes).  The Marathon is on the TV and now I am psyched up to keep going.  Then I turn to another TV and see John King on CNN asking dumb questions instead of tough questions and I get agitated.  My bike starts making weird clanking noises.  They are loud enough for the people next to me to look over because they can hear the noises over their iPods.  The older woman is staring at me and I want to say, “hey, I am breathing into this stupid towel so you don’t faint from garlic, and you are running faster and further than I am, so you want to make something of my clanking bike?”  But of course I don’t.  I smile sheepishly as if I had been flatulent and everyone can smell it. 

Oh, will the degradation ever end for this schlepper at the gym?  No, I fear. 

I am destined for every gym visit to be — how shall I say? — “schl-epic”.

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Blackberries, iPhones and other means of electronic torture

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A few years ago, we were always on our blackberries because we were always juggling deals and family, etc.

Sometimes, we would look at our blackberries to be passive-aggressive if we were angry with our spouses.  Not with my spouse, however.  I tried that for one week and, thereafter, when I came home there was the ceremonial handing over of the blackberry to her and she would throw it somewhere, at least until dinner was over.

Now we are always on our blackberries, fiddling with the battery, checking whether the wifi is on, because we can’t imagine that no one needs to reach us immediately.  In fact, I have three different electronic gizmos just in case one doesn’t work.

Blackberries won’t give us business and restart the economy, but looking at it all the time will anger friends and family.  Sooooooo, I am starting a 12-step program.

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It’s The Great Pumpkin

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Ok, so my son’s babysitter and he carved a pumpkin LAST Friday because she is away this Friday.  So, we have a candle-less jack o’lantern in the house.  To me, it looked like a fruit that was poised to rot if left out.  (Maybe you are getting the idea that I hate Halloween.)  What am I to do with a carved-up piece of fruit that will attract every manner of vermin and insect into my kitchen?  Throw it out?  An excellent idea, except that would not be a good thing in my son’s eyes.  So, I put it in the refrigerator, where one puts stuff that would rot if left out.

My partner comes home and sees the pumpkin in the refrigerator and thinks I am an alien who came fully sprung from a pod and never experienced Halloween or any other quaint Americanism that our society holds dear.  She thinks it is even a little charming.  Then she realizes that I grew up in NYC and I am (allegedly) a non-pod person, so now she thinks I am crazy and a little ooky.

People dressing up in scary clothes, eating candy that rots out teeth, carving rotting fruit.  What kind of holiday is this anyway?

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No-Where-istan Swears In Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness

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Here she is, the Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness, plucked from the subways of NYC and into the ministry of Peace, Love and Happiness.  She is wearing the official dress and head gear of the country in keeping with its cultural roots.  There will be traditional dancing at the inaugural balls later on in the season.  But for now, I give you, ladies and gentlemen, Her Excellency the Minister:

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“Networking” is a drag

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So, last night, I go with a colleague to a networking party in our professional field.  I realized after scanning the faces in the crows how many of my friends and clients lost jobs.  I knew a few people there but not many.  After I spoke to them, I decided that I would just introduce myself and start talking to whomever and even work my way toward introductions with potential business sources. 

I was, in essence, speed-dating.  Some conversation starters worked, some didn’t.  Some situations were uncomfortable (as in former clients) and some were comical. 

I was trying to meet this important guy who was clearly not interested in talking to me.  But I planted myself next to him — why not? he doesn’t give us business now so what do I have to lose? — but unfortunately I also planted myself in the path of the waiter staff trying to pass hors d’oeuvres.   Someone in the conversation asked me what I do (as in for a living), and “I said I try not to get in the way and I am not always successful” as another waiter nearly beheaded me (AND I had moved out of the way) with a tray of almond crusts chicken on skewers.  Then we start talking about facilitating transactions and someone spills wine on my blazer.  “Don’t worry,” I say, “the color is midnight blue so no one will notice”.  Needless to say, I felt like the comic entertainment.  And my blazer needs to be dry-cleaned.

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Is it me?

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Last night’s commute, straight from my simultaneous note-taking on my blackberry (like Anderson Cooper on CNN blogging through commercials).

Man on the subway is talking about how horrible marriage is.  He is really ranking on his wife.  Says he doesn’t get why she wonders why he is always drunk.  Also, he is a fund manager without a fund. And he is belittling his “friend” who is on the train.  Now, he is pissed that his friend recently moved into a new apartment, asking his friend how come he is doing well if he can’t pull it together.  He keeps asking about people they know in common and whether they are married. I am gathering that they don’t work together any more.  They both get off the train. I guess it is my turn to stand up and ask women if they are wearing matching or clean undergarments.  Maybe a therapist will start talking about his or her crazy clients or maybe a disheveled man who is homeless but no more or less crazy than the fund-less fund manager will walk into the car. Nope. Pretty ok although there is a straight guy reading a pink colored book called Sex and the Single Girl. Ok, he just checked out a guy. So, maybe a not-so-straight guy reading a book with a pink cover about single women’s sex lives. Ok, that’s weirder.

Ok ok ok ok. I am heading out of the subway on one of those exit-only stairs that have the out-only turnstiles with the horizontal bars all the way up to the ceiling. A man in his 70s who sports the bohemian, artiste look is aheading of me and climbs onto one of the lower bars the way my 7 year-old does, intending for me to pushing him through.  So here I am pushing this strange stranger through the turnstile as I would my son.  At least, the (strange) stranger didn’t say weeeeeeeeeee like my son, thank G-d.  But I am standing on the street in the rain typing this on my blackberry, so who is the crazy one?

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Why I often focus on politics

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So, I focus on politics which is sometimes a downer.  But I can’t write about the Seinfeldian experiences in my family life because many of them read the blog.

In talking about a future gathering, the purpose of which is to pick at the emotional scabs over a wobbly relationship, I advised the person to wear a HazMat suit because although the people present vary in intensity, all will want to ask inappropriately invasive questions.  But I can’t go into the background because I don’t want to be excommunicated from my family.

So, you see my predicament.  I find people endlessly fascinating, but I need to keep it out of the family.

That is why I am going back to the gym and try to take public transportation.  Because the Seinfeldian experiences happen to me or to strangers and then it is fair game.

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