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Much to my relief, the fairy godmother/angel of love is a performance artist, which means while she is a free spirit she is trying to make money to survive. Which also means that she is a good actress so she has talent. When you put money in her bucket, she flaps her angel wings. And she had a new message yesterday:
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Saturday the family came over for our traditional New Year’s lunch. It was pleasant and generally uneventful. Which is why I thought aliens had taken over my family. My sister did not go as far as to say that she agreed with my assessment, but she did note the absence of the usual guaranteed bloggable moments. The rest of the day was a blur except that I chugged Pepto Bismol.
Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) roused everyone to go to synagogue on the second day of the holiday. We went Friday night, we went Saturday morning (and dashed home to prepare for the luncheon). And now we are going to shul for the third day running? Did I go to sleep a Reform Jew and wake up Conservative? Is this my beautiful house, Is this my beautiful wife? How did I get here? WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Theological arguments were a non-starter. So, schlepped we did. Our son was fraying through this. After all, up to this point he was lovely and gentle and sweet-looking in his oh-so-cute bowtie. And he is a boy. And boys need to run around. A LOT. But, he was in services, I was chugging Pepto-Bismol, and he was acting out.
We went to a luncheon at our dear friends’ house that afternoon. Those present at the luncheon played connect the riffs of the rabbi’s talk on Saturday, to see who could string them all together into one message. People did brilliant jobs and came up with different conclusions. (After Friday night, I just played it safe at the children’s services.)
Bottom-line: Two days of RH are too much for me.
Friday night is the birthday of the world. The world is 5770 years ago, or so the Jewish tradition would have it. And, since global warming has kicked into high gear, it is not looking so good. Especially after the immense amount of war casualties this year. And the fall-out of the financial crises. The world needs a spa millenium.
Anyway, we sang happy birthday in that Jewish way of taking a happy moment and pointing out how bad the world looks and how bad we look in the world’s reflection. So, no cake for the world. Anyway, there is not a cake big enough to fit 5771 candles, so a piece of sponge cake will have to do.
Services start at 6:30pm. I meet POB (partner of blogger) who pulls out Pepto Bismol from her bag and offers me a swig. This is not a required Jewish ritual for Rosh HaShanah, but many Jews do use the stuff because we have a high incidence of irritable bowel (that’s part of why we complain so much). I have been suffering mightily recently and since I read the article on social contagion theory, I am sure that my cousin who has irritable bowel syndrome passed it on to me. But I digress.
It is hard for a room full of Jews to stop talking so the rabbi’s job is hard. That’s why there is at least a half-hour flex time between when the service starts and when it REALLY has to start.
When we walked in, we thought we belonged to the synagogue “servicing the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered Jews, their families and their friends.” Apparently, that is soooo older generation. Now the synagogue “serves Jews of all sexual orientations and gender identities”. Ahhhh. Wait, there are more than two genders? This is its own separate bloggable moment. We have established, however, that POB and I are here, we’re queer and we are out of touch. Ok, I digress again.
So, we sit through a lovely service (comfortably, thanks to POB and Pepto Bismol). There is something comforting about the rhythms of the seasons and the traditions and chanting the prayers using melodies and tropes that have gone from generation to generation (even if one generation doesn’t understand that there are more than two genders). The rabbi gets up and starts speaking. She uses beautiful imagery but I get lost in the imagery and cannot follow what she is talking about. I am thinking she doesn’t know either. First, we learn that the founding of the Hudson River shares a birthday with the world. 400 years ago. There is probably a cake big enough for 401 candles. Soooo special. The river flows in two directions. The river’s water has lapped these shores as change has to come to the river and Manhattan Island. Change is not fast, but a slow progression of miniscule changes the cumulative impact of which is only visible in hindsight. This is an excellent metaphor for the process of changing the nation, the world and humanity. Then, the rabbi gets a little lost in the poetry of light beams dancing on the river and the blue of the river changing with the light. I am hearing about lots of different blues. I check my blackberry. POB nudges me. I stop messaging and start listening. Still, lots of blue water lapping the shores while we fail to notice. Lots of lapping blue that we could notice, but then we wouldn’t make it to work or feed our families. I am really losing the point here. I am dizzy.
We get home, where my sister and brother-in-law are staying with our son. This is their way of observing the birthday of the world — watching videos and eating pizza and lying on the couch. My sister is wearing my sweatshirt . Apparently she was cold and didn’t want to hunt through our stuff (remember only two weeks ago, they hunted for a bird caught in our apartment), but knowing me, she could just go to my side of the bed, look down, and find something that was only partially worn that day. Life is good when your sister knows you and loves you and will wear your slightly worn clothes.
POB and I went to sleep that night exhausted and dizzy, but happy because a new year brings new beginnings (and for me, more bloggable moments).
Tonight is the start of Rosh HaShanah and the ten days of introspection, reflection, repentance and atonement, culminating in Yom Kippur.
But today, today, is the day when frantic Jews push and shove to get the ingredients of the holiday meals.
I went out to get a challah (special bread for Sabbaths and holidays) from the neighborhood bakery on the upper, Upper West Side. I stand in a long line winding its way outside this adorable store front. All is seemingly calm until I move into the store as my turn comes up. I hear in a booming voice:
One woman is so upset that she isn’t being paid attention that she refuses all bakery workers’ efforts to assist her. She needs to feel oppressed. This is the kind of stuff that should happen in the privacy of a psychiatrist’s office.
Then a rumor rages rampant that only raisin and whole wheat (oy) challahs were left. Now, comes the pushing and the shoving. People step out of line, disgusted. Then we find out there are plain challahs. Now people want to step back into line.
Great for Talmud, not for the hand-to-hand combat of pre-holiday upper, Upper West Side.
As everyone climbs over each other (vowing internally to start repentance tonight), I get my challah and leave quickly and, thank G-d, intact.
Mornings are always hectic in our house. But not for me (note to self: be grateful; gloating could get you in trouble).
My partner (POB) is an early riser. My son has to be, too, since he needs to get to school on time. I hear the noise, confusion and (mostly) gentle prodding of our son to get ready. I am still lying in bed with a pillow over my head. Then in barrels our son, ready for some rough-housing in the morning (which he quaintly calls cuddling — even when we play two crashing trains). I rise to the occasion and then fall back in my bed when he scampers off to school. Off they go to school via bus or subway — more than I could ever manage.
For the first week of school, POB was away on business and our son was anxious about his new school. The cajoling and prodding took a long time. Plus, POB told me that we had to be there a whole 15 minutes earlier than necessary — a lifetime in the morning. Hmmmmm. She now feigns innocence as if I conjured this up out of the air. Obviously, since I was barely compos mentis at these early hours, we took cabs to school.
The minute POB returned from her trip, our son gave me up but said helpfully, “We were running late.” Thanks for the cover, bud. I appreciate your sticking by me as you rat me out. Note to self: have his aunt, “the vault”, teach him some pointers about secrets.
So, POB is strong, fearless and awake enough to take public transportation. Our family fisc thanks her.
The good news is that she is adaptive to any situation.
This morning I get an email from POB that recognizes and affirms me in all my frailties and is also practical:
“[Our son] had to use the bathroom on the way to school [NOTE: he never wants to go before he leaves so we get into this problem] so we ducked into McDonalds which took FOREVER so I channeled my inner [me, the blogger] and we took a cab. We made it just in time – and [our son] was truly apologetic so we vowed to launch the Morning Team to better figure this out.” [Note to self: keep your head down and don’t make eye contact, lest you are picked for the team.]
An episode in the morning of a house of mirth.
So, I am in a mood most foul after a typical day on my own personal road to Utopia when I descend into the malodorous 42nd Street subway station.
There, to my surprise is . . .
the Angel of Love.
And, she is handing out . . .
messages of love.
And, I am charmed. She seems so guileless and weird. She is probably an out-of-work actress rather than an out-of-her-mind NYer.
And then I think, does she make a living this way? Can I do this AND support my family?
One moment’s flight of fantasy is followed by the cold-hearted calculations, all in the City where there is a broken heart for every light on Broadway.
It is ok to poke fun at No Drama Obama for getting caught on an open mike. Always a problem for politicians. But fall-out and outrage at his comment? Outrage is an outrageous response.
And, “jackass” is better than George Bush’s reference to a reporter as an “asshole” or Reagan’s joke about bombing the USSR.
And, the truth is an absolute defense. Kanye West deserves to be called an arrogant, impolite, egotistical jackass. So, Obama was tame.
Still it is fun to rib the President about the gaffe, but let’s not create a “Curser Movement”.
This Sunday, the New York Times magazine section had a big article on the theory of social contagion to explain obesity, happiness, smoking, non-smoking, etc.
Like every theory, causality cannot be fully determined. For example, there is a direct correlation between when asphalt melts and babies die. Melting asphalt doesn’t kill babies. The heat makes asphalt melt and over-exposure to the heat can kill babies. So, here, too, social contagion theory can show correlation but not causality.
If the theory has some merit, we can influence, and be influenced by, others. Maybe that is why one person can spark a movement. And why acting responsibly and teaching by example can change the world.
I want desperately to believe in this theory for the good that it represents (and I am a little scared of its power to spread evil). Then Gandhi, Mandela, Moses, Jesus, the Islamic prophet (whose name is not to be uttered) are not flukes.
Why did the Berlin Wall come down? Maybe social contagion. How do people rise up against despots? Maybe social contagion.
Unfortunately, by the same token, social contagion can explain atrocities across the globe.
As with most things, the trick is to harness the power, dedication and focus for good. These days, that seems like a daily challenge.
Yesterday, I spent almost two hours talking with a friend who is a businessman from the Cayman Islands. He is in New York on business. Since his business is somewhat US-dependent, he makes it his business to keep up with the news in the States. He is a Libertarian and a pragmatist. I am Democrat and (I like to think) a pragmatist. We agreed on many things, such as the need to compromise and get incremental reform because it is a matter of conscience that people have affordable access to health care. And I agreed with him that the public option will not pay for itself and should be phased in later if other measures don’t rein in the insurance companies. We simply cannot afford to institute this option at this point, given the deficit.
We disagreed on two points. The points of disagreement fascinate me.
First, he thought that death panels could be read into the legislation because it was not expressly disclaimed. My friend is an intelligent, well-read man; he is not Todd Palin. So I had to think about this more. Here is what I have deduced:
I guess what I am learning is while I am firmly in the third camp, not all of the concern may be politically motivated. Sarah Palin must have hit a chord with many, many people who have a deep, abiding distrust of government. Hey, I was scared of government under Bush/Cheney, so I guess I have to be more open to the fear that this legislation unleashed. Interestingly, it took my Cayman Islands friend — an outsider — to help me start to understand the perspective of blog commenter “Jordana”. We still disagree, but now I understand that we may not be starting from the same point of trust. That changes the dynamics of the conversation considerably.
The other point was related to torture. Some torture is understandable under some circumstances. I have never met someone who held that view. While I can see not prosecuting the CIA, I believe that torture is not understandable under any circumstances. I don’t want to be tortured and I would probably make stuff up just to make it stop. So, I don’t see how it helps get to the truth.
Every morning POB (partner of blogger) brings a mug of coffee for me and puts it on my bedside table, so I have coffee as I am waking up. I am a lucky person.
I am especially lucky this morning because the coffee is delicious and warm and my body is stiff and sore from my run yesterday and our son bounds into our bed and lunges over me to get the remote control lest we miss one moment of the senseless cartoons available to numb our children’s minds. Warm coffee (as opposed to piping hot) spills all over my jammies. Even if it were piping hot, I may not have been able to move. POB is already dressed and going out to get some groceries. No wonder I am tired. POB’s schedule is enough to exhaust TWO people.
I speak to my cousin who is recovering from major surgery and he says some chicken soup would do him good. What does POB do? Starts making chicken soup. I need a nap now and it isn’t even 10am.
By 10:45am, I am able to limp into the shower. Then we dash off to our son’s schoolmate’s birthday party. New school, new friends, new challenges. Our son is a little scared. We go to the amusement park and we meet up with the group and all is good. Except amusement parks remind me of horror flicks, sad clowns and freaky sideshows. There is an odd, clown-like man working at this place and I am as fascinated by him as I am ooked out.
Then pizza and cake and chaotic running around. The kids are so friendly and I can see that our son feels right at home. He has a crush on one girl whom he has known for many years — more than a crush really, because even though he is 7, he asked her to marry him and she said yes. But he is talking up another girl, too. Bad form, dude. It is your first week, so be circumspect with the girls. The other girl’s mom says that her daughter and my son may be competing for the affections of the same girl. I think, wow, this place is too groovy and hip for words. But I can tell already that there are back stories. I’ll ease into those. For now, I am happy because my son is happy.
POB and I are so happy that we do not want to ruin the moment by discussing wedding plans. As founding members of the Bridezombies, we have to set a standard for detail avoidance. We set a high standard. We are proud.
Family dinner tonight, but my sister and brother-in-law bag out. My sister cannot seem to follow doctor’s orders (even though she is a doctor) and her foot is not healing. She over-exerted and now can’t move. Let’s work through this problem together.
Let’s say you are a competent doctor (as in you didn’t get your medical degree from the internet) and another doctor whom you respect (as in it is ok for the doctor to examine you but not cut into you) tells you to use a cane and stay off your feet as much as possible. Then let’s say you have a conference where if you were really healthy you would stand all day and present an interesting case (work with me here; I know we are talking about diseases). So, even though you aren’t healthy, you stand all day and don’t use a cane.
Ok, so maybe my sister did get her medical degree from the internet.
Bottom line, Sis and the Man cannot come to Sunday night dinner. I call them afterward to tell them about the fun and the food they missed so they feel really bad. It is, in fact, the least I could do. My brother-in-law sends a grovelling email. A little more grovelling ought to do the trick.
A young cousin comes over. My son wants to know why he didn’t become a professional hockey player since he played in college. I want to know, too, because he is depriving the extended family of an element necessary to the true American family. We need a sports star. We already have doctors, lawyers, artists, entrepreneurs, felons (ok, only one), mixed marriages, gays and lesbians (ok, only one), etc. What a crowning achievement for a Jewish family to have a member who suits up in armor and carries a club to do battle on ice and someone keeps score. But, he is taking the easy way out and going to school, going into debt, to become a professional. So old school. Still, he is a lovely guy and it will be great to see more of him.
I am so happy to have (some of) my family together around my table. I think wistfully of a bigger gathering, one that includes my sick cousin, my dear cousin who is his niece, all together. I know my cousins who are uncle and niece need to work out their issues, but I love them both and family is so precious.