Tag Archives: death

Bringing in the Joni [Mitchell]

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It is that time of year again, when the days get darker and the weather colder.  And the despair.  Same despair as every year since 2002 when Mom started down that slippery slope to the end of her life.  The dark days, my sister and I call them.

Dear Mom:

We moved eight times ’round the seasons since you died.  We have rode those stupid, stinking, painted ponies eight times ’round the carousel of time.  And still, tears well up in both your daughters’ eyes just thinking about the fact that you are gone.

We have a lovely party for Dad’s 90th birthday.  We tried to keep the photo montage balanced so it wouldn’t be a shrine to you.  Your eldest (SOB, to my blogging friends) was strong and held me back.  We had to remember (ok, I had to remember) that we needed to be all about Dad that day, even though somehow being all about Dad means being all about you, too.

SOB tries to think that these past years allowed us to get to know Dad and allowed him to shine.  That is true. He is a wonderful, kind and generous man.  (Ok, generous in spirit, and in his gifts to his family, but on a day-to-day basis, a person needs a crowbar to open up his wallet.)  And don’t let those years of his croaking out notes on the saxophone fool you, he is a maestro when it comes to pushing our buttons in a tour de force — a veritable Liberace, but without the candelabra, crazy outfits or the ookiness.  But, he is aging more quickly these days.  And he will forever be lost without you.  As are we all to some extent.

Your grandchildren are fabulous young men.  BOB’s (brother of blogger’s) elder son asked us recently, “what do you remember most about Mamaw?”  I could see SOB’s eyes welling up.  Mine were, too.  I think we were caught off-guard by the question.  We were sitting at the dining room table — your table — and we were so awed by our nephew’s desire to know more about his grandmother.  Sometimes my son asks, “what would grandma say?” in a given situation.  I do my best imitation although I am scared that I can’t summon up your voice as well any more.

We’ve lost a fair amount of family since we lost you — Ricky, Uncle Billy, POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom, Rudy and Yvette, among others.  Rudy and Yvette needed me and I hope I made you proud by my actions.  We have had some notable additions.  SOB now has HOSOB (husband of SOB) who is fabulous and loves the family (who could have imagined?).  He made latkes for Hanukah.   I think he thinks that there is a special “conversion by cooking” clause in Judaism.  I keep telling him he has to dunk in the dirty water in the mikvah.  He is already practicing his aliyah for SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) Bar Mitzvah.  You would adore him.  He makes SOB laugh and smile in a way that makes me wish you could just come back — for just a moment — and see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes and know that SOB is happy and in love.

Also Cousin Gentle has joined our nuclear family pod.  It is so good to have the New York City contingent around our table on a Sunday night, eating, laughing, reminiscing and creating new memories.  You should have seen all the boys (and I am including Dad and POB’s father) around the train set that SOPOBAB got as a present.  Some moments are priceless and you want to freeze them in time.

Maybe there is a Heaven and you are there and see everything.  I know you never believed in it (“when you’re dead, you’re dead” you often said), but I cannot accept that there is a black hole in the world where your heart and soul once were.  You cannot have dissipated into the air.

Sometimes, your death gives me strength.  If I could get through that, I could get through almost anything that happens in a given day.  The economy has been hard these past years and I worry sometimes (ok, most of the time), but your life and death have given me a perspective that keeps me sane (mostly sane).

One last thing I wish you could help me navigate.  Matzah balls are supposed to sink; POB’s float (whoever heard of such a thing).  I know she cooks the Passover meal and it is her mother’s recipe and Passover is all about her mother (z”l) — as it should be, but when do you think I can start negotiating for the sinkers again?

I love you, Mom.

~  Blogger

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My sister-in-law, the keeper of the flame

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SILOB (sister-in-law of blogger) and I don’t have much in common.  I don’t know that much about her, mostly because BOB (brother of blogger) has banned potentially touchy topics, such as sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, religion, politics and the first-coming-versus-second-coming discussion that can be VERY tricky among Jews and Christians.  So, there isn’t much of interest to talk about, except our kids (my nephews are FABULOUS in case anyone wants to know).  I may have failed to mention that I curse like a sailor which may or may not be offensive to her.  BOB insulates her so well from us that we assume that she really doesn’t like the New York family.

Except for my mother.  When my mother died, SILOB said simply and beautifully that she was the daughter-in-law that my mother never expected (not Jewish, GOP, Texan) and my mother nevertheless threw her arms around her and made her welcome.  POB (partner of blogger) could relate; my mother — having had two girls and one boy — never expected to have TWO daughters-in-law.

Families are complicated.  Love isn’t as complicated.  What is complicated is what you do about the things you don’t like — or don’t know — about the people you love.   My mother seemed to have bridged the divides with her daughters-in-law well before her death.  So much so, that SILOB walked 60 miles in San Diego for the Susan G. Komen organization in my mother’s memory.

So, EIGHT years after my — OUR — mother’s death, SILOB keeps the dream of a cure for breast cancer alive.  She literally walked the walk.  She keeps my mother’s memory alive in a positive way (SOB (sister of blogger) and I try to, but sometimes, we just wallow in self-pity.)

It is a testament to SILOB and my mother and their relationship that eight years on, she fights breast cancer “for Elsie” [our mom].

I haven’t tried very hard to get to know SILOB these past 13 years.  I have allowed every inadvertent or intentional rebuff (mostly from BOB) be an excuse not to try harder.  But there is something very basic we share — the memories of Mom.   And that is one of the strongest ties I have to most people in my life.

To SILOB, the keeper of the flame and the fight for a breast cancer-free world.

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Photographs and memories

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We — the kids — are throwing a 90th birthday party for our Dad.  It is coming up, so SOB (sister of blogger) and I spent a few hours combing through old pictures that would go on a big poster board put up on an easel.

It wasn’t easy choosing among the pictures.  There are some as old as 1926 and as recent as last weekend.  Some are of individuals, and others are group shots.  We have pictures of cousins, friends, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents and some long-forgotten friends and family.  I looked at pictures of long dead relatives when they were young and laughing (and smoking and drinking).  Happy moments in sometimes hard lives.

A picture is worth 1,000 words, as an old adage goes.  Except the people who know those 1,000 words — and can tell the story, the back-story and gossip that brings the picture to life — are dead or have forgotten.  And when they were alive or could remember, I was too young to be interested.  And so, we have the pictures and sometimes notes and dates jotted on the backs.  There is a picture of my uncles in uniform with my grandparents.  Were they shipping out?  Were they on leave?  Were they home after the war was over?  The picture is small and the resolution not so great, so it is hard to tell their ages.  And my grandparents always looked ancient, anyway.  So, were my uncles scared about going to war, just on leave, or relieved that it was over and that they survived?

I wish I had 1,000 words for each of these pictures because now I am ready to hear the stories and learn the personal histories.  Now I know that people don’t live forever.  And I was so young and self-involved when people were trying to tell me.  And so I lost the richest part of my inheritance.

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Long Island — Heaven on Earth? Or the Other Place?

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My son has visited his grandmother’s graves.  They are on Long Island.  Sometimes, as parents do when they have no answers to children’s questions about love and loss, we say, “Nana and Grandma are watching from Heaven.”   About two or more years ago, I had to tell our son that a family friend — family, really — had died and — well, er, um — gone to Heaven.  “Does that mean he is buried on Long Island?” our son asked.  I responded that while some people believe that Long Island is Heaven on Earth, we in Manhattan think of it as a place to keep and honor the bodies of our dead loved ones, but that Heaven was not a place on Earth and surely not on Long Island.

Fast-forward to this week of vacation in rainy Montauk. Yes, on Long Island.  Heaven on Earth to some (not us, especially in the rain). Today is Day 3 on the road to Utopia.

For a retreat for the rich and even-richer, my experiences in the Hamptons and Montauk today were particularly democratic.  All of us thought we would be around a pool or at the beach.  But the weather is the great equalizer.  We stood cheek by jowl and vied for tickets at the local movie house or a table at the local pizzeria.  You may be a titan of industry when you are in NYC, but here, HERE, in the RAIN, don’t even THINK of trying to take THAT table in the greasy pizzeria.  I did offer a chair to a woman with a particularly large number of diamonds on her finger because the weight of them seemed to make her list to the left in a most unbecoming way.  Tragic deformities of wealth.  Good thing we are not at such risk; we will have good posture.

Julianne Moore was browsing the Montauk bookstore with her husband and daughter.  Of course, her children’s books were on display.  Since she was a lead in the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” I wanted to kiss POB (partner of blogger) to show her that women of a certain age with children can still feel love and passion, even though she portrayed some of us as insipid, mousy individuals.  Ok, some relationships, gay or straight, are that way.  But, it would be great if a major motion picture about lesbians wasn’t a feel-good movie for straight people.  Am I ranting?  Ok, so I am ranting while staying on some people’s version of Heaven.  Is this the closest I will get to the Pearly Gates?  Oh, boy, am I in deep shit.

I also went to the gym in East Hampton, because the stress of staying in Heaven while it rains was getting to me.  A woman started to talk to me in the locker room.  Apparently, even in Heaven, I have “schmuck” written on my forehead and a magnet for random strangers.  She was telling me that she needed to work out, rather spontaneously, because she was upstairs at Citarella and some woman continually bumped into her in a rude manner and then blamed her.  Apparently, she thought I was staring at her bizarre work-out “costume” (ok, she was right).  I looked around for the Court of Judgment and listened for those trumpets, because since this is Long Island, and therefore, Heaven, there must be a divine court of justice.  Hmmm.  Must be on vacation until Labor Day.  Back just in time to render judgment on me for Rosh Ha-Shanah.  My timing is impeccable.

The other thing I realized is that Long Island cannot be Heaven because I recognized some business people who said they would see me in Hell, and given their business habits, I believed that they, at least, would be THERE.

Gosh, I would love a relaxing beach vacation.  Anyone know where I can find one?

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Wednesday Date Night with Friends

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I arrive early.  A possible stolen moment of mindfulness and relaxation out of a harried day.  But this is New York City, where quiet was expunged from the lexicon long ago.  And I am a consummate New Yorker so I must email something to somebody.  And so I did, to POB (partner of blogger) and FOPOBAB (friends of POB and Blogger) who were joining us for dinner.  Witness my descent into madness.

—– Original Message —–
Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:00:35 2010 [I am 14 minutes 25 seconds early, standing outside a pulsating restaurant]

A hopping place we picked. Such an active bar scene that if you were here early I wouldn’t be able to tell. I am sweltering outside listening to Dancing Queen (they pipe out the music for the pleasure of the passersby). I am trying not to sing along.  I wish there were drag queens around to dance with. My inner 20-something

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:03:45 2010 [3 minutes and 10 seconds later]

Cabs are so plentiful I want to hail ALL of them.

Sent: Wed Jul 28 18:08:58 2010 [5 minutes 13 seconds later]

Men’s fashion is getting pushed to the limit. It is only ok if [husband of FOPOBOB, who always looks fabulous] would wear it. That is my litmus test.

Can you tell I am overwhelmed by the bar scene raging inside. Ok, a couple with a two year old are considering coming into the restaurant. Mean, evil parents. Toooo much. I am going to try to take a picture surreptitiously. [Unfortunately, I was unable to get my blackberry camera in focus quickly enough]

Sent: Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:10 PM [one minute two seconds later]

I am going inside. I am brave.

No one would seat me even though we had a reservation.  We ALL had to be there.  I had visions of being in a suburban steak house located in a mall where they say, “Ma’am, if you have a seat after your party has arrived, we will call you.”  And then you wait to hear, “Blogger, party of four!! Blogger, party of four!!”  Ok, I CAAAAN’T GO THERE.

We all arrive and sit down and everybody is chatting and happy to see each other.  I turn to the wife of FOPOBAB and ask, steeling myself for the answer, “how is your sister?”  [note: her sister had cancer].  I knew it was gutsy. 

Although time seems to evaporate when we all get together, it has been quite a few months and ANYTHING can, and does, happen.  I see the look on her face. 

Pause.  Pause.  Momentary out-of-body-experience.  Back in my body and wishing it lacked a mouth.

“She died.” 

[Why do I forget that I have a big S on my forehead for SCHMUCK?]

“We’ve seen you since then but we were with the kids, and I couldn’t go there.”

“Some hors d’oeuvres?” I say.  NO, NOT REALLY.   She tells me a hilarious story that happened as her sister literally lay dying that involved a nun.  There is humor in these moments.  I remember with my mother.  And if you been there, you can very comfortably listen and laugh along.  Because those stories help those still alive cope.

Meanwhile, POB and husband of FOPOBAB are talking about something else.  There is a break in the conversations.  I decided to catch up the others on our conversation. 

I turned to POB and said, “So, I asked about [wife of FOPOBAB]’s sister and she is dead.  But still we both have our appetites.  And, as you know, I have schmuck written on my forehead.”

Silence.

I turn to my friend and say, “in the future, just text us “worry” or “cry” and you fill us in on the details later.  Ok?”

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If you love someone

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If you love someone, then don’t make him or her executor of your will.

It is one of the most thankless jobs.  Sifting through the detritus of someone’s life is bad enough (you simply don’t need to know some things), but, then, you have to file tax returns and speak to the IRS because one never really leaves one’s affairs in order.  And there are clerical errors and the wrong tax identification numbers are submitted and life gets complicated and you remember that you love this person who died peacefully knowing all was in your care, and you know he or she would never have asked this of you had he or she known what it really meant.  [SIDEBAR: Ok, that was one of those crazy long sentences reserved only for established writers who look elegant in smoking jackets and cravats.  I am just a journeyman lawyer.  If I were Hemingway, I would continue on: “That was a damn good sentence.  A f@#$ing good sentence.  They opened a bottle of wine — a damn good bottle of wine —  and took turns taking swigs from the bottle because they were too proud of that f$%^ing sentence to move from the table.”]

I live my life so government stays far away from me, even as I am willing to pay more in taxes for better education, health care, etc.  I believe in Obama’s presidency and what he wants to accomplish because all of my grandparents were immigrants who struggled to provide a better life for their children, my parents.  And my parents embody the American Dream.  And I represent downward mobility or “regression to the mean” (which means that subsequent generations will achieve the stupidity of Joe the Plumber).  I support the “system” because it really can work (witness my parents and their entire generation in our extended family); I just work hard not to rely on the “system”. Yet now I have to deal with the government for the taxes on the estate of a person whose life is now reduced to a spreadsheet of dividend distributions and capital gains.

Ok, worse is to be guardian of a mentally incapacitated person.  I know someone who took on that burden and I believe there is a place in Heaven waiting for her after what I hope is a long, happy and healthy life on Earth.  But I digress.

POB (partner of blogger) believes that, in light of all of this, we need to rethink our financial future so that we give everything away except for two nickels at the second in time immediately before our deaths. That way, no one needs to do anything for us except have a little shiva cocktail party and light a Yahrzeit candle every now and again.  But the two nickels are really important to her.   I think she never wants anyone to say that we didn’t have “two nickels to rub together”.  Which is why I love her so.  She doesn’t want a “pot to piss in” because that is too crass.  She also expects “a roof over her head” so that doesn’t factor in (although she would consider a reverse mortgage so that there is no fuss about the homestead when we “go”).

She picks her aphorisms and saws to conjure a picture that we timed it all with precision and aforethought.  And she wants to live — and die — by them.  Of course, being the disaster planner that I am, I need to have only “two nickels to rub together” but also a sack of gold just in case.  Don’t tell her I have an extra stash, ok?

I guess the point — and I do have one — is that I am one of the lucky few who can be generally self-reliant and avoid government.  And, I have no expectations of an efficient government because I believe that is frankly impossible to achieve and unrealistic to expect.  If we were looking for efficiencies, we would ascribe to the Wall Street model and we know how that turned out.  No, government is tedious, hopelessly inefficient, and sometimes catches the do-gooders in the web of bureaucracy.  It is easy to complain about government.  It is hard to defend government.  There is a lot of paperwork to get benefits, but remember you are asking for money from the government.  It should be hard to get.

So, SOB (sister of blogger), because I love you, I will relieve you of the executrix role.  You are asking, “no, really, why?” Ok the answer is: (i) you’ll torture me for it and I will never get the last word for ALL ETERNITY and (ii) Mom would not want this to come between her two girls.  I believe BOB (brother of blogger) is also protected because Mom would not stand for that either.

Did you think there would be a point to this? Are you a new reader?

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Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one.  The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes.  Ok, I am living in the past.  The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic).  And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes.  This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”.  SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out.  POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out.  POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair.  Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world.  Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner.  Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day.  The warning was clear: be there or be talked about.  Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year.  In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level.  Grandnephews and nieces are not invited.  However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited.  So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news.  FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration.  Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family.  Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner.  Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most.  He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB?  Two family gatherings missed.  I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest.  You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today.  Yes, I did.  But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid.  Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog.   Ooooops.)

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The Circle Game

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My friend’s father passed away gently the other night. He had been chronically ill for three years and then, as it often happens, he deteriorated at a rapid and startling pace.

I read his obituary.  I was stunned.  The jovial, good-natured man I remember from my college years and my friend’s wedding was a marine in WWII.  The things he saw at such a young age could have shattered a person forever.  And then he joined the FBI, in counter-intelligence. He must have had a gun, although this image is totally incongruous with the person I remember.  Maybe he was the slightly rumpled government agent, world-weary yet a never-failing optimist — the quiet hero of our dreams and aspirations.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.  All I know is that my friend loved and respected her father and that makes him a hero.

He had sparkling eyes, was upbeat in nature, liked talking to people and was so proud of his daughter.  In my mind’s eye, I remember him as sitting with other parents at some graduation party, beaming and happy.  Of course, we, the graduates, were in a constant alcohol stupor and so the rest of the memory is a little vague.  Was it at the party my parents threw in one of the condo communities near the campus?  Those of you who might remember, please correct me if I am wrong.

A person lives an allotted number of years on earth and then, if you believe, abides in the hereafter.  A person also lives through that person’s impact on us — whether by DNA or nurture.  Whether good or bad, it is inescapable.  My friend resembles her father and, like her father, is kind and loves a good laugh.  He lives on in her (and her siblings) and her children (and their children).  I hope that my friend feels the portion of her dad’s soul that he put in her as he left this world.  I felt that happen when my mom died and she is an everyday part of me.

The hard part is after the rituals of death, when the world keeps moving and the carousel of time keeps spinning.  It is just brutal.

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The STUPID, STINKING, painted ponies

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In an email with the subject line, “and the painted ponies go up and down,” my college friend told us others of the group that her father is dying.     [reference to Joni Mitchell’s song, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5HXT0bn7QY].

Yep, the carousel of time.  And when someone steps off the carousel, there is no changing it.  No making up for lost time and no more opportunities for mended fences or kumbaya moments.  And when it is the end — contrary to movie moments — the focus is on the person dying and his/her comfort.  And the person is not always lucid or with energy to have those special moments that Hollywood assures us we will have.  And the person doesn’t step out of character for his or her final scene.  And, at the end, there isn’t a whole lot to say.

Forget Hollywood, death is wrenching, messy and doesn’t pause for a commercial break.

I am glad my friend has a big extended family and support network and, of course, she has us — the group of friends from college — although some live far away.

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120 is a stretch, but I won’t accept any less than 90

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My dad is 89 and 5 months.  As with young children, so, too, with the aged, the months matter.  89 is different than 89-1/2 which is different from 90.  The body ages as rapidly at that age as kids develop between the ages of 6 months and 3 years-old.

Today, after seeing my son’s Spring Festival performance, my father experienced chest pains, elevated blood pressure and dizziness and presented with a pallor suggestive of serious heart failure.  He had to be taken by ambulance to my sister’s hospital.  Of course, I knew that it had to be serious in order for my father to expose my son to this episode.  Still, as a mother, I thought, “you couldn’t catch a cab outside?”  Imagine my thinking my father should grip his heart in a state of distress and schlep out to Amsterdam Avenue to go to the hospital lest my 7.5 year-old child be exposed to trauma.  The power of motherhood is that you think these thoughts.  Fortunately, my psychotic moment gave way to remorse and the knowledge that if I didn’t repent, my mother — in Heaven — would send a lightning bolt to warn me to tread carefully.  (Our Seder theme this Passover is “where is there evidence of a loving G-d in the Hebrew Bible?”; however, wrath of G-d or Mom can really keep a person in line.)  Of course, my dad would never subject his grandson to trauma if he could avoid it.

My dad is ok.  I called my son (through his baby sitter’s cell phone) to tell him that Grandpa is okay.  “I was worried about Grandpa, E-Mom,” he told me, “but I really did a good job in the play!!”  I want to cry because my son can accept (and yet not understand) the simple and the complex simultaneously and in the same priority, in a way only children can (as long as they feel safe).

My dad has low thresholds of pain and discomfort so I thought this was one of those false alarms.  Still seething slightly from having my son subjected to an emergency, I kept in “radio-contact” with my sister, the doctor, who was in the ER with Dad, but I didn’t drop everything and run to his side, as I had done so many times before.  Then, all of a sudden, I thought, “I am being selfish and petty and he will die.”  As I was about to run up to the hospital, my sister called to say he was being discharged and it was something, just not a heart attack (even though my father is technically in heart failure).

I called Dad about 45 minutes later.  He was discombobulated; he hung up on me and then when I called back he didn’t realize what had happened.  I called my sister, who called him.  I waited.  I called again.  He was fine and he said, “I just spoke to POB [partner of blogger].  FOPOB [Father of POB] asked me to tell her that [insert random information].”  Ok, all is back to normal.  My Dad is my Dad.

SOB [sister of blogger] is calling BOB [brother of blogger].  Maybe he should come visit sooner rather than later.

When my Mom died in early 2003 at age 76, I made my father promise he would love until 120 (like Moses).  He would just have to make up the difference.  Life is unfair that way.  But I am starting to understand what that entails.  My father always tried to be there for his children, even if it wasn’t always what his children wanted or demanded or expected.  That is the way — we are the parents we always wanted to our children and our children will be the parent they always wanted to their children, and so on and so on.  Neither our parents nor we will be the parents that our children wanted.  That is the human condition.

If I relieve my Dad of his promise, will he think that he is dying?  Will he go more quickly because his promise is forgiven?  How can I tell him it is ok to let go when I really don’t want to lose him?  And it is not time for him to let go.  Life is more constrained than it was, but it is not the end game yet.

So, now I hope he makes it to 90 in good health.  Ok, Dad, just 90.  120 is negotiable.  But less than 90, that is a deal-breaker.  Are we clear?

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