Sunday night dinner with the family

Posted on August 10, 2010 by 40andover

As usual, SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of blogger), DOB (dad of blogger), COB (cousin of blogger), POB (partner of blogger), Blogger and our son have dinner together at our house on Sunday nights. Our son calls the crowd, the “Regulars” (as in, “[Blogger], are the Regulars coming over this weekend?”). Often, after a funny story told by one of the assembled family, our son sometimes says to me, “[Blogger], why don’t you blog about that?” (Put that under the category of “Kids Say the Darndest Things”.)

Fresh Direct was scheduled to deliver groceries between 4pm and 6pm. DOB came at 4pm; Fresh Direct came at 6pm. In fact, as DOB ages, he is coming earlier and earlier. I think that is why restaurants offer early bird specials — the elderly set factor in so much time to get where they are going that, even though they intend to eat dinner at 6:30pm, they arrive at the restaurant at 4:30pm. So, if my rough calculations are correct, in just five short years, when DOB is 95, he will be showing up at brunch time. So we will have to have new menu options by then. Fair warning.

As I said, the Fresh Direct delivery came at 6pm. In our house, we play FDF (Fresh Direct football), which means that I throw non-glass groceries to our son, who runs it into the kitchen where POB puts them away. Sometimes, I follow in pursuit for a two-hand touch tackle. For glass (and milk), I do a pass off and our son runs it in. Less yardage but the quarterback can’t always pass. Sometimes, the vegetables look a little mangled and bruised if the pass is incomplete, but it still tastes fine. POB is unconvinced but keeps her opinions in the “if looks could kill” category. That works because I just look away.

SOB and HOSOB were at the house while we were playing FDF and SOB was a guest quarterback for a few clutch plays. I could tell she was a bit overwhelmed by the number of boxes and volume of foodstuffs that required cooking and preparing. SOB and HOSOB have been married for only a few years and, before that, SOB mostly lived alone and out of prepared food cartons. Even now, their refrigerator is a little post-apocalyptic (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2355 for pictures).

The expression on her face as she looked at the Fresh Direct boxes suggested that she found this somewhat foreign cultural activity charming and said to HOSOB pointing to the now empty boxes, “Groceries. [pause.] Groceries. We should have groceries, too!” (Dear SOB, most people buy groceries.)

HOSOB, looking a little scared, said “What would we do with them?” Oh, sweet, HOSOB, you and SOB can do nothing with groceries. You need to stick with what works — take-out.

The crazy coincidences of life

Posted on July 30, 2010 by 40andover

33 years ago, my sister met another freshman at college because of random dorm assignments. Two 18 year-olds, one from NYC and another from a small town in Wisconsin, became friends and that friendship has spanned the decades.

The friend is one of eight (yes, eight) children and, long ago, our mothers bonded over the trials, tribulations and –yes — tragedies from which they could not protect their children. And the families have, by happenstance, and good fortune (for our family) literally kept bumping into each other throughout life. I think Kurt Vonnegut had a word for this phenomenon.

When I went on college interviews, there was invariably a sibling nearby to greet me and show me around. When, years later, an out of town colleague of my ex was in NYC and wanted to bring a friend along for dinner, in walked another sibling. (They are instantly recognizable.) So, into my then home walked OMIGOD [name withheld] FROM WISCONSIN!!

When POB (partner of blogger) and I set up home and family in the very Upper West Side, who should be teaching at a pre-school nearby? That same sibling.

Years later, who is dancing at my sister’s (ahem, long awaited) nuptials? That college friend.

And whom do I see when I go for a run, on my way to work or out for coffee? You bet, the sibling. Sometimes we sit and chat about life. Sometimes, I just yell a greeting. If my sister’s college friend is visiting town, I always try to pop over to my sister’s and say hi. Even if I can’t make it, I know that will — and do — bump into that college friend during her stay.

Because our two families — from different backgrounds and along different life paths — were intended to know each other.

I emailed my sister today because I, of course, saw the sibling. My sister wrote back that this coincidence is not as crazy as how I met POB.

POB and I were in the same bunk at a camp on Cape Cod in 1974. We were 10 years old and best friends. Our families both lived in the City and subsequently we went to the same synagogue and Hebrew School. She did her homework; I was in the rabbi’s office. We continued to learn with the rabbis after Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation, until we graduated from high school. We lost touch for 20 years and re-met, first casually, then as good friends, and after our own relationships imploded, as life partners.

All I remember is that POB’s mother randomly picked a camp because they were building a summer house and needed the girls to go somewhere. POB’s father was not pleased at all with the facilities at the camp. When POB’s mother was alive, I often thanked her for not consulting with her husband as that might have changed the course of history. I still remind POB’s dad that going to that camp was one of the best things that happened to his daughter (I only say that when POB is not perturbed with me).

Life is crazy like that. Which is another reason to listen to your grandmother’s warnings about not wearing torn underwear or never going out without lipstick because the doctor in the emergency room could be your first boyfriend. And, no matter what happened since then — even if you are lesbian — you want to make sure that the guy regrets letting you get away.

Bridal Diapers???

Posted on July 21, 2010 by 40andover

http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/beauty/bridal-diapers-new-wedding-trend-1794912/

I have been meaning to write on the subject of bridal diapers (no, not as in horses). You have to read this. Truth IS stranger than fiction.

A college friend emailed this article around shortly after our 25th reunion in mid-June. (As I mentioned in an entry then, at reunion we discussed relevant topics such as, “if we were dating when in our 70s and 80s, would someone’s use of “Depends” diapers for convenience only be a dating deal breaker?”) We thought it was. We determined that one should maintain as much control as possible for as long as possible and resist smelling like a cesspool if at all possible.

But, apparently, according to the article, the bridal gowns are so cumbersome that going to the bathroom is a 20-minute ordeal or could possibly end in unsightly leakage. EEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

You would think the sensible answer would be, of course, GET A DIFFERENT DRESS!!

Nope, not for these bridezillas. The answer: DIAPERS, so they can wet themselves while talking to guests and dancing with their fathers or cutting the cake or being danced around on a chair.

Think about that the next time you go to a wedding. Think to yourself, could that dress be hiding a diaper? Could I be congratulating the happy couple while the bride is . . . ?

And we wonder why our civilization is rounding the drain.

Behind the scenes at my son’s 8th birthday party

Posted on June 27, 2010 by 40andover

First, let me say that my son had a great time. Second, let me say that POB (partner of blogger) and I did the least we could do. Everyday we star in our own MasterCard commercial. In this case, paying for an all-in party at Chelsea Piers bowling alley, $___; seeing your kid smile, PRICELESS.

We were greeted by the shift manager, a friendly enough woman. She failed to enunciate when she said her name and between the thumping music (which I forced them to turn down) and my middle aged ears, I couldn’t catch her name. Not to worry, my middle aged brain would have forgotten it in seconds anyway. She asked who was the mother and we both said, “we are”. Shock and consternation showed on her face. She then asked, “are there two birthday boys?” Ok, maybe she was thinking she needed to charge extra or maybe she was worried that there was some foul-up. But this is NEW YORK CITY on GAY PR IDE WEEKEND. (As for our family, we’re here, we’re queer, we are sooooo over it.)

Ok, so it took a few screams in all of our ear canals to get the point across (remember there was the thumping, party tape playing — another gift by the gay community) in order for the manager to understand that there were two Moms and that all was the same as planned. Phew. One small step for us, one giant step for GAY families.

My dad arrived early but not as early as usual so I was tempted to start a police manhunt to track him down. (He is almost 90 and I worry.) I waited outside and caught him as he was passing the place. He noted the loud music and then I wondered to myself, how can he hear the loud music but not hear me screaming “DAD!!!!” on the pier. A cosmic puzzlement. One of the moms of our son’s friends asked Dad, “whose father are you?” (as in is your daughter POB or Blogger?). My dad misunderstood the question, and answered, “No father. Two moms.” He came over to me later and suggested that someone didn’t realize the family dynamics and whether he should have a word with her. G-d bless my Dad. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the mom-in-question already told me about the mis-communication. So, I said, “Another time, Dad, and thanks.”

It is my son’s day, but I need to have a moment about my Dad. Sometimes, being the sandwich generation has it joyful moments.

I have spent the day putting together Star Wars lego battle cruisers, whatever. Every parent can relate. That’s why we don’t march in the parade. Who has time when there are Lego projects and Little League and Hebrew School and birthday parties?

I get emails from my college friends asking about the birthday party. I did NOT tell them (not that I wouldn’t but we had facial moisturizer to discuss). But one is “friends” with my sister who posted pictures of the event. You can run but you can’t hide.

A confession

Posted on June 15, 2010 by 40andover

I have been strong and even-keeled about my 25th college reunion — ok, maybe the sheer number of blog entries suggests otherwise.

I have to confess that I have been working my triceps and biceps because CLEARLY I will feel less like a failure standing next to my classmates who are CEOs of Fortune 500 companies if my biceps and triceps are toned.

I mentioned this to a work colleague who said:

“Or you can either (i) wear long sleeves or (ii) keep your arms glued to your sides.”

Now, that was brilliant. She should go instead of me. (It took me a while to realize that she wasn’t suggesting I actually glue my arm to my sides, which I also thought was a brilliant idea.)

A Note to My Sister

Posted on June 13, 2010 by 40andover

Dear SOB (sister of blogger):

I really appreciated your notes of appreciation (“you’re a saint” — but we are Jews, for G-d’s sake) and helpful hints (“take care of [my husband] while I am gone”) this week.

It was epic to set up Dad’s computer and bring him into the 21st century, especially when he was so comfy in the 19th. He still can’t access email even though I made it as simple as possible. (I think the double-click is the problem. He remembers to click once but not twice. How do you teach a 90 year-old reflexes of the computer age?) I guess sainthood — or beatification at least — is indeed warranted.

I am sorry you missed Sunday night dinner, but HOSOB (husband of SOB) carried on valiantly. I appreciated your email reminding me (threatening me?) that HOSOB could only have one dessert serving. Good thing we had a big enough plate:

Just kidding. He had a small piece and some fruit to amortize the artery-occluding stuff in the chocolate cake:

ReeeLAXX, will you?

HOSOB and Cousin Gentle played with SOPOBAB (son of partner of blogger and blogger) and we all learned a lot of things about playing together. Don’t worry, it was SOPOBAB that did most of the learning. HOSOB and Cousin Gentle offered helpful hints, like “incorporate everyone’s imaginative story lines” and “don’t drop your pants until you’re in the bathroom, the light is on and the door is closed”. These are important things that the bigger guys need to say to littler guy. Lesbian moms just don’t have that authenticity when it comes to bathroom and trouser-dropping etiquette.

FOB (father of blogger) had a little too much wine, but what the heck, at 90, he can live a little.

He is coming over to my office tomorrow so we can go over “some papers”. Um, BOB (brother of blogger), aren’t you a lawyer, too? I think I may have to conference you on the phone so you can share these tender moments of wrapping up Mom’s estate and dealing with FOB’s talking about the end of his life. [Imagine my putting my hands over my ears and making crazy noises to block out the conversation.] Ok, here is the deal: I may be strong enough to put FOB on the internet, but I am wholly too young and immature for the rest of it.

FOPOB (father of POB) also came. I think he had a good time, even with a large complement from our side of the family.

Cousin Gentle recounted his tour yesterday of Revolutionary War-era New York. SOPOBAB was quite taken with the subject and Cousin Gentle needed to make up stuff to satisfy the boy’s endless curiosity. I had to throw some curves into the conversation to give Cousin Gentle some time to come up with a plausible story line about the slave trade during that time and other assorted information that SOPOBAB needed to know. FOB was so taken with SOPOBAB’s curious mind that, together with the extra wine, he was pronouncing our child Einsteinian. Ok, I have to say that SOPOBAB’s questions were impressive in that they were probing and based on some knowledge he has gleaned from videos and books — more than I will ever know about that historical period, I assure you.

Also, Cousin Gentle bought Reddi-Whip after having it at your house. He served it to a guest at his house. He said it wasn’t as good as your supply. Do you have private label Reddi-Whip because you buy it in bulk? That was also a conversation topic.

Now you are caught up.

I leave on Thursday for my 25th college reunion. I will blog from there — it will be like Anderson Cooper reporting from the field.

~ Blogger

Change of Venue

Posted on May 31, 2010 by 40andover

SOB (sister of blogger) came back from visiting her in-laws and wanted us all to come over for Sunday night dinner at her house. The usual complement of the family showed up. POB (partner of blogger) was happy for the night off from cooking.

As I was helping my sister, I had occasion to open her refrigerator. This is what I saw:

Nothing else on that shelf in the refrigerator. Without these cans of non-nutritive and non-food particles, you could sleep in that refrigerator. I was amazed and therefore, I had cause to investigate further and I found this in the freezer:

I was a little shocked to see all of this ice cream and sorbet especially when she said she went out especially to buy vanilla ice cream for my son. Really? Really? You mean you didn’t pick up vanilla by accident while you were buying in bulk?? Or maybe the neighborhood store threw a vanilla in your order because as part of a customer rewards program? In all that ice cream and sorbet, there wasn’t already vanilla?

Then SOB said something that completely blew my mind, as a 46 year-old listening to her 50 year-old sister: “you can’t imagine how quickly we go through this.” Doesn’t HOSOB (husband of SOB) have a cholesterol issue? Doesn’t SOB have high blood pressure?

AND, AND, to add insult to injury, SOB is the doctor in the family. She is supposed to know better. Because she is an M.D. and has mastered that air of authority, she can get away with saying crazy things. I loved her comment, “eating fat-free whipped cream is like eating nothing”.

For the sake of family pride, I feel compelled to mention that she went to excellent schools and has incredible credentials. Because even I, the juris doctor, know that what she was saying was just nuts (which, by the way, you could have had on your ice cream with whipped cream).

25th Reunion

Posted on May 15, 2010 by 40andover

I have 5 weeks until my 25th college reunion. I have 5 weeks to be slim, prosperous, toned and, maybe, un-gray.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute. I was a crammer in college — I was still buying the books from the class syllabus three days before the final exam. (And my GPA showed it.)

I am 46 and, with 5 weeks to go, here is my status:

Slim: I am much slimmer now than I was in college, even though I have gained “more than a few” pounds in recent years. I call it the Recession 8. Better than the Freshman 15. (I had come in with the pre-Freshman 30, so I don’t have college to blame.) But, in truth, I look pretty slim. So, √ in that box.

Prosperous: Ok, things were better a few years ago, before people on Wall Street got stupid and greedy. But, while I don’t stack up to the crazy high-profile entrepreneurs in my class, I am really fortunate. So, √ in that box.

Toned: I want to be buff. I don’t look bad, although there is a certain sag to the skin on my legs from my fat days. And gravity does “weigh down” some erstwhile perky parts. So no short shorts and no tank tops for me. Anyway, after a certain age, a person looks ridiculous in that kind of outfit. I lost this last week to having injured my hip and back (a little arthritis in the hip leads to compensating with other muscles that spasm which leads to crippling pain), and so I think buff is out of the question, but quietly toned is still possible. So, X in this box (with an “*I don’t care anymore because I am not so shallow” followed by “**Does anyone outgrow that infantile sour grapes attitude? Surely not I”).

Un-gray: I am unconvinced on this. Covering the gray requires upkeep even after the reunion. That is a huge commitment. Still under advisement. So put a ? in that box.

My son just walked in and kissed me. He really wants to use the computer, but the kiss was also real. That’s the things with kids — they take you as you are and they don’t put on the artifices that we adults do as naturally as we get dressed in the morning. POB (partner of blogger) calls out to me and wants to know what we want to do for dinner tonight. I remind her to call her dad about coming over for dinner tomorrow night with my dad and assorted relatives.

Now, I think, do I care if I am thin, prosperous, toned and un-gray? Yes, but not because of reunion. I am happy and I don’t envy anyone or want to be envied. I simply want my family to be happy and healthy and safe. I have that. Add new box and put √√√ in it!!! (with an *”still would like to be slim, prosperous, toned and less gray”) .

[break for dinner out during which my son has a mother of all melt-downs and tests my resolve against spanking as a disciplinary tool.]

Ok, so my son was temporary invaded by an alien life form, and all because we cannot go to his choice of local restaurants (there were no tables available). This is not my son (usually). The following race through my mind: (i) aliens are clever, (ii) my parents grew up poor and would not abide such behavior in us, (iii) we knew not to exhibit such behavior and (iv) what have I done to create this monster?

Am I still happy and blessed? Absolutely. Am I pissed? You betcha. But keep the new box with the √√√ in it, and don’t forget the all-important asterisk.

Mother’s Day

Posted on May 10, 2010 by 40andover

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.)

My birthday weekend

Posted on May 2, 2010 by 40andover

So, it started in an annoyingly jaded New York way, “I was rushing to my acupuncturist and simply had to stop to take these photos”.

Here are the photos. As POB (partner of blogger) says, in New York, the rich live cheek by jowl with the homeless, and projects exist side by side with luxury condo buildings. So, on one of the first beautiful days of the year, restauranteurs put tables outside and voilá, amid the downtrodden and the garbage:

So, trite but still so unbelievable.

I wonder if the needles hurt more because I was late. Also, my acupuncturist is now a black-belt in karate. Ok, a little Jekyll-Hyde drama unfolding. But I digress. Ok, maybe I won’t digress. Now that I think of it, what am I doing having a black-belt shove needles into my nerve endings? I did have a particularly prickly acupuncturist session. More thought must be given and a full review is necessary (in another entry).

Dinner followed with my “adopted” daughter and her partner. My daughter went to law school against my better judgment and sounder opinion. Still, she seems to love it and, watch out, she will be a formidable adversary. Still she makes a fabulous chocolate birthday cake. Look and weep:

On the bright side, if you are her adversary and she cleans up the courtroom floor with your argument, she might bake you a consolation confection. Just a thought.

So, my brother came in for the weekend to see my dad. BOB (brother of blogger) had not been in town for over a year. He had planned to come in during the September High Holy Days, but contracted swine flu. So, we gave him a pass on that trip, without asking for the lab results (if you’re family, we don’t ask for proof of illness).

I was not looking forward to re-ordering my birthday weekend, but in the end it was fabulous.

BOB came solo — without wife and kids. While we missed the full family complement, I think he was able to relax more. BOB was dream uncle for my son. They played ball and watched sun bathers (my son’s idea) [see prior blog about his MoMA visit] and just did that male bonding thing that is not always so possible if you have two moms.

We gathered the extended family who lives in Manhattan for dinner. True to form, HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and one of our dear cousins got into a food eating contest. At one point, one of our younger cousins took away the plates and forks but still there was salmon left uneaten. Not wanting to dirty another fork (cleaning that fork expands our carbon footprint), I told HOSOB to use the serving implement. Others thought I was joking. HOSOB knew I was serious and, such a sweet and wonderful guy, he listens to me even though I am not his wife, SOB (sister of blogger):

Of course, I had to take a picture for the family archives.

I am not so sure what BOB thinks of the odd antics of the evening. I would like to think that it was just like riding a bike — that he felt at home with the volume and the rhythm of an evening with the ganza mishpocheh (the extended family).

My birthday wish? To have my brother, my sister-in-law and their boys laughing around my dinner table at Sunday night dinners (with pictures), so that, years from now, we can say, “remember when we used to have dinner together on Sunday nights?”

Ok, maybe it’ll be fifteen years from now, when my nephews (by then, young men) move to NY and drag their parents, kicking and screaming, in tow. (A new agenda item at our weekly family meetings.) Wishes take time, I know.

But it was so great to be together again, if only for 36 hours. Mom z”l was happy.

And because up until that moment the evening lacked a (bloggable) weird twist, SOB handed me a copy of her Last Will and Testament, so I would have it for safe-keeping. So, I signed up for the Hemlock Society because it seemed a natural progression.

We ARE weird.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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