With apologies to those who know the meter of this song — I only absorb it from pop culture”
T’was the eve of Christmas day,
I have been wallowing in old and recent pictures of the family. You know, the end-of-year auld lang syne thing, except without the drunken protestations of undying friendship.
Jews, as a rule, are not innately happy, because if you are happy, then the Evil Eye will visit some horribleness upon you and your loved ones. Preventing the Evil Eye from coming is hard work when you’re up against all the Yuletide cheer. It requires devotion to cynicism (which is extremely difficult this time of year — as you may remember, even Ebeneezer Scrooge gave in to the Yuletide cheer), remembering every lost loved one, predicting doom and gloom in the New Year, and staying up nights thinking up disaster plans if your family is suddenly homeless.
While I was protecting my family and the world from imminent disaster (say Keynahora — don’t ask why, just say it) by tearing up while looking through photos of my mother of blessed memory (don’t worry, no bringing in the Joni here), I noticed in the pictures that over time, the muscle tone in my arms went from “awesome” to — er — “pretty good for middle-age”. I decided that I needed to return to arms — not to “awesome” but — to “omigod, your arms don’t look like they belong on a middle-aged woman!” I determined that if I said “keynahora”, the incantation said by my grandmother right after she kissed the mezuzah and put money in the pushke (box for charity) enough times, no harm would come to my family if I indulged in a little narcissism.
Turns out I didn’t need to say “keynahora”, kiss anything or anyone because the Evil Eye got the last laugh.
Background: I have silvery hair, and have taken to “glamming out” a little (earrings, lipstick, scarves, jewelry) to balance the harshness of “going gray”.
TWICE tonight at the gym, men who are easily 20-25 years older than me were checking me out. I noticed they tried to meet my gaze and I looked back to see if they needed something. Seeing that they were holding my gaze, I turned around to see if there was someone else intended for the gaze. Just my reflection. Uh oh, I think. I am gray but I could be your daughter. Eeeeeewwwwww. Besides, you are at the gym either because you were too speculative in the last years and need to continue to work (greed is a boomerang) or you are just here to check out the women (shame on you because, statistically speaking, you have a wife at home with sagging arms). In either case, I don’t date MEN — and therefore men on social security — and I am married (as much as one can be in New York) to woman with whom I have a family. And does Medicare pay for that Viagra?
The other thing I noticed is that all young women (gay or straight) have tattoos just above the cracks of their tushies, and they make sure those tattoos are visible to all by wearing revealing gym wear. (I can look.) You can tell the non-straight girls because they are doing military pull ups and the really hard kind of push-ups. And some don’t even have that ooky muscled-up with no breasts look. But I digress.
The harsh truth that hit me is no girl was even glancing in my direction. So, what I am saying is that women may gender-bend, but they don’t generation-bend, although I look fabulous for 50 (I am 46-almost 47).
So, I didn’t need protection from the Evil Eye. I need protection from REALITY.
It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed. This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.
At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window. In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair. (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)
POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs). Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah. (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.) So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.
What could be bad? Well I am glad you asked.
First, HOSOB is making the latkes. That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook. Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window. This old-style, with schmaltz. My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.
Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends. That’s fine, we love other bird nerds. Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr. Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!” He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying. And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive. Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation. Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.
Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there. HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”). The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).
Fourth, I may be too sick to go. And I love my family. SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.
I’ll let you know what happens. Now time for a nap.
For over 46 years, I was an American. I was one of us — even though I am Jewish, an unrepentant liberal, and gay. There was room in the tent, even if a few people called me unpatriotic for opposing the Iraqi invasion.
But this year, things are different. Was my grandmother a citizen when my mother was born? Yes. Does it matter? Maybe I get dispensation because I pay in taxes what most people earn in a decade. I thought that in this country, one no longer had to buy freedom or the right to be protected from government interference. But if neo-fascists get their way, birthright citizenship goes away. If that happens, hell, I am moving because I am not paying my tax dollars into a system that makes me prove my mother’s citizenship. I bet that America would find that most of their tax dollars comes from second generation Americans and not the Tea Party Express members who fear that their status as descendants of European conquerors doesn’t buy a loaf of bread.
Then there is this talk about the oppressive Atheists who deprive Christians of their right to pray in schools. News flash: it isn’t just the Atheists. It is every mainstream of every minority religion that wants breathing space from fundamentalists — of whatever religion. As religious as were the founders, they believed, and the case law of our nation’s highest court supports, that there be a separation of church and state, mostly for the protection of the minority against the tyranny of the majority (thank you, Thomas Jefferson). Chew on that, Christine O’Donnell.
Protest is the hallmark of our nation. We were founded upon the belief that we had a right to protest the edicts of King Charles of England. So when video captures a campaign aide stomping on the head of a protester, one has to wonder who has hijacked our nation. I disagree with the campaign aide’s candidate on more things than I can count but I support his right to campaign on his ideas. If his staff cannot support the right of the opposition to protest, then they are totalitarian thugs. They don’t belong in the great experiment in democracy that is America.
Also in this election cycle, we learned that there are those who believe that if this nation were to allow gay marriage, it would be tantamount to allowing a person to marry a piece of furniture. No joke. Try telling that to your girlfriend.
Where did the ideals and dreams of America go? I am a stranger in my own land.
Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok. I am not good in the morning. Mostly, because I have very unrestful sleep. All day, every day, I am tired to the bone. That is just life for me. I yawn even when I work out because even that much adrenaline doesn’t keep me awake. I would drink coffee all day if that burning sensation in my stomach or esophagus would quit. You get the point.
POB (partner of blogger) has been away on business and is coming home late tonight. Our son remarked that “Mommy will be so tired tomorrow she’ll seem as lazy as you, E-Mom.” Shock. Disbelief. Dismay. My son is calling ME, lazy? At first I think maybe he understands the concept through comparison with his own exemplary model of laziness. But then I realize there is neither an introspective aspect nor an attempt to bond with a fellow lazy person.
This is what “we in the Tribe” would call a Jewish compliment — an insult made less stinging by including someone, i.e., POB, with otherwise excellent qualities in your category of degeneracy. So, since he has never been around Yiddish speakers or members of the immigrant generation, there must be a genetic component to his uncanny ability to deliver a stinging, yet subtly amusing Jewish compliment.
I would have appreciated it more had I not been appalled and yelling. Yelling is the one throw-back parenting technique that is still grudgingly allowed by the good parenting police. But it can only be used when you have had another stressful day at the office, working ever harder to mute the effects of a bad economy on your sense of self-worth and your ability to provide for your family. So, I properly invoked the technique.
But then I know that my son was just expressing things as they appear to him, unencumbered by a social filter. I know that others his age have some form of social filter. My son is different that way. And most times we work through the issue without my resorting to yelling, “how dare you say something like that?” My son was a little freaked out but not the least bit bowed by the event. Only now I have to put me in a time-out and have a serious talk with me about my behavior and how to channel my emotions in more socially acceptable ways.
And my son? He had dinner, shower, books and music before bed. I told him I love him and nothing changes that even if I was angry at what he said. And I do love him, and I always will.
But I am NOT lazy. (Ok, not compared to him.)
Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success. It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.
One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private. They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years. I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me. Crazy.
Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity. Follow me on this one. My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s. (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry). Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced. (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.) Blossom then married Aaron. Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie. The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah. But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start. POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”. POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered. I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter. I love this family.
My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s. Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game. It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game. Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.
Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera. All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War. They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle. It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.
One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other. He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight. SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order. Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.
SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed. At about 3am, she got a page. It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive. She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.
Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding. BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us. I was so moved. But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante. But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.
My dad is such a sweet, and humble man. When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words. The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?” Aaaaargh. My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility. Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.
We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave. In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people. The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again. I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours. Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving. Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish. I wish I had pictures of that.
A friend from high school sent me a message and thought I should rethink my prior blog entry on the Sanchez and Stewart dust-up (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2921).
I re-read it and my high school friend was right that I was unduly harsh and outrageously judgmental (and, although she didn’t say it, I will add, hypocritical) in my comments about Jon Stewart’s religious observance. It is none of my business and I was out of line.
I still believe that there was a potential for a teachable moment with Rick Sanchez, where we could talk about the source of the anger. There is so much anger in our society right now that I just wish we would look more closely at it, together, and find some common ground and possibly healing.
And even as I was trying to make that point in my prior blog entry, I took a needless and shameful pot-shot at Jon Stewart. As much as I love Jon Stewart and I would bear his children if I could (POB (partner of blogger) knows this and accepts this because, well, it is biologically impossible anyway), some things about him push my buttons and I react irrationally. Maybe that it why I feel bad (a little) for Rick Sanchez (whose show is, in my opinion, so bad as to be unwatchable).
Anyway, to my high school friend, thank you for “calling me” on this and I expect you to keep me in line as you see fit.
~ Blogger
I feel bad for Rick Sanchez and I feel bad for Jon Stewart.
I think Rick Sanchez was wrong about Jon Stewart’s sense of entitlement or paranoia as a Jew. I think Jon Stewart’s cultural Jewishness infuses his humor with that contrarian-isn’t-the-world-crazy approach, but that’s it.
But Rick wasn’t really talking about Jon Stewart. He was talking about how he — Rick Sanchez — feels about his place at CNN and the things that have kept him down. I don’t think one tirade should cost him his job. That only cements the anger. More famous people get to hire a spiritual adviser and keep their jobs or move onto the speaking tour. So, I say, CNN needs to listen to him and figure out whether or not his anger is justified.
As for Jon Stewart, I am sorry that he felt the need to change his name, although it is show business. And Leibowitz doesn’t really flow well. And Jon Stewart may have issues with Judaism — hey, he works (or at least new shows air) on the high Holy Days. Even the most lapsed Jew in the world finds a synagogue or stays home from work for self-reflection and contemplation on these holy days. So, he has baggage, too.
I have baggage. We all have baggage. Rick Sanchez should get his job back and he should go into therapy.
Further reinforcing my hypothesis that older people progressively allocate more time to traveling and invariably arrive early, our fathers came for 6pm dinner at 4:30pm, which coincides with the time-honored “early bird” hour. Which makes one wonder whether restaurateurs named, rather than caused, the phenomenon.
I don’t know about other Jewish families, but the first dinner after the Yom Kippur holy day involves comparing Yiskor books (books of remembrance for those who have died) and book plate honors (having someone’s name put in a prayerbook) from the various synagogues to which various members attend. It is a morbid combination of “Bingo”, “Wheel of [Mis]Fortune” and “Celebrity Match-ups”. I like to think of it as “Did You Remember to Name that Dead Person?”
My dad was upset that he forgot to list POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom (z”l). I said, “Don’t worry. You’ll remember next year, Dad. We had her covered.”
I mentioned that we also covered several uncles and cousins and he mentioned a few we forgot and also the grandparents. Oooooh. Darn!!! Missed that! Harumph. We need to have a huge list for next year, even if the dollars pile up (wait, you thought it was free?).
But we had a book plate put in a prayerbook for Dad’s 90th birthday. SCORE!!! (POB is sooooo awesome.)
POB’s father and our son were watching the football games. The other Jews shrugged and then started to talk about concussions and debilitating diseases, as a way of showing interest in the football game.
Then SOB (sister of blogger) wanted to take out the old family pictures so we can mount them on poster board for my Dad’s birthday party. We all got a little teary-eyed about how young and vibrant everyone looked and how most are now gone.
So, to recap: we have talked about death, destruction and death again. Just what Jews need to work up an appetite.
POB made a delicious dinner, over which we discussed the importance of building that Islamic Cultural Center right where they planned it and argued about the meaning of life, chaos theory and the mysteries of the universe. It got rather heated when we were contrasting a Jewish, G-d-centric approach that assumes that actions have meaning and can cause change versus the view that most of what we do doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. I ventured that, while I am not so sure that I believe the former, if I in fact believed the latter, then what’s the point and POB should just get my life insurance. At that point, POB’s father then asked, “how much?” in a very oddly interested tone. My brother-in-law (the bird nerd from other entries), quietly advised me not to go anywhere alone with my father-in-law. All this while I was choking over the salad course.
Dessert brought calm to the table as we talked about the Million Moderate March on October 30th and exhorted our TV-challenged relatives to tune into Jon Stewart on the web. (I could not speak to Stephen Colbert, because I remember him when he was really a right wing-nut at Dartmouth.)
So, death, destruction, death, religion & chaos, politics and comedy. Another excellent family dinner with the extended family.