Things I learned today (and Phoenix was awesome)

Posted on September 24, 2012 by 40andover

I learned why the health care debate is bullshit. It is sterile and removed from reality.

When a family member is ill and you cannot care for him or her, you must rely on strangers. Strangers are not always reliable; not because they don’t want to do their jobs but because there are so many in need that your loved one is not necessarily the first on the list.

So, health care is flawed. It is a morass. It is frustrating. It isn’t the well-intentioned attendant’s fault; it isn’t the overwhelmed agency’s fault; it isn’t the government’s fault. (Sure there are bad people out there, but let’s discount that factor for a moment.) Illness is at fault. It is a problem that we are not all health care professionals who can leave our jobs to care for our loved ones. Forget Federal Medical Leave Act during bad economic times. Most people are too scared that there will be some other pretext for the employer to fire them.

When you delegate, you lose control of the outcome. That is why there was poison in toothpaste imported from China. That is why we throw away electronics when they stop working because it is cheaper to buy new than to fix the old.

People don’t fit into an economic model. There is value in keeping people healthy; there is joy in adding quality to the waning years. There is pain when science keeps the body going after the mind and soul have left.

I have lived the cushy private system for only a few days and it is hell. When a patient can’t help him or herself, then it doesn’t matter who is providing the service. If you are lucky, you can telecommute and keep an eye on the situation and reassure your loved one, with your words, hell, with just your presence. But most people are not so lucky.

So, don’t talk to me about vouchers or Medicare or the Great Solution. When your family member is in need, there are no good answers.

DAD UPDATE:

Dad remembered my name today. He was true to his word last night. He also remembered a host of other crazy facts and information. We all thought he earned that scotch tonight with his hors d’oeuvres. (Ok, let’s be honest, club soda with a splash of the good stuff.) Clap if you agree. (Yes, we hear you. Thanks.)

Don’t bet against Phoenix. He is roaring from the ashes.

Phoenix rises, then stumbles. Repeat.

Posted on September 23, 2012 by 40andover

Take anti-nausea pills before reading. It is a little like being a castaway at sea.

Dad came home yesterday afternoon. He was relieved to be home. There is an amazing “muscle memory” about being home. He knew how to motor around the house to find the things he wanted even though he was wobbly on his feet and could not put the words together to talk to us. Also, we ordered a wheelchair, a walker and a cane because we didn’t know his needs.

Shortly after he got home, he wanted very much to call the United Jewish Appeal but the reason made no sense. And it was the Sabbath. His frustration was rising and logic wasn’t working. So I dialed POB’s cell and I said (actually, I was desperately directing her), “Dad needs to speak to the UJA, so pretend.” I passed the phone to Dad, and turned up the volume so SOB and I could hear. “Hello, Mr. [DOB], this is “Rachel” from the UJA. Thank you for your pledge . . . .” She went on until Dad said, “ok, thank you very much.” Dad was satisfied and almost looked as if he would nap . . . Nah, no luck.

Sidebar: POB should be nominated for an Academy Award, since she performed while on a crowded bus with SOS, who was quite confused. (She told him that we were testing his phone skills and SOS loved the cloak and dagger of it.)

SOS was scared to see Grandpa injured. We were all scared of the future. BOB was busy cleaning out all of his junk mail and organizing recent files. Man on a mission. We all found ways to soothe our individual terror at our new reality.

When SOS, POB and HOSOB arrived, we all gathered around and went through recent pictures to jog his memory. SOB and I had previously gone out shopping and HOSOB brought some liquid relaxation (wine). By this point, it was “cocktails and hors d’oeuvres” hour because that is the way one does things in Dad’s house. Since he wasn’t so steady on his feet, we pretended to give him a “scotch” but it was club soda. The upside of a little dementia — he thought it was scotch.

Cousin Gentle arrived later on. By the time we ate dinner, he knew that he was surrounded by family, and very happily so, but only remembered the names of the eldest, Cousin Gentle, and the youngest, SOS. Also, his evening attendant ate with us, so we could weave her into the fabric of the day (and she is lovely in any event). BOB stayed until today, so at around 9:30, the rest could leave for much deserved rest.

Sidebar: At this stage, rest is elusive. Sleep is a non-starter.

The night was long and difficult according to BOB. And BOB looked like he hadn’t slept.

By morning, Dad was better, but still inconsistent in strength, gait and comprehension. Dad was using the walker and BOB was playing in the wheelchair. BOB challenged Dad to a race. It was actually very funny to watch them go back and forth. A little insanity amid pervasive insanity is very healing. And it demonstrated that Dad’s personality is intact. It is his memory that needs work.

He started to nod off after lunch and had a long nap. SOB and I went out to get supplies and some fresh air because we were either trying to keep Dad engaged or listen for any sign of a problem while he slept. We saw this in the drug store and thought it captured our feelings — we just wanted to SCREAM out of fear, frustration, lack of control, uncertainty of the future, you name it:

And, then. And, then. Good ol’ Phoenix.

He woke up able to walk without any support but the real proof that Dad was Phoenix rising was that he did not go for the fake scotch at cocktail hour. I had to put a little scotch in the club soda so there was a faint smell of liquor. Dad was still not happy but mollified somewhat.

POB and SOS came over for a surprise visit at dinner because SOS wanted to see Grandpa and he was sad that SOB and I might be lonely and scared “alone” with Dad.

Sidebar: I can take no credit for the soulfulness, generosity and sense of family that is in my son’s heart. POB is responsible.

POB was talking to Dad and he had some good recall of random things. And, he was even grousing about the fake cocktail. I overheard this, and I said, “Dad, you have to earn that cocktail!! Get strong, get steady, get your memory back!!” Everyone laughed. My father saluted me. He knows his kids are his bosses — his essential personality shining through.

It was time for him to go to sleep. The attendant was going to help him wash up.

I kissed him and said, “Goodnight, Daddy, I love you.”

“Goodnight, my darling, I love you.”

“Can you tell me my name?”

He hesitated. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Ok, Daddy, maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe, tomorrow.

In a flash

Posted on September 21, 2012 by 40andover

It is day three of the second worst ordeal of my life. The first was the death of my mother.

On Monday, Dad came to Rosh HaShanah luncheon — cheery as always, gracious as always, happy to be with family, as always. Lest you think he was an angel on earth, he did hold forth as to matters of politics, HOSOB’s painting, or poorly behaved people in his congregation. He doesn’t say anything in a catty way; as to the latter category, he merely sees their inadequacies as explanation of their behavior.

As the lunch wound down, we all said our goodbyes. We all kissed and hugged Dad and wished him a happy and healthy new year. He wished us the same with a force that can only come from a parent to child. It was not unusual. No portents of the coming events.

SOB and I often talk about that one day when Dad is late to a dinner or doesn’t pick up the phone. That one day when Dad leaves us. We always wanted it to be quick and painless – a coda for a life well-lived and a fortunate man who shared his good fortune with others.

We were not prepared for a call that Dad collapsed in the street (on his way to a doctor’s appointment) and had a huge contusion on his head and some bleeding into his brain. SOB and I rushed to the hospital. As the day wore on, the confusion seemed more pronounced and settled. He knows us but he doesn’t really except that he is calm with us and he trusts us. So, there is some comprehension through the haze. And his essential personality is intact. He is a lovely man and the nurses are happy to take care of someone who says please and thank you and generally grateful for the help.

Dad is in ICU and there is a kids’ playroom, so the nurse gave us a ball to throw with him that first day.

Final score: Reflexes: 90%; Cognition: 0%; His humanity: 100%.

For day two, he mostly slept, with notable interruptions of bursts of songs from the Big Band years. The nurses love it but, then again, they haven’t heard Dad’s limited set for as many years as we have. Late that night he got confused and fell.

Day three started with physical therapy. He can walk, with assistance. He had a vague sense of POB and me. He quickly fell back to asleep. He slept through an echo-cardiogram (which looked good even to a non-doctor). He had another round of physical therapy. He walked fast and steady. And he did call SOB by name (no, he does not call his eldest daughter “SOB”). I hope the anti-seizure medication will wear off because it is adding to his confusion. He seems to remember us by name now. A few minutes have passed. Ok, not so much any more. Reflexes: 30%; Cognition: 0.5%; His humanity: steady at 100%.

But wait there is more. Today, the Kumbaya Guitar Lady/The Singing Nun came by because she heard that Dad likes to sing. Fortunately, he slept through it. We, however, could not.

While Dad slept, we spoke with nursing services and got things in order for Dad.

Then I called his long term care carrier. After one hour of terrible telephone music, only interrupted by being transferred from claims to intake to woman from hell, I learned that long term care kicks in after 100 days of 24/7 care diagnosis.

“So, if Dad is still alive, we’ll talk,” I said.

“Oh, no, someone will contact you in 5 business days to go over everything we just went over.”

“But we just went over everything, didn’t we? And what if I am unavailable when the call comes?”

“No problem, m’am, you can schedule the call.”

OK, I thought, let’s schedule a call for a hypothetical need that 3.5 months from now and they won’t pay the full freight. “Great, mornings are best for me —“

“Oh, no, m’am,” she interrupted, “you can’t schedule with ME. When you missed the first call, you can call back to reschedule. But we promise that we will make the first call within 5 business days.”

Oh, great. “Take your time, really,” I said.

It was 5 pm on a Friday and the private nurse service hasn’t called. So I called the service.

“Your call is important to us so please continue to hold, or if you would like, leave a message and we will return the call in 30 minutes.”

Really? Nah. So, I wait on the line. After hearing those words not less than 9 times, I have imagined that the recording said, “if you are a patient and have died while waiting for us to answer, please accept our condolences.” Actually, they were lovely when I finally reached a human.

So now we need to have someone manage the care that Dad needs. A house manager, as it were. We can sit with him and talk to him and feed him, but fill out the forms? Are you kidding me?

So, SOB, POB and I chat while Dad is sleeping. We discuss that HOSOB should bring the painting that Dad critiques and tell Dad that he won’t change the size of the car in the street scene. Just get it off his chest. Or maybe HOSOB can tell Dad about the dangers of fracking, because while we agree with him, we don’t need the details. At least not now, when we can only focus on Dad and, possibly, showering and brushing our teeth.

BOB arrived and we sat with Dad through dinner and for a while afterward. Dad was awake but confused. BOB got to do the manly things that we girls hesitate to do so as to give Dad some privacy and dignity.

Sidebar: BOB asked Dad if he was sleeping well in the hospital, and Dad nodded yes. This surprised BOB because unfortunately he has been hospitalized a few times and can never get a good night’s sleep. SOB offered matter-of-factly, “sleeping well in a hospital requires a brain injury”. We say the craziest things when we have to wear hair-nets and sterilized robes, while sitting on in our Dad’s room in the ICU Burn unit because there are no beds in regular ICU. All these plastic surgeons running around and my father is in bad shape and I have to stop from thinking, “should I ask someone about my droopy eyelids?”

So, what have we learned today: brain bleeds are bad but if you have one you can sleep soundly in a hospital and everyone looks ugly in hair-nets. Was this knowledge really necessary? Nooooooooooooooooo.

I always worried how Dad would die. But I never worried that there would be anything left unsaid. I am lucky that way.

More on the Basic Foundations

Posted on September 12, 2012 by 40andover

Our camp alma mater starts with “[t]he basic foundations of Wingate are expressed in what we advocate: be kind to others, know oneself, value knowledge and strive to create….”

Today I tried to live up to the first principle: be kind to others.

First a little back story that Wingaters know because I posted on our super-secret-decoder-ring-required Facebook page (with some edits):

Last night, I hopped the bus from the gym to home. It was 9:15pm. There was a confused elderly lady on the bus who was talking to the bus driver. The bus driver was impatient and short with this woman and dismissed her with, “switch buses at 110th Street for the M4”. OK, great. Really helpful, Ms. Bus Driver.

The old woman, Joan (as I later learned), seemed concerned that she would navigate this transfer successfully. She kept asking others on the bus, “is this 110th?”. So, I piped up that I was getting off at her stop (not true) and would help her make the transfer.

I couldn’t bare the thought of a confused person with limited night vision trying to find the bus stop around the corner from where the bus driver let us off.

I thought this woman could have been my mother if she were still alive. She is, in fact, the mother of two (as I later learned). But, all that matters is that she is a person in the world whose mind and body were failing and who needed a helping hand.

I waited with her until the bus came because she wouldn’t let me pay for a cab. I think she wanted the company. As we chatted, she told me about her life, her late husband, her children. She was a school administrator at Trinity School in New York City. She told me her name and where she lived. She kept repeating her phone number so I could call her. She gave me, as a stranger, too much information for her own safety. But her loneliness made my heart ache, so when she asked for my business card, I gave it to her.

I tracked down one of Joan’s children on the Internet and called him this morning to tell him that his mother was traveling late last night, and she was confused, lost and alone. He is aware of the problem but “she won’t listen”. He said, short of committing her, there was nothing he could do. I tried to develop a rapport by talking about my elderly and lonely dad and how we kids navigate this situation. He sighed and hmmm’ed. I said she seemed very lonely and I asked her when he last saw her. He said FIVE years and that should just show me how stubborn she was and how he HAD to throw in the towel. Really? Painful? yes. Give up? No. Inexcusable.

His sister is supposed to take care of things now. She is at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore (Joan told me). I don’t know her married name and he wouldn’t tell me. I told him about services in Joan’s area. I asked him to please tell his sister what happened.

I know he will do nothing. But she has my business card so she may call. If she remembers who I am.

I shared this with my Wingate camp friends. One commented, “Do parents give up on children? No. Children shouldn’t give up on them.” Another said, “I know very good geriatricians and helpers in her area. I can give you names.” SOB offered names for a psychological evaluation at a local hospital. Others chimed in their support.

It was hard to hear the sadness in Joan’s voice, experience the forgetfulness of Joan’s mind and see the fear in Joan’s eyes. It is scary to think that Joan might call me and draw me into her world. Extending a helping hand is harder than writing a check. It can getting messy, frustrating and time-consuming.

The basic foundations of Wingate are guiding principles for living a purposeful and enriched life, not an easy life. Step 1: Be kind to others.

Wonder and Awe

Posted on September 10, 2012 by 40andover

Life is complicated. The carousel of time often feels like a gerbil’s exercise wheel.

Now that we are adults, we are mostly surrounded by colleagues, other parents, strangers (and just plain strange people), and family. But not friends. (And while colleagues, life partners and family can be friends, it isn’t ever simple.) And, while we may love our lives, our families and our work, “carefree” does not describe any activity that comes to mind.

I think we all go through periods when our self-esteem and our souls feel depleted. If you are lucky, there is a special place you can go (either in your mind or with your body) for solace, resolve and validation. And, if you are really, really, lucky, this place is there even if you forget about it for decades.

I am one of these really, really, lucky people. This weekend, 49 similarly blessed women and I returned to Camp Wingate (and still others were carried to Yarmouth in our hearts and memories).

Once I drove past the camp sign, I was transported to another place and time, where the days were about friendship, nature and self-discovery.

No one could pretend that 30 or more years had not passed and no one tried (ok, I lunged for a ball on the tennis court that will put me in traction, but I digress).

We came to see each other and breathe in the memories of summers as young girls and blossoming women. And to visit our special place, where we could do anything and be anything.

It is amazing how good the air smelled (still). How gross the bathrooms are (still). How thin the mattresses are (still). How stiff we were in the mornings (now, not then). How early we wanted to go to sleep (wow, full circle, huh?) but powered through to maximize time with each other. How the tennis courts got bigger (ok, we just can’t run down those balls any more) and Elisha’s Pond got smaller (“lake” was never really an appropriate word). How wonderful to catch up while making friendship bracelets in the art studio or playing tennis with wood racquets.

And the comfort that still, among the many unanswered, and perhaps unanswerable, mysteries of the universe, are:

How did Pearl know and remember every bad (and good) thing each of us did each summer?
What were we thinking when we used to walk on the rail road tracks to L’il Peach to buy candy? It was an active train route!!!
How did Pearl survive our childhoods? How did we?
And why did she keep letting us come back?

But wait, there are a few more: Where else in the world could I be considered part of an awesome DJ trio for compiling and playing summer pop songs of the 1960s-80s? Where else could I dance with childlike abandon with my childhood friends and without regard to any rhythmic sequence? Where else could 40-, 50- and 60-year olds (promise me no one was in her 30s) could have endless hours of fun singing these songs into hair brushes and flashlights and strumming on tennis racquets?

Wingate helped lay the foundations that made us strong, kind, purposeful people. At campfire, even the words to the Circle Game or Anticipation weren’t so scary because here we were, decades later, standing with the friends of our youth and feeling enveloped by love, and realizing that the goodbyes said decades ago don’t always have to be permanent.

My spirit is revived, my mind is peaceful, my soul is nourished and I left an even bigger piece of my heart at Camp Wingate.

What I Learn on Summer Vacations

Posted on August 27, 2012 by 40andover

At the beginning of each summer, I get so excited, and — since my descent into adulthood — I get so disappointed at its end. A textbook example of crazy — doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. The lesson to be learned is that summer is for kids. Especially if you are with your children on your vacation.

But I digress.

In less than 2 weeks, I am going to a camp reunion and one of the organizers asked us to write about what we learned at Camp Wingate that has stayed with us through the years.

Community; friendship; respect for nature. Under these big themes are innumerable ways in which Wingate touched my life and brought out the best in me. But there is one thing in particular that comes to mind.

Every evening, after dinner, we would have Potlatch. It was a meeting in which all — counselors, campers and guests — gathered for announcements and talk about evening activities. It was a comforting ritual. Pearl, the camp director, read out anonymous suggestions from the Suggestion Box. Most of them were written by the older campers with double-entendres that us younger kids could only pretend to laugh at. Sometimes there were serious suggestions. A lot of suggestions started with: “Somebody should stop others from . . . . [picking bark off trees for no reason], [sticking gum under the seats in the dining hall], [leaving the art studio such a mess] or [teasing someone].”

Pearl would say, “whoever wrote this: why don’t YOU be that somebody?”

BE THAT SOMEBODY. Take control. You have power to change things. You have a responsibility to change things. No, don’t look away. Don’t wait for someone else.

Pearl, the special thing about girls’ camping, is that I learned that I am that somebody. It means being a bull in china shop sometimes. And, at 48, I am finally good with that.

A Remarkable Family

Posted on July 8, 2012 by 40andover

Like most remarkable families, they are not famous. And they don’t look at each other and think, “gee, we are remarkable”. It goes without saying that they don’t have a reality TV show.

A man, a woman and their four daughters. Not the Brady Bunch. Not hair of gold (like Carol Brady) and their skin was so white that a flash light could give them a sunburn.

I met them at Camp Wingate for Girls. Not all at once. First the eldest and then the third child. A year later, the youngest. A year or so later, the second child.

1971. The eldest was someone whom people respected and she was engaged to a counselor at the boy’s camp. I looked up to her and knew her every move, because she had an air about her. I don’t think we ever spoke. The third sister was an oldest camper and the oldest campers were too cool for words. And I remember that her freckles increased with every beach day. The weird things you remember 40-odd years later.

Our parents were connected through my aunt and uncle. The men had survived the war that America won — good triumphed over evil. Their father lost his leg and my uncle lost some of his soul. But they soldiered on and their wives healed their wounds because they were our greatest generation and that what just what they did.

For the parents, camp visiting days meant seeing your kids during the day and gathering with the other adults for dinner to eat all of the seafood (tower of treyf) that could fill a stomach. Being in the hell of war, and healing those wounds at home, entitled these couples to a few non-kosher meals. At least that.

The youngest came to camp in 1973(?). She wore tragic danskin top-and-short sets and really pointy keds. Mom sent me with pointy keds as a second pair of sneakers and I hid them under my bed. So, I felt for her. Her legs had mosquito bites all over them.

And then there was the second born. The photography counselor. As crazy as this is, she seemed not of this world, and yet the world was too much with her. I remember that she spoke softly and people listened. I admired her ability to command that type of attention.

After ten summers at Camp Wingate, the friends you made were for a lifetime, no matter the decades in between communication. And, even more, these four girls and their parents were family, indirectly, through my aunt and uncle. But the fourth child — the one with mosquito bites and tragic danskin outfits — she was my friend.

When the second child died, I knew that bubble of Camp Wingate had burst in some way. I wrote a letter to the camp director that — however irrational it was — I believed that a cloak of immortality protected us and that belief was shattered. I mourned the loss of a life and the loss of our collective Linus blanket. The camp director never wrote back. What would she say?

Time passed.

The eldest married. The second was gone. The third went her way. And the fourth, dyed part of her hair purple and was a roadie for a rock band.

More time passed. We aged. Our parents aged. Some of our parents died. Some of life’s waves buoyed us, while others beached us with a mouth full of sand. Life’s trajectory was no straight line for any of us.

And, yes, I have to thank Facebook for reconnecting with the youngest. Although I saw her mom at family gatherings, I didn’t have a way of connecting in a way that wasn’t so stilted until Facebook came along.

POB and I decided to have a wedding even before Marriage Equality passed in New York State. I had mellowed in my rather doctrinaire ways that it had to be legal or I wasn’t doing it. I thought about the people whom I would want at that ceremony and so many had died already. Did it really matter more that the Bible Belt accepted it or that Dad and Aunt Betty and Uncle Larry and Aunt Roz were there to celebrate? And if Aunt Betty, then her best friend of 65 years, Phyllis, must come. And, if Phyllis, then my friend of 41 years, Janet2 must come. Because they are part of us. Even the daughters I am just getting to know and the daughter whose pain will forever be unknowable.

At the wedding, I couldn’t stop hugging Janet2. I needed to make up for the decades lost. I still may have to visit her just to hug the stuffing out of her, such as is left after her latest health craze (P.S.: Kale is really hard to digest.)

Generations of family who are friends. A remarkably resilient family and resilient lifelong friendships that don’t need to be watered or fed on a daily basis. Because love runs deep in the earth that sustains us.

(P.S.: To the eldest: If your kids need anything in the City (or just need a home-cooked meal), they should just come to our doorstep. We are family.)

Something. Anything.

Posted on June 26, 2012 by 40andover

Some days (ok, weeks), I feel in suspended animation, waiting for a sign, a direction, something. I don’t think it is just me alone; the news, the economy, the pundits all talk about uncertainty and the absence of bold action. Universal stagnation.

The Eurozone has been on the verge of collapsing, or recovering, for months. Every day, European leaders are frantically accomplishing nothing while “contagion” threatens to spread.

And who let Cyprus into the euro-zone? Aren’t Greece and Turkey still fighting over that island? Does it really need a bail-out or did it just get in line because it didn’t want to be left out of all the fun?

And, of course, we on the other side of the big pond are frightened and our markets volatile and businesses unsure.

So we sit. And we wait. This is like watching a documentary on the Black Death Plague in slooooooow moooooootion.

And the Supreme Court doesn’t often hand down a landmark decision that also tosses a curve ball into a presidential election (ok, other than in 2000) and so the Supremes are teasing this out to the very last day. Ok ok ok, Messrs. and Mses. Justices, we all agree that you are so fabulous and powerful. Now, give us the f%@#ing decision, ok?

So we sit. And we wait. And I wonder why some of the Justices don’t like broccoli so much, and why that seems absurdly relevant to the court decision.

And then there is Taxmaggedon: the economic cliff that our nation slides off on January 1, 2013. We spent too much on our national credit card and still no one wants to admit that, first, we need to pay the bill and, then, we can shoot the spendthrifts.

So we sit. And we wait. And I wonder why every event has to have a catchy (or actually not-so-catchy) name in order to signal that it is a big deal. Taxmaggedon is apparently catchier than “elected officials not doing their jobs and compromising for the good of our nation and our economy”. I think “Operation Nero” might be better, althought Congress is playing with something other than its collective fiddle.

And then there are Syria and Iran. Syria has a vague “window of time” until it implodes with civil war. Iran has a vague “window of time” before it can explode a nuclear bomb. What should we do? And when?

So we sit. And we wait. And what does a window have to do with time, anyway? And if it turns out we blew that window with Iran, do I really need to keep saving for retirement or going to the gym?

I could go on. (No, really, I could.) And I fear that either the resolutions that won’t come or, if they do, they give rise to more questions and more uncertainty.

Sooo, I’m sittin’ and I’m watchin’ and I’m waitin’ . . . .

Fat Deposit?

Posted on June 15, 2012 by 40andover

I have this bump on the palm of my hand. I wouldn’t have noticed it except I do push-ups (and other torturous exercises to stay in shape), so I am aware of this constant bruised feeling,

I mentioned in passing to POB that the bump hasn’t gone away and the bruised feeling remains (probably because every time I work out with my trainer, I exacerbate the problem).

“Maybe it is a fat deposit.”

WHOA. I know we are lesbians and we have to fight that creepy urge to merge into one being and all, but who, WHO, said it was ok to suggest that I might have a fat deposit?

In fact, I reviewed our wedding vows, both in Hebrew and in English, and I did not find any authority whatsoever for the proposition that POB could safely (and thus without consequences) intimate that I have a FAT deposit wherever found in my body. Not even in the innocuous place like the palm of my hand.

In all honesty, I do have some deposits in other parts of my body, which are increasing at the same exponential rate as oil reserves are being depleted. (Why, oh why, can’t modern science suction cellulite and use it instead of fossil fuels?) But this is AFTER the wedding, AFTER I fit into an unforgiving dress, AFTER I wore body armor. So, go on, make my day. Get a GET (a Jewish religious divorce) at your peril.

I know, I know, POB didn’t suggest I was like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor (Chunky Monkey) or suggest the FAT DEPOSIT was in a place that would offend my inner diva.

Ok, it is in my palm.

But it is a fat deposit. So, POB has to climb out of the ditch on this one.

Maybe I will send her out for Chunky Monkey. Ahhh, a Pyrrhic Victory if ever there was one.

But a VICTORY nonetheless. And when you are 40-and-over, every victory counts.

This Parent’s Nightmares

Posted on June 10, 2012 by 40andover

Two New York Times articles this weekend conveniently book-ended the gamut of parental nightmares — child abuse and drug abuse.

In the hallowed halls of elite Horace Mann School, unabashed pedophilia survived through willful blindness for decades. Just another reminder for me to listen closely to my child’s discomfort and fears, if G-d forbid, there was some problem. And any man who takes an active interest in SOS and engages in “horseplay” is suspect.

When SOS was young, we thought to have a manny (male nanny) to give him daily contact with a male (something missing in a two-mom household). But the logistics got complicated when I realized that if we had a manny (who might just be a pedophile), we would also need a nanny to watch the manny watching SOS. POB gave up on the idea rather than try to unravel my paranoid (and correct) logic.

The second story was about high school kids buying prescription drugs used to treat Attention Deficit Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. These drugs, when used properly, help certain kids function with the “appropriate” level of attention and focus in classrooms and other venues. The drugs’ effects on kids who don’t need the drug are laser-focus on task and rapid recall. Like steroids, these drugs are now seen as performance enhancing aids so that kids can perform better on class tests and college entrance exams.

It is shocking how easy it seems to get a prescription or buy a few pills from a classmate.

(My high school alma mater was singled out as one place where there is a real problem. The person who said any publicity is good publicity is, um, wrong.)

So, POB and I were talking about this and we both scratched our heads. We as a society are pushing our kids into drugs “to make us proud”. It made getting high and playing frisbee seem like something out of Mayberry. You know, the stuff you did to rebel and make your parents fret about your future.

And now my new view is:

SOS, if you must try drugs, please smoke A LITTLE dope (and then make sure it was a bad experience). And promise me (pinky-swear and everything) that you won’t ever, ever, snort Adderall for performance enhancement.

I love you just the way you are.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Tag Archives: Aging