Tag Archives: humor

My Gynecologist, Dr. Jew

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No joke.  My doctor’s last name is Jew.

If only his first initial were A., it would be “A. Jew, M.D.”  That would be the culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

Except that Dr. Jew is Asian.

Actually, that makes it a satirical culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

The whole point of the visit was to talk about hormone replacement therapy.  I am not loving some of the effects of aging and since, in this day and age where we think we can cherry-pick out the good from the bad and have it all, I think why not ask?   And besides I read about it in the New York Times Magazine.  The article says it is safer now.  Ahhhh, the Times.  The word from on High.  I know, I know, I know.  Think Valerie Plame scandal.  Think slanted reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War.  Ok, so the Times is almost as reliable as a comic book.

Dr. Jew was so very gentle and courteous when he suggested to me that doctors tend not to base their medical judgments on New York Times Magazine articles.  They like to rely on clinical tests and multi-year studies, like the kind you find in the New England Journal of Medicine.  “That rag mag?” I thought, but did not say aloud.

Look, I get my news from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  So, it isn’t a stretch for me to get my medical information from comic books.  Thank G-d I am not a doctor.

And Dr. Jew?  He is a good (Jew) doctor.

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Synagogue Retreat at the Norman Bates Motel

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Ok, this is a long, random recounting, so bear with me.

My sister thinks that her trip on a Greyhound bus to a casino — where, no joke, a medical conference and training were being held — brought her very close to the common denominator of humanity. She emailed me that when she got to the bus gate at Port Authority, the woman in front of her on line just started talking to her.  The woman was traveling back from Florida to Providence. She had to go to Florida to get her mother’s ashes, which were in the shopping bag that she showed to my sister in case she wanted to see. (I wish my sister knew how to use the camera feature on her cell phone. A picture would have really made the moment.)  The woman had spent 3 days on a bus and needed to smoke a cigarette, had trouble in her childhood but has now straightened out, etc.

Dear SOB (sister of blogger), welcome to my world.  It is good that you experience your birthright — i.e., Mom’s magnetism for the strange, creepy and absurd.

Well, I am at a synagogue retreat. It was a rustic experience. Lots of rules — you need to observe the Sabbath and subscribe to the Jewish dietary restrictions — not on the quantity but on the depth to which the culinary arts must sink in order to conform to Kosher laws. Alcohol is Kosher, for which many people gave thanks to G-d. Also, no coffee Saturday morning because it is the Sabbath and one cannot use electricity or fire. Really? Really? Does anyone want really want to deal with me de-caffeinated? Also tonight someone by accident started making coffee before the end of the Sabbath.  Before we could descend on the heavenly libation, the moshkiach (the Kosher police) told the kitchen workers that they had to dump out the coffee. Wastefulness CAN’T be kosher.

There are many blessings that are new to me. The place has helpful plaques to assist in mastering them. I took a picture of the blessing after one eliminates in the bathroom, thanking G-d for the creation of certain cavities in the body. Really? My orthodox grandmother said this prayer? Even when she had indigestion? This must be an invention of those “too cool for shul” types. I am not kidding. Look at the picture.

Ever trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I have decided that we would learn this prayer and recite it every time our father discusses his irregularity.  Maybe we could teach it to him.  Clearly, I am going on the slow boat the Hell.

The place was kind of like that.  As you enter, there is a sign saying, “We are blessed by your presence”.  Ok, someone should be holding judgment until we leave.  There should even be a sign flashed for a specific few (like me), “We are blessed by your leaving.”

“Blessed by your presence”?  Trying to create holy, kumbaya, religious space and energy at crash-landing impact, after braving hellish Friday night traffic.  I thought to sing, “someone’s kumbaya-ing my Lord,” but I didn’t want to say kumbaya to that.  This is getting to crazy, with the aggressive, reverse Kumbaya on the Sabbath.  Slow boat.  Nah, I am taking the express train to Hell.

As you may have surmised, we couldn’t do much documentation on the Sabbath because that required use of electricity or batteries, so I had to take pictures in secret and I couldn’t blog.  Now that was harsh.  As my own little rage against the machine, I turned on my iPod just BEFORE I left the premises to go on my run.  Ah, the little subversities. But, as usual I digress.

Friday night, after blessing the group with our presence (or so the sign said), we proceeded to our promised charming two bedroom cabin.  The advertising was so wrong it should be a felony.  So one civil crime justifies a religious crime — desecration of the Sabbath — to take these pictures:

Is this a charming two-bedroom cabin? Type that into wikipedia and I bet that you won’t see a picture of this.  Really??  This is a three-bed cabin.  Ooops, there must have been a mistake.  No?  No mistake, this is the very finest that the camp has to offer?  In the county in Connecticut with the highest per capita income?  Really?  Really?  I am in a mood most foul and approach the rabbis about the relative merits of, say, a Ritz Carlton.  Not so my friends can get business, but it is a base level that to which we should become accustomed.

But at least the turn-down service left conflict-free chocolate on the beds:

But the real kicker is that in the light of day on Saturday, I realized that I had parked my rented super-huge, gas-guzzling monstrosity here:

Ok, I am a convert:  There, but for the Grace of G-d, go I.

~ the Blogger

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A Typical Family Dinner

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As we do almost every Sunday, the extended family — dispersed far and wide on the Island of Manhattan — gather for dinner prepared by POB (partner of blogger).  Three generations of the family are represented and range in age from 7 to 89 years-old.

My 26 year-old cousin who is a runner was talking about her gastro-intestinal problems, which she believes somehow is a sign from her father, z”l, who was a gastroenterologist (sp?).  Ok, as much as our family is fixated on our intestinal fortitude, I am skeptical that her father, my dear cousin, would cause these kind of issues from Heaven so that she could remember him.  I suggested it might be a parasite from living for 5 years in China.  Food for thought, so to speak.

All my father had to hear was that someone was having issues with diarrhea and he started a sidebar with my sister the doctor about his own issues.  Here is where there needs to be a firewall between parents and children.  Ok, even if there were such a firewall, we would have drilled a tunnel under that it a looooong time ago.  How did I know the topic of this sidebar, you ask?  The look on my sister’s face told me everything I needed to know.  Since my sister doesn’t drink, I needed to give my father more wine to stop the conversation.

All this is going on while I watch my 23 year-old cousin fade in and out.  He came over early to toss a football with my son, and just as we were getting into the really gross intestinal details (over hors d’oeuvres, mind you), he was finally feeling the hangover from the night before — as in, it took him more than 14 hours after his last drink to process all of the alcohol in his system.  I am not naming names, but he is a former hockey player and maybe some of my family will recognize the descriptions so far and call him out on that.  But I am not saying anything.  Nope.  Lips are sealed.

Then a cousin of my generation put together a beautiful, stirring composition, “At My Daughter’s Wedding,” for my sister and brother in law in a CD with the cover featuring a photo at their wedding with my mother’s picture in the foreground and my sister and brother in law in the background.  My sister and I fought hard to hold the tears back.  We talked today and we were both choked up that my cousin captured the joy of the event and the sadness that our mother was not alive for the wedding, all in the beauty of his music. It was an extraordinary moment.  We also played a song he wrote about our family history so the young ones could be further indoctrinated into the cult of our family.  I really cannot say enough about my cousin’s music — it hit a chord in my sister and me that is too deep for words and I hope he understands the depth of his gift from the looks in our eyes.

Of course, this same cousin gave me cassette tapes about dealing with loss when my mother died and I had forgotten about them for over seven year until POB reminded me about a week ago.  Then, my head and heart exploded when I realized I had the tapes when his mother died.  Oy.  Oy.  Just when he needed them.  Oy. Oy.  I returned them to him last night.  A little late.  Oy. Oy.

Then, of course, my cousin and brother in law had to have an eating contest, just like two brothers, which warmed our hearts.  POB made a traditional roasted chicken and vegetables using a Kosher chicken for our young cousin and an Indian chicken dish with basmati rice and some other vegetables for those of us more culinarily assimilated.  Of course, the “boys” kept asking our kosher cousin if she had had enough so they could consume the rest.  In other words, eat fast or don’t eat at all.  It’s a tough world out there and our house is sometimes a little like boot camp.

Of course, one never knows what will happen next at a family function.  My sister and brother in law brought over their wills to be witnessed.  My sister wanted to do this quietly, so of course I had to announce what we needed to do to all assembled.  So after dessert, we assembled the necessary witnesses and signed as appropriate.  The lawyers at the table asked if they were each of sound mind and then we decided that no one in our family could really pass that test.  We respectfully withdrew the questions and proceeded with the signing ceremony.

From the mundane (diahrrea) to the emotional (music for my mother z”l) to the eternal (the wills).  No wonder these dinners are exhausting.  And wonderful.

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Dear Brother-in-Law,

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Yes, we were impressed with your preparation of all those vegetables for SOB (sister of blogger) [see yesterday’s blog].  I know she was working in the hospital this weekend and you, the dutiful husband, prepared dinner for her again tonight instead of your both coming over for Sunday night family dinner.  (Remind SOB that she scored so big when she met you.)

Because we want you to feel included, I am sending a picture of the food you could’ve had if you had come to dinner tonight.  This is not a competition.  No sirree.  It is just that we missed you and we wanted you to know what you left on the table, so to speak.  I made sure that we didn’t clear away the main course before dessert so you could see the full array:  wild salmon, rice, and roasted asparagus.  Followed by a delicious fruit selection of strawberries, melon and grapes.  There was even ice cream if asked.  Ok, this is a competition.  And POB (partner of blogger) outdid herself.

So, maybe next time.  We did miss having everyone together but FOB (father of blogger) and COB (cousin of blogger) rounded out our dinner table.  (And ate your portions.)

Mwa, mwa (big kisses) to you and SOB,

~Blogger-in-law

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Our family

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Today, my son went on a bird walk led by my brother-in-law.  My son, who has encyclopedic knowledge of all things bird-nerdia, was — how shall we say — an active, vocal participant in the walk.  The non-family “walkers” (Cousins Boss and Gentle were also in attendance) were apparently quite taken with his knowledge and enthusiasm.  One octogenarian asked, after hearing that my son is almost 8 years-old, “how long have you been interested in birds?”  My son responded, “since I met this guy” and pointed to his uncle and my brother-in-law.  About 3.5 years.  “This guy“? The man that takes care of my beloved sister?  Later, I had to make sure that my son showed proper respect for his uncle.  “In the future, Buddy, “this guy” is Uncle Bird-Nerd to you! ” So, we have nuanced levels of respect in our family.  But respect is respect, however, absurdly we define it.

Of course, my son and Cousin Boss (the family name for POB (partner of blogger)) were the ones who got out of the house at 8:30am on a Saturday.  I was a slug and arrived just in time to kiss and congratulate my brother-in-law at the end of the 2.5 hour walk.  SOB (sister of blogger) was impressed even at my effort.  It was, in fact, the least I could do.  We have such low expectations of each other.  Maybe that we like to get together so much because it is nearly impossible for us not to exceed the expectations.  And when that does happen, well it is fodder for family gatherings for years.  So, while we are easy-going, we forget no detail that we can hash and rehash to our delusional delight.

So, how well does my brother-in-law take care of SOB?  He vowed to take good care of her (including making her eat vegetables).  So, here is a picture SOB sent of part of tonight’s dinner:

Clearly, the intense interest in the mundane details of human existence is genetic.  Mutant thought it may be.

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Glory Days

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My son is into trains.  We allow supervised access to YouTube and Technorati.  How can we not?  He has access to computers at school and already he mentioned that one of his friends clicked on “inappropriate videos”.  At least our son knows that it is wrong to watch certain things, but he hasn’t hit puberty yet.

He desperately wanted to see some train videos.  They were entitled “Glory Machines”.  Think about that for a moment.  We are at a cross-roads.  And he is only almost-8 years-old.

POB (partner of blogger) and I were more than slightly horrified at the thought of what would come up on a naked search (as it were) of that phrase.  I kept trying to add “model train video” to the search and my son kept saying, “E-Mom, I know what I am doing!!”  Oh, sweetie, I thought, if you only knew the dangers of what you are doing.  Miraculously, the search (which I was ready to minimize with my fingers on the mouse) came up with the train videos.  Phew, dodge a bullet.

We watched the train videos and while there was some innuendo (which was really funny because it was cut and pasted from 1950s movie reels), there was nothing untoward about any of it.

I bookmarked the videos so he would never have to do that search again.  He was happy that I saved him a step in finding them again. I was happy that I saved him from pornography and kept him young for one more day.

I was happy I saved POB and me from having to confront raw sexuality with our 8 year-old.  Although, to be honest, Oedipus Rex is alive and well and living in our house.  When POB, our son’s biological mother, is not around, all is light and roses with my son and me.  When POB is around, my son gets very territorial about POB.  POB is happy that he is exhibiting the usual signs of a normal growing boy and I remind her that Oedipus killed his father (or in my case, his non-biological mother).

Just saying is all.

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Notes from Aboveground

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I am on the Acela from Boston to NY. I came to Boston for a business lunch and am now going home. It is what you do to build business.

You might think that the “Quiet Car” sign is self-explanatory. It is not. I think we’ve diluted the meaning of our words so much that no one believes signs without adjectives. “Free gift”: when was a gift something other than free? Or does “free gift” reflect the cynicism in our society that nothing is without strings? But then why do people fall for too-good-to-be-true scams? But I digress (of course).

Back to the Quiet Car. So maybe we need signs like: “Quiet-like-a-church-mouse Car” or “No kidding: no cell phones or whispering-at-the-top-of-your-lungs Quiet Car”?

Why is ok to expect a call and then leave the Quiet Car as you are yelling, “hello? hello? hello?”

I might have to take a real chill pill to deal. Another reason why it is dangerous to unleash me on the populace.

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A Night at the Museum

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Last Thursday, I had the honor and pleasure of attending a celebration of the Iranian/Persian New Year at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  As we walked into dinner in the magnificently lit Temple of Dendur, I was overwhelmed by the beauty, power and the antiquity of the objects in the room.

Of course, most of the night I was thinking that I looked and felt like sausage stuffed in taffeta. I have this great dress; it looks so beautiful on someone else. Unfortunately, I was wearing it. I wore the dress a year ago and, well, I learned that strapless doesn’t work on me. Let’s just say I have too much to expect a poor little dress to hold up.  Since last year’s event was my sister’s wedding, there are plenty of photos about which I will be embarrassed for decades to come.

I had straps sewn into the dress for this dinner to avoid flashing anyone and possibly forcing them to recoil in horror and into the shallow moat surrounding the Temple.  Still, a little too much cleavage. Next time, I will wear a nun’s habit.

I also couldn’t see because my black purse is small and I had to choose between my blackberry and my glasses.  My blackberry won.  Now, I can’t wait to go back to the Museum and read about the history and customs of the Persian New Year, without the kaleidoscope effect that happens when your vision is blurred and mascara is creeping into your eyes.

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You are what you eat

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If you are what you eat, then here is a picture of my brother-in-law.

He probably has a cholesterol problem.  So, let’s keep this “sweets thing” to once a week, shall we?

We want you around for a loooooong time.

Mwa.

~Blogger

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The Acupuncturist

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I go to a wonderful acupuncturist.  She knows that I don’t necessarily believe in the power of my “chi” and that I am a western-centric client.  But, I am open to ways to feel better and balance my body.  That’s why my acupuncturist is terrific.  She doesn’t try to change me.  She works with me as I am.  And I have mellowed over time.  I now take vitamins, fish oils, have healthy foods in my office, etc.

When I leave my office for these appointments, I tell my assistant, “I am going to get pricked like a pin-cushion.”  I keep my blackberry out during the sessions — a negotiated concession from my acupuncturist — and, in response to a flurry of anxious emails, I emailed to my colleague, “do you need me to pull out the needles and run back to the office?”   I was perfectly willing to do so because I am a professional first and a pin-cushion second.  And I knew my phrasing would make my colleague queasy and weak-in-the-knees (for which I get a slightly perverse kick).  This colleague asked me once if I believed in the good effects of acupuncture and I responded, “Nah, but it can’t hurt — too much.”

I have gotten to know my acupuncturist some, and so I need to know about her life and if she is happy.  So, I have to ask, “so, are you seeing anyone?”  Her response: “I still haven’t found the right person.”  The use of “person” means (i) she is being politically correct/sensitive to my being gay or (ii) she is intentionally obfuscating whether she is looking for a man or a woman.  But, the vibe is definitely hetero.  Still, I ask, “man or woman or gender irrelevant?” because I might know someone for a shitach (a match) and I want to get the gender right.  And my gaydar has been wrong in the past.

And, once, years ago, I was talking to a “straight,” ultra-religious woman who started a conversation about finding a husband (for her).  In the midst of the conversation, she said to me, “how hetero-centrist of you to think that I am only interested in men!”  “But you are interested in men,” I said as I was thinking something is off because she knew I was gay. “To marry, yes,” she responded.

After about a two-second pause, I realized the implications of the statement and that it was time for me to run, run like the wind.  And I did.  All the way home to my beloved.  I am my beloved’s and she is mine. There are no ooky parentheticals or provisos to that statement.

What did this last story have to do with my acupuncturist?  Nothing, really.  But where I end up is rarely related to where I started, at least when I am not being a lawyer.

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