A National Day of Sanity

Posted on September 17, 2010 by 40andover

It has been said that uncertain times make great leaders. That was said about FDR. But it can make for deranged leaders, like Hitler, and their followers.

The fevered pitch of the extremists in our society have enabled ill-qualified, borderline personalities like Glenn Beck to figure front and center in our national discussion. (I might add, to give the appearance of even-handedness, that Keith Olbermann didn’t have appropriate credentials when he started Countdown.)

It has even forced a comedian — Jon Stewart — to sponsor the Million Moderate March on Washington on October 30th.

A totally average (yet incredibly funny) man is taking a stand to tell everyone to sit down, shut up and chill out, complete with signs like ” I may disagree with you, but you’re not Hitler,” and “Got Competence?”

If this goes off well, October 30th should be celebrated every year as the “National Day of Sanity” because, at least, once a year, America needs a reality check.

Instead of saying things like, “Happy Thanksgiving” or “have a great Memorial Day weekend,” our national greeting on that day will be:

“Really? really? You think so? Really?”

Happy Birthday Humanity

Posted on September 8, 2010 by 40andover

Tonight is the beginning of Rosh Ha-Shanah, the Jewish New Year.

According to “the rabbis” (which makes me think that you can say whatever you want as long as you preface it with, “according to the rabbis”), it is the birthday of the world. The world took 6 days (or 30 billion years, whatever) to be created, so which day is the birthday of the world?

According to our rabbi, who said, “according to the rabbis” (so we know she could have been making this up), we celebrate the day on which humankind was created, which is the 6th day (or, if you are thinking the evolution of homo sapien sapiens, 30,000 or so years ago).

The rabbi’s point (among many in her drash) is that we are not celebrating anything particularly Jewish. We are celebrating all humankind. As we are getting increasingly (and depressingly) politically polarized and religiously sectarian the world over, the invitation to step outside of these paradigms and celebrate the whole wide world is exhilarating.

Adam and Eve (or Joe and Jane Homo Sapien Sapien) were not Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Jainist or anything. They were humans.

As the rabbi went on in her drash about the importance of supporting the Islamic cultural center in lower Manhattan, she invited people to voice their issues with it. There were those in the congregation (happily, just a few vocal ones) that couldn’t step back from the polarization.

As Jews with non-mainstream sexual orientations and gender identities (I am a little too middle-aged to understand all the complexities here), I couldn’t imagine that anyone in the congregation would not see the opposition to the cultural center as fear-mongering and scapegoating. But there it was. Complacency and fear are the enemies of the ideals that make America great. And they make Jews forget that “we were strangers in the land of Egypt” and enslaved. This sad devolution of the American Jewish experience fell starkly against the backdrop of Jews marking the birth of humankind.

I must admit that I started the evening and this holiday “just going through the motions,” with my head still in a deal at the office. But this concept hit me in a way that unexpectedly woke up my emotional need to “connect” (to what, I am not yet sure).

So, even though it is a Jewish Holy Day, I am celebrating everyone, everywhere (ok, I draw a personal line at the extremists of any faith or philosophy, into which categories I include the left wingnuts of the Democratic Party).

That is a good feeling.

Elmo Goes To Work

Posted on September 7, 2010 by 40andover

Ever wonder how Elmo gets to work?

Well, here he is on his way to Sesame Street.

Hey, Elmo, “can you tell me how you get — how you get — to Sesame Stree-ee-tt??”

Wait, Elmo, you’ve stopped on the corner of 50th Street and 7th Avenue. I know for sure — for sure — that this is most definitely NOT Sesame Street.

Funny, his voice sounded awfully much like a lawyer I used to know. . . .

Our day today

Posted on September 5, 2010 by 40andover

POB (partner of blogger) had a great idea this morning — go to Governor’s Island for a picnic. Governor’s Island is a decommissioned military base island in New York harbor (right next to Ellis Island and Liberty Island) that has been turned into a park and fairground. It is an easy subway ride followed by a ferry ride. Ok, “easy” refers only to the directness of the route. When on the subway or in line for the ferry, a person is subject to the sea of surrounding humanity and their insipid conversations. (For the record, our (i.e., this blogger community) conversations are never insipid — too revealing? Maybe. But insipid? Never.)

First, there was a more-unsteady-than-elderly lady for whom POB gave up her seat. (I was already standing.) POB asked if she wanted a seat and the woman turned to her friend and said, in a cartoonishly nasal voice, “Oh, see!! A seat opened up!!” Poof, like, magic. Really? No, because a well-mannered person got up (in contradistinction to the mopes and slouches around us). Her friend started to talk about food processing in a loud, screeching voice.

What the woman said was important and true — that if you saw how fast food is made, you would never eat it again and that most processing is bad for humans in both nutrition and the environment — but did we need to hear it in outrageous volume with a holier-than-thou tone at 11am on a holiday weekend? And, just across the aisle, a scary-looking, tattooed dad with a beer gut (who was playing with his child by pretending to strangle him — really) was giving the child huge helpings of Pepperidge Farm flavor-blasted gold fish (hmmm, salt, chemically reconstructed “cheese” and polysorbate 60, anyone?). Our son loves them, too, and we know we are going to a special place in hell for parents who let their kids eat this junk. None of the kale or broccoli or grass-fed beef that our son eats will save us from this punishment.

And why DO men need to sit so wide that they take up nearly two seats? I note that the smaller the shoe size of the man, the wider he sits. Is this some psychological melodrama playing out?

Fast-forward to the line waiting to get back on the ferry to Manhattan. A group of women and one man was behind us. The man, who was overweight, and a bitchy effete garden gnome, was commenting to women passersby, “hey, do you think you could have tighter clothing?” or “do you think you could be any fatter?” All I wanted to say to him was, “come out of the closet and stop being bitter with baggage”. But I didn’t. I could take him down in a minute. The women, however, would lay me out. One of the women had a son who was going to grow up to be the bully of his neighborhood. He dropped a juice carton on the street and someone picked it up and handed it to her and said, “I think your child dropped this.” I thought it was an elegant way to force the woman to deal with the litter. She got all huffy, with heavy hip and neck action, saying to her friends, “the baby drops this and he gives it to me?” Ok, who else? She is his mother for G-d’s sakes. And the baby? BABY? Try 6 years-old, going on 12. And mean.

Too much humanity. I wanted to take a private water taxi followed by a cab. I couldn’t handle any more. But we did continue on the public transportation route. On the subway, three 20-somethings were talking and POB and I were transfixed by the car wrecks that were their conversations and their outfits. One was falling out of her skimpy outfit and had used eyebrow pencil to highlight her auburn eyebrows into a Groucho Marx effect. I think she thought I was admiring her instead of not being able to take my eyes off this mobile crashing unit, so when she got off, she shimmied at me and smiled. I was sooooooo grossed out I could barely breathe.

I took to my bed for a nap. Oh, I forgot, once you get to Governor’s Island, it is perfectly lovely.

Pre-High Holy Days Mayhem

Posted on September 3, 2010 by 40andover

So, because POB (partner of blogger) reminds me that in “good homes” the carpets and the furniture are cleaned annually, and the windows are cleaned twice, before Passover and before Rosh Ha-Shanah, we have been in a cleaning frenzy. Also the mice episodes gave the cleaning rituals a bit more fevered pitch this year. Also the bed bug scare in New York had us getting new mattresses, etc. In short, we are doing what we can to raise the retail sales numbers nationally. Now, that is patriotism.

Our housekeeper comes on Fridays. Our housekeeper is a wonderful and robust woman in her 60s who comes from Poland and, as she says, “knows hard vork”. But since she is in her 60s we try to get others to the hard vork. In this case, POB and I wanted to lay the cleaned rug down in the dining room (we had already done the heavy lifting in the living room). This endeavor also involved cutting the mat underneath so that the rug laid properly.

Here are the many dramas that came into play: Our housekeeper said, “[Blogger], you are educated; I know hard vork. Step avay from the mat and I vill cut!” Ok, POB and I were raised to respect our elders and never to let someone older do work we could do ourselves. We are also the “employers”, adding another level. Also, POB is strong like you-can’t-imagine strong.

So we are all on the floor playing out our social, economic and cultural dynamics. The window cleaner walks in (we had left the door open for him after the doorman announced him) and sees three woman on the floor with scissors and box cutters arguing over who is cutting the mat that goes under the rug. He asks, “where do I start?” Really? Really? Is this a usual scene for the window cleaner?

We all stop. I agree to cede the fight to POB and our housekeeper in order to get the window cleaner guy started as long as I get to move the dining room table. Pause. I seeing nodding and I retreat. A little victory of sorts.

Of course, I should have known that even though I was allowed to move the dining room table, everyone would have an opinion on its precise location. POB was the most forceful in her opinions. “A little to the right.” “Closer to the windows.” “No, too much.”

“Are you listening??”

NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I scream in my head, but all that comes out is “Yes, dear.”

Back in my head, I am thinking you thought we should get our windows cleaned before a hurricane. This is not like wearing good underwear in case you are taken to an emergency room. The hurricane won’t treat us any better. But then the hurricane passes us and POB is right — again.

Square Peg; Oval Office

Posted on August 31, 2010 by 40andover

I listened to President’s Obama’s speech. I did not listen to the pundits. But let me make some educated guesses:

If you are a GOP candidate or in the GOP leadership, you thought (i) he was short on specifics for economic recovery, (ii) he should have come out in favor of tax cuts, and (iii) he failed to vindicate the success of the surge in Iraq for enabling him to fulfill a campaign promise of ending the combat mission in 18 months.

If you are Keith Olbermann (and sometimes Frank Rich), you wonder why he didn’t renounce war all together, and how he could possibly mention George W. Bush and patriotism in the same sentence.

If you are Maureen Dowd, you wonder what happened to his passion and why, even though we elected Mr. Spock, he didn’t somehow morph into Dr. Spock.

If you are Chris Matthews, you are joking about how his eyes fluttered from time to time because you really can’t cope with your rock star hero’s having to represent the establishment he ran against.

I will go out on a limb here and have an opinion: I liked his speech. I thought he spoke movingly of the sacrifices of our troops. He heard our fears about our economy and tried to be reassuring — as reassuring as one can be in the twenty minutes of prime time allotted. He danced around the backlash against Muslims and building of mosques and community centers. That was disappointing, but “politic”.

So, if you are the opposition, you hated it. If you are among the democrats who wanted public health care and war crimes tribunals for Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld (I don’t disagree) you are frustrated to the point of distraction. If you just want the President to do his job and you appreciate even a little what an impossible job it is, you thought he did fine and just want him to keep trying.

So, how did I do? If I hit 75% accuracy, I will have saved two hours of my life by not watching talking heads or reading pout-y Op-Eds. How liberating.

Blogcation Year 2, Day 3 (or 4?) — The rain has gone

Posted on August 25, 2010 by 40andover

The sun came out today — first as a faint orb in the gray sky and then in all its sunburning glory. Now, all of us summer people can go back to our pools and the beach and not swarm the already overwhelmed (and wildly expensive) sea-side towns.

One thing I did learn was that when booking a house, one has to parse every single word of the ad. For example if it says, “ocean view”, that could mean that one bathroom in the house has a slight view of the water. In our case, there is some water on the horizon out of our second floor bedroom. If the add says, “water view”, it could mean the pool or your neighbor’s pool. Or for those really wanting to stretch (and break) the bounds of truth in advertising, water view can mean this:

A view of the Montauk water tower. Yes, we have a lovely view of the water tower from almost every window. But no matter. We are close enough to the beach and we have a pool and the sun — hooray, the sun — is out today. But really, the water tower?

The other excitement of the day concerned our rental car. I got this huge, gas guzzling Mercedes. Why? The rental place had no Volvos (the safest family car) and no Mercedes had ever been recalled (and the rental place didn’t have just a family sedan) but it had more Toyotas than you might think possible in such a small rental place in a small (geographically speaking) city like Manhattan. Toyotas — cars with brakes that don’t work; accelerators that have minds of their own? Are you kidding me? Nope. nope, nope. No hybrids available either. The place did have Chryslers and GMs but until ones come are assembled by non-disgruntled workers, I will take the car with the track record and pay through the nose for it.

The problem with the mammoth Mercedes is that I can’t tell my car from the other mammoth Mercedes (plural) in any parking lot out here. Also, the air in tires needed rebalancing and the low beam light was weak, so I had to get it fixed. As I rolled into the mechanic’s place with my mammoth car and asked about a light change and a rebalance of the air of my tires, there were enough smirks to go around that I figured, “this is going to be expensive.” I know, I know. It’s a rental car. But having a blown left low beam can be dangerous as can unbalanced air pressure in the tires (I read that this “safe” care has a roll-over risk — awesome).

I hang out and talk to the guys while they are fixing it. It takes a lot of unscrewing parts to get to the headlights. Maybe easier in the assembly line, but not so much when trying to change a light bulb in the left low beam. They keep teasing me about the cost. And I tell them it is a rental car, to boot. They look at me as if I am on drugs. I say, “I am not asking you to fix my cruise control or stereo system! These are matters of safety for my family and others!” One guy says he is impressed that I am not freaking out and calling my boyfriend. If he only knew. We continue talking about life, what matters, and what Montauk is like when the summer people aren’t here, etc. He is married (I tell him I am, too, which I am in spirit if not in paper) and I could tell he is flirting with me. But it was a sweet flirting, in the way that someone appreciates that you are passing the time while he is at work and not talking on the phone while you wait for a “service person” to handle your problem. He shows me pictures of old Montauk and it was a perfectly lovely way to pass an hour (plus he only charged me for 30 minutes). And he did a great job and now I know that I have taken all precautions to be a safe driver and that lets me sleep at night. (And, I am going to present the receipt to the car rental place.)

Anyway, all is good and I am slowing disengaging from my Blackberry.

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

Posted on August 24, 2010 by 40andover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Clan

Posted on August 22, 2010 by 40andover

POB (partner of blogger) thinks that my extended family is more properly called a “clan”. She means that in the best of ways, I am sure. [Pause.] My family is an odd bunch. POB didn’t meet many of the older generation, but she feels as if she did because of the way we imitate them. Memory is very important in Jewish tradition. And, well, how best to evoke memories than by imitating the idiosyncrasies that made each of them — as shall we say — “special.”

My father was one of five boys and they all had children and most of them had children (and so on). But we are still not the close-knit, ever-fighting group as existed when all the brothers were alive. That is probably because in their early years, their survivals were all interdependent. They were the generation of firsts: first to go to college, graduate school, move to the suburbs, Florida, buy a Cadillac. They survived poverty, the Depression, the War and immigrant parents who knew even less than they about their adopted homeland.

There was a family barbeque today that we, the Blogger family pod, had to miss because we are at the beach. SOB (sister of blogger) sent pictures that captured some of the clan members perfectly. One picture captures a cousin, the member of our generation who most holds to the standards of conspicuous consumption aspired to by his parents, eating a doughnut while holding forth on an issue. His father — my uncle — looms large in my memory and in my imitations. “Uncle of Blogger” is not descriptive enough. Hmmm. Uncle Loud. Yes that is it. Uncle Loud had a pinky ring that shimmered when he waved his hand. He had a pencil mustache hidden under a huge nose. I have a image of Uncle Loud eating a plum, with the juice dripping down to his chin, making politically incorrect pronouncements about everything and anything, mostly about things for which he had no basis or fact. He also described everything about his life as if we were visiting from a remote island and had never experienced modern conveniences. In order to evoke the memories of Uncle Loud, I wave my hand with the imaginary pinky ring talking about something (it could be mundane or indeed a previously unknown wonderment), adding, “the likes of which you HAVE NEVEH seen.” Yes, “neveh”. The use of Rs in spoken English was an evolutionary advance seen only in my generation — the second generation of Americans (and not all of us received this species-enhancing genetic mutation).

We remain a clan for so long as we, in my generation, retain the vivid memories of the Five Brothers in their primes. After us, the clan ends because the ensuing generations are scattered and never saw the small apartment on Pelham Parkway where Grandma and Grandpa raised five boys in a two bedroom apartment with one bathroom. Or heard the raised voices that were inevitable when everyone got together for family occasions or religious holidays. Sometimes it was so loud that more distantly related people would run for cover.

On Sunday nights, at dinner, we try to share these memories with our younger cousins so the bonds stay tight. But it is a haphazard and ultimately fruitless effort because, like all formerly immigrant families, my children and my cousin’s children and grandchildren are Americans, not children or grandchildren of immigrants. And, over time, the tie that binds gets frayed and loosens too much.

All the cousins of my generation, save a few, are gathering together for my dad’s 90th birthday in October. In New York City. Alert the police and the media. The Clan of the (Mostly) Civilized Cave Bear will celebrate the Five Brothers and the one who remains and the tie that still binds us (if not our children).

The Apple Fell Not Far From the Tree

Posted on August 13, 2010 by 40andover

I think about my mother, z”l [may her memory be for a blessing] every day. I always draw strength from those thoughts, although they are sometimes tinged with humor or sadness, but always with gratitude for her life among us.

I reminisced about her with colleagues. It wasn’t maudlin; it was apropos of the conversation and we laughed at her antics.

My mother was the epitome of discretion and a vault when it came to secrets. However, if you asked her a question or her opinion, be ready for her whole truth and nothing but her whole truth. Mom never thought she cornered the market on “Truth”, but she did believe everyone was entitled to hear her version of the truth.

A number of weeks ago, during a conversation with my sister, I stopped mid-sentence and said, “you’re thinking what life will be like when I lose my already limited ability to censor my thoughts, right?” She nodded heavily, somewhat overwhelmed by what the future held in store for us. My sister is the epitome of discretion and the vault for secrets. While I dabble in discretion (and must be a vault as a lawyer), she inherited the qualities that allowed Mom to opine with impunity. I just opine with impunity. Look, Mom’s genes were allocated to three children. Together we make a clone of Mom. Separately, we struggle a little. So, let’s accept that stuff that comes out of my mouth sometimes must be followed by a whisper (from a sympathetic witness), “she means well.”

It is hard to generalize about Mom’s more emphatic ways, so here are some specifics. When Mom was well into her 60s, she joined an abortion rights picket of then Cardinal O’Connor (now deceased). My mother started the chant, “keep your rosaries out of my ovaries!!” Ok, it isn’t always easy to have a Mom who says things like that, but it certainly awesome. Or, the time, she got up from her seat on the bus and move over to a young man who seemed foreign-born. She put her hand on his forearm and said, “You’re such a good-looking man. Why must you pick your nose in public?” It turned out the guy ran the newspaper stand near where my parents lived and, whenever Mom passed, he would run out with a free magazine. Mom always declined, with “You have rent to pay!! Stop it!!”

My mother always believed that you opened your home to those in need or without family. Needless to say, since Mom’s death, I have discovered that some of my “cousins” are related only by love and not by blood. Mom taught us that love makes a family — nothing more, nothing less.

Mom believed that each person should leave the world a little better for that person’s having lived on earth. She helped found New Yorkers Against Gun Violence, an organization that thrives today. She helped plan the silent marches on Albany, NY, and Washington, DC, because people needed to visualize the empty shoes representing all who died from gun violence on the streets of America. She loved America and only wanted it to be an ever-shining beacon of hope.

So, in the end, I only got her directness and inhibition about saying her truth. My sister has her discretion. My brother has some of her activism (ok, before he moved to the Republic of Texas and had a family but at least he is a Democrat). My sister was right to shake her head, wearily.

SOB (sister of blogger), it is just going downhill from here. Be afraid.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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