Tag Archives: humor

Dear Mom

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Recently, I have welcomed some friends to the unfortunate club of children who have lost parents.

The finality of it all.  And the guilt that life must go on.   I remember how hard it was to breathe sometimes.

What I don’t dare tell them is that after 7+ years, the snapshot I hold of you in my mind — white-haired wig, tennis sneakers, slacks, blouse (Dad didn’t like you in turtlenecks) and an Eddie Bauer or J. Crew woolen zip-up sweater — is getting a little vague and dimmed as time goes by.  I have razor-sharp memories of many, many things — throughout the years and especially during the month before your death — but the sound of your voice, Mom, the sound of your voice, exists only in my imitation of what I remember of it. Has that become the memory and is your voice lost to me?

You are still a force in my life. I was recently at a company retreat and there were over 300 people I didn’t know.  I just pretended to be you — the way you would walk into a room and find ways to meet and really talk with — well, up to then — strangers.  My mantra, “just be Mom,” enables me to work the room but never like you, the master.  You had a way (mine is diluted with Dad’s bluntness) of making people feel, as if when talking to you, no one else in the world existed and you had all the time in the world to chat.  And they were right, you remembered everything and you were interested in them and what made them happy or sad and, if they seemed lonely, then — whether they liked it or not — they had to come to every holiday at our house.  I feel that way, too, about people I meet, but sometimes my directness (ok, Dad’s genes again) turns them off.

To be fair to Dad, life in the fast-paced world of corporate law (and its diminishing economic rewards) make bluntness a relevant and useful tool.  I try to do it á la Larry King (I know, I know, you stopped watching him once he started interviewing headline catchers and hangers-on), with a directness that is a little self-effacing but gets the point across.  You see, Mom, I realize that since you died at an age a full 25 years younger than when your parents died, that I cannot rely on the fullness of time for people to come around.  In truth, that is a cop-out.  I am not as patient as you.  And although I believe in the goodness of people and their senses of fundamental fairness, I have a more cynical streak.  Since you died before the invasion of Iraq, you are just going to have to trust me that some Republicans and those who are leaders of the military-industrial complex are beyond redemption.

But then again you missed the heady days following Barack Hussein Obama’s election as the 44th President of the United States of America.  That would have lifted your soul.  The sheer promise of America in those moments would have made your eyes well with tears.  He has been attacked and stymied at every turn, but, Mom, he is a transformational leader for our country and our generation.  When I see the political machinations going on, I have to dig deep and believe as you that what is true and right will prevail.

Wow, after all of this, I guess you’re not so fuzzy after all.  Even though the picture of you is getting fuzzy, you live on in my mind, my heart and my soul.

I really appreciate this talk.  And I appreciate your stopping by in my dreams.  When I am sick, could you remember to say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would”?  That always helped.  Even your grandson needs to hear me say it “just like Grandma would’ve” when he is sick.  And I totally get it.  You never want your child to hurt even the teensiest bit.  Maybe that is why you hang around, to ease our pain.

Ok, I am not ready to dive in the with the “G-d thing” but I believe that your life force abides.  That’s as far as I am willing to go on the “everlasting” subject.  You are going to have to win me over on that one.  This is going to test your patience.  (I was never the easy child.)

I love you.  Now I am remembering that you did have a few cashmere turtlenecks, notwithstanding Dad’s preference otherwise, under your sweaters.  (We still wear them.)

Love,

Me

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When my son is an Olympian

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On Sunday night, we gathered for the usual family dinner.  This time, we ate out, courtesy of Dad who stuck a crowbar in his wallet and sprung for the bill.  It was my (older) sister’s 50th birthday.  It was literally the least he could do.  I did the least I could do as well by merely showing up.  At least our son made a card.

Our son mentioned he would rather be watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympics.  Ok, he doesn’t get the tact award.  My cousin asked our son about what he saw and learned from watching the Olympics.  He said that every night, he and I went over the sports that were too dangerous for him to try.  My cousin asked what sport he could try and he answered, “curling”.  My cousin leaned over and asked me in a sidebar, “how long do these prohibitions last?” to which I responded quite emphatically, “until I am DEAD!!”

Bottom line, my son will never make the skeleton or the luge team, as if they are sports anyway.  They are kamikaze runs.  Have you noticed that the winter sports are REALLY dangerous?  Just ask any insurance agent whether some of these athletes can get life insurance.  Ok, maybe Lloyd’s of London will insure these athletes.  But then again, Lloyd’s insured the Argentine fleet against the British navy in that not-so-recent unpleasantness over the Falkland Islands.  (Remind me why those islands mattered enough to risk lives?)  Then again, Lloyd’s behavior seems quaint in the wake of the global economic collapse created by a few 25 year-old derivatives traders and short sellers.  But I digress.

Curling isn’t really an option, either.  It looks like “extreme housekeeping” with those hot iron and the brooms.  And my son, a chip off the ol’ block that he is, knows gornischt (nothing) about housekeeping.

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Why Airlines Should be Punished

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I recently flew to and from California.  Years ago, the quality of ticket I purchased would have been in the “leisure traveler” section.  Soon that name was too grand and the designation became “coach”.  From there, it tumbled further down the slippery slope into “economy” class which meant no one cared if you had an aisle seat right next to the stinky bathroom.  This trip has confirmed that the tumble has gone into free-fall and the proper designation is “cattle-car” class. 

On the way there, parents separated from their children reached across strangers to hand their drooling children some bribe to try to stay quiet.  Then the parents put on their Bose headphones — you know the ones that block out all sounds.  Excuse me, but don’t you think that we — the poor strangers subjected to your whining progeny– deserve the headphones and you deserve to hear your children? 

And I can’t forget the guy who pretended we were seated in first class by expanding his elbows not only into my personal space but in my very rib cage.  (Really?  Did you really not feel some resistance to your expansion, you creepy man?)  I pulled down the tray table, put my pillow on it and then did a face plant into the pillow, so Mr. Strange-as-G-d-makes-us can elbow away.

On the way back, I took the red-eye and I was tired and aggravated.  Already one guy held up an entire line of people to get his laptop out of his bag.  And it was not my imagination — the seats were smaller.  I am a little person and I felt like I was busting out of the seat.  Also, someone (or more persons) took all of the space in my overhead bin.  I was seated in the bulkhead so I had to stow everything.  While the idiot man getting his computer held everyone up, I noticed someone adding a satchel to the luggage in my overhead bin.  When I got to my row, I took the satchel and handed it back to the guy and said, “this is not going to work, I have no seats in front to stuff my bag under.”  He took it and didn’t put up a fight.

And WHAT is with people not turning off their smart phones when asked?  I was about to lunge at this young woman whose tweeting was obviously so profound and important that she could risk endangering us all.  My colleague seated next to me stopped me so that I would not be arrested and carried off the plane in restraining gear.

And, $3 for earphones?  Soon we are going to have to pay to use the restrooms. 

Airplanes today are just gross and need to be upgraded for humane use. 

Ok, I remember flying Air Myanmar.  The planes seemed like demo models because they had indentations where the oxygen mask and the flight attendant button ought to have been.  Also the seats flopped back and forth on take-off and landing.  I sat next to a Buddhist monk so I felt safe.  My friend was in a row with only one seat; the rest of the row was penned-in for some yaks who were also welcomed aboard in that way that only a repressive regime can welcome a visitor (“Good luck, if you have it”).

So, airplanes today aren’t the most inhumane I’ve experienced but I am going to save my pennies and investigate private plane service.  I bet it costs about the same as first class, which isn’t even first class anymore.

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Look away

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I have been pretty good about a new gym regimen since I started my new job.  (My 2010 horoscope said that I should keep up an exercise schedule, and that is as good a reason as any.)

Since the global economic melt-down, I have taken to drinking wine.  One glass goes straight to my inner thighs.  No joke.  I feel it the next day.  So, I need to work out just to maintain the usual mid-40s spread.

Since going to the gym, I have been feeling much better about myself and my degeneration into older age (in our family we call it “decrepitude” because we are — er — so gentle).  And I have noticed that, in the afternoons on the weekends, men have been looking twice at me at the gym (and not because I have stains on my t-shirts or my outfits are disastrous).  Most people would feel good about that.  But I have to tell you who is looking.

Imagine we are in the early 1980s when the Olivia Newton-John exercise outfits were popular.  Imagine your relatives who were moving down to Florida around that time.  Remember how they couldn’t pronounce “condominium” and kept saying “condominian” (which now sounds like a group of ten prophylactic devices)?  Remember the men who wore short-shorts with dark shoes and dark socks, dyed their hair and uber-cool sunglasses?  You know, the ones who drove Cadillac El Dorados.

Imagine now it is 2010, and these men have aged 30 years and wear white free spirits and white socks and they dye their hair an odd shade of red.  Apparently, mid-afternoon on the weekends, the older set comes to the gym.  The upside is that they wipe down the machines and don’t do many reps.  The bad news is that the men think I am old enough to be interested in them.

I wear bi-focals, but generally my eye sight is good.  I am graying, but I have few wrinkles.  I have a little extra thickness around the middle but I still have muscle tone in my arms and my breasts still hang comfortable above my waist.  Also, I am a lesbian for Goodness sake.  Ok, they don’t know that last fact.

I just wish I weren’t so attractive to the 85+ crowd.  Maybe once, just once, a young, beautiful woman would give me a second glance that doesn’t telegraph, “oh, you really should have taken better care of yourself when you were young. . . .”  Oh, well, that isn’t what I need.  I need the old men to look at me and think, “she is way too young for me.”

So, my cousin just called and I told him about this blog entry.  He lamented that only really older women check him out on the street.  We were laughing/crying to each other and he mentioned that this could be a schtick for http://oldjewstellingjokes.com/.  I checked out this site and there are videos of old Jews telling jokes.

The internet is worthwhile if only for bringing us this website and keeping the tradition available for the younger generations.  Also, if there could be a registry for “I’m too young for octagenarians”, that would be awesome.

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Family Weekend

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This weekend was family weekend.

Last night, POB made a huge tenderloin which didn’t seem so aggressively carnivore-centric, until her vegetarian sister (SOPOB) called to say she and her son were coming.  POB’s father (FOPOB) also came over, in part, because he liked the menu.  (Not only can you not fool all the people all of the time, but you can’t please them either.)

And to round out the alphabet of “OB”-centric initials, sister of blogger (SOB), husband of SOB (HOSOB) and father of blogger (FOB) also came.  HOSOB got a really short haircut and looked so adorable in that way that little boys do when they get their hair cut (except he is 54 or so, but still sooooooo adorable).  And not the way an older man looks cute and helpless when he puts on a hat with ear flaps (you know, the “look” that cuts one’s IQ in half).

Since having a child, it makes me happy when those whom I love have home-cooked meals. Of course, POB has to do the actual cooking — I just plate everything and set the table, except when I don’t, and then POB is overworked and I don’t deserve her.  But last night I wasn’t a slouch or sloth.  (Of course, I think I deserve a merit badge for good behavior, but I digress.)

My nephew didn’t like dinner and was honest about in that way that kids can be.  Everyone else was polite and HOSOB seemed to enjoy the carnivorous portion of the meal especially.  FOB seemed to enjoy the wine.   SOB seemed to enjoy leaving (she later reported having a really sound sleep — must have been vicarious dose of triptophan from all of the food HOSOB ate).  FOPOB was non-committal.  Our son and nephew enjoyed being together.

Today, another generation descended.  A cousin from the Catskills who studied and lived in China for 5 years came for brunch, along with her half-Dutch, half-Israeli boyfriend who went to school in Switzerland and whom she met in Shang-hai. He is now in the States, in New England. It is too confusing to figure out which of the many pairings of culture shock he is currently experiencing.  He is sweet and gentle notwithstanding his inherent Dutch directness and Israeli hubris.

Also along was a brother of this cousin who traveled the far distance from the Catskills to a suburban hamlet in Massachusetts.  He introduced us to his girlfriend.  This was big. His girlfriend was polite, sweet and quiet — i.e., not Jewish.  Hey, non-Jews have tamed our family, to wit: my sister-in-law and brother-in-law.  So, really, we are scared the non-Jews we love won’t marry into our family because we are so loud, and — hmmm, how shall we say — undiscriminating about our dinner/brunch table discussion topics.

So we were loud, especially my cousin (her boyfriend), and she didn’t seem unnerved by it, even when those cousins started talking about importance of sloping leaching fields in the separation of solid waste from non-solid waste.   Septic tanks and the related issues of sanitation are not approved topics of conversation at my table (even though these were favorite topics of their father z”l who was a wonderful, if controlling, human).  As I was trying to stop the story (we WERE eating), his sister piped in about the variations of “spicy stomach” she and her friends had in China. Ok, ok, ok. All of this after I lectured them (again) about the inappropriateness of pictures they put on Facebook.

My dear cousin (DCOB) — an elder of my generation — also joined us.  He is such a gentle soul.  He is very involved in eastern traditions, medicine and meditation.  He also has a tremendous collection of American folk music.  I know that you are thinking Asian monk living in the splendor of secluded monastery that has access to folk music and occasional WiFi.  Think again.  Think yin-yang.  How yang?  He is a criminal defense attorney living in a large apartment complex.  DCOB’s wide ranging interests and openness to new and different things was evolutionary in our family.  The next generations is more free to focus on their inner muses.

Still, after 3 hours, I called SOB, who prescribed M&M — meditation and medication.

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The generations of progress

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Sunday night is family dinner night.  SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and FOB (father of blogger) come over.  From time to time, COB (cousin of blogger) and COROBs (cousins once-removed of blogger) also come over [there is one COROB whom I miss very much — she knows who she is — I would love for her to come, too, when she is ready].

So, on Sunday night, we had the usual gang plus a COB and COROB.  COB is the de facto family historian, so sometimes we discern breakthroughs of understanding and gentility invading our otherwise harsh and unforgiving gene pool.  COROB’s brother is coming in with his girlfriend in a few weeks.  COB asked COROB if “we” liked the girlfriend — one person’s opinion can shape a multi-generational disposition towards an interloper in — I mean new person to — the family.

COROB answered, “I don’t know, I haven’t met her.” And the generations of the family fell quiet.  This was indeed momentous.  Any member of a prior generation would say something like, “How could we possibly like her?  He would have brought her around before if she was a keeper.”  In other words, unworthy unless proved otherwise through hazing rituals only known among the clan.  Here was an opening to be level-headed about the matter.  The profundity cannot be overstated.  We older cousins could not grasp this “perestroika” of a sort at first.

Luckily, just when the world as we knew it was teetering on the edge of kindness and generosity, we had a disagreement over whether kashrut is important as a sign of belief in G-d or because it was sound eating practices.  Were the rules codified because of hygiene or because they set the tribes of Israel apart from other regional tribes?  The COROB and COB disagreed with me somewhat assertively but something had changed in the dynamic of the family just from that little openness shown by COROB earlier towards her brother’s girlfriend.

I heard myself say, “you’re wrong AND you can still come back for dinner next time.”  Wow.  Now, that’s progress.

Hmmmmm.

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I’ve lost that blogging feelin’

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I need help.  There are not too many bloggable moments as of late that are not work-related (or family-related with an unappealing message about those still alive and able to read my blog).   In fact, life has gotten, in some ways happily, ordinary.  Even mundane.

I had to be Mommy in the middle of the day — something I secretly enjoy but is still anathema to corporate America.  I picked up my son and his “bethrothed” — the young lady, soon to be 8 years old — to whom he pledged his love and undying loyalty at summer camp — and took them to a play group.  They talked about life when grown up and in the “hereafter” so much so that I suggested that they had long lives ahead of them and the “hereafter” could wait.  They held hands on the walk to the street corner and made sure each other was buckled in for the cab ride to the play group.  As the adult/guardian/interloper, I felt it was my duty to let them converse as they wanted.  They surprised me at the good habits they learned from their respective parents.  Old beyond their years.  Which means wild days are to come.  Be afraid.  Very afraid.  Apparently my son’s betrothed wants a marriage proposal for her birthday.  I was relieved that a ring wasn’t requested.  Knowing what I know about my son’s feelings for this little girl, it would be a BIG ring.  The kind you mortgage your house for.  Luckily, a solid birthday present and a marriage proposal are all that are warrranted.   I have time to save up for the wedding, because by that time, the groom’s family will be paying for the wedding.

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2010

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Happy 2010!! Is it “twenty-ten” or “two thousand ten”?

My favorite non-starter was “O10” (as in “O9”, even though letters have no place in these numbers).  I think most people have realized that “O10” is non-sensical. It would have been ok had we referred 2009 as “OO9”.  Then we could pretend that it was the year of international people of mystery and be relieved that that movie has ended.  Anyway, I am going off on a scary tangent that will reveal just how odd I really am.

So my first neurotic moment of 2010 happened even before midnight:

We had friends over for New Year’s.  Many were parents of kids about our son’s age.  So, I asked a burning question:  have you told your child(ren) about the danger of electricity and water?  A few nights before I had asked POB (partner of blogger) if she knew whether our son knew about this danger.  She didn’t know and immediately I had visions of our son waking from a sound sleep in the middle of the night, finding an electrical appliance, running a bath and electrocuting himself.  POB promised me, PROMISED me, that she would talk to our son about this.  (Sometimes, my son likes to test me and push back on my warnings and this was one I didn’t want risk.)  POB also assured me that she would call a psycho-pharmacologist the next business day so that I could get the help I needed.

Epilogue:  POB kept forgetting to tell our son.  So I had to tell him and I told him that he couldn’t test my authority on this one.  (Luckily, POB did call the psycho-pharmacologist for me, as one of HER New Year’s resolutions:  for both of us to have a happy, healthier year.)

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The Clan

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On Sunday we gathered at my sister’s house for the traditional Jewish post-Christmas brunch, to go over the number of tourists who got in our way and the number of merry people who infected the usual ennui and bad humor that are so quintessentially New York.  Because we are open-hearted, if narrow-minded, my sister’s Catholic husband was welcomed to join. We sat down to a traditional meal — high in salt smoked fish oils and low nutrition and low in any nutritive value.  Not a vitamin in sight.

But something different happened this Sunday, and I have yet to process the event fully.  I saw — or else I would not believe this — my sister cook something.  Our cousin can no longer eat the usual fare that is our cultural comfort foods.  My sister, who had never before used her stove, made our cousin freshly scrambled eggs.

Last year, she got married to a wonderful man who is kind and always in a good mood.

This year she is cooking nourishing food.  I can see a trend, but I can’t yet see the trajectory.

For background, my mother and I had suggested to my sister, when she bought her apartment in 1999, that she just convert the kitchen to a den.  All she needed were a phone, a stack of take-out menus and a mini-bar fridge for diet coke. But she insisted that an apartment needed a kitchen.  So we suggested that she get the fiberglass demo version of a stove to save some money.  A few years after she moved in, my partner finally took out the plastic envelope with the care instructions and warranties and turned on a burner.  (I was horrified that she diminished the resale value for no apparent reason.)

I was nervous seeing my sister at the stove, thinking she might hurt herself.  Our cousin was so touched at my sister’s domestic effort once he realized that she never cooked anything for anyone, even her husband.  Also, our cousin is a life-long bachelor (save for a short-lived marriage a long time ago) living in a tiny studio with a mini-bar fridge, and therefore unaccustomed to home-cooking.  He could not stop complimenting my sister on the eggs.

We forgot to kvetch about the tourists or the merriment that interfered with our hardened and mean personalities.  Instead, at this brunch, we just all talked and were glad to be together.

Next year, we may be singing folk songs and a bonus round of kumbaya or maybe my sister will have knitted each of us something in seasonal colors.  I think I’ll read up on Ebenezer Scrooge, so I know my part and can be the standard bearer against the march of time and humility.  I hope Scrooge doesn’t get nice.  I don’t “do” nice.

You see why I am worried.

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Good ol’ Rudolph

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Ok, so I had a revelation at my son’s school’s winter celebration. He was great and all the kids were adorable but that was not eureka moment.

We were given song sheets so that the audience could participate. Printed were the lyrics to Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. I am Jewish and native Manhattanite and have never attended a Christmas celebration (even though my Christian friends KNOW I am free that eve and day) so I have never heard the carol up close and personal — only in stores.

To be honest, I never understood the Rudolph song.  I couldn’t get why the red nose mattered — that is until I read that Santa asks Rudolph to GUIDE his sleigh. As a New Yorker (with a New York accent) I always thought Santa wanted Rudolph to GUARD his sleigh because how could Santa leave a sleigh with presents unattended, especially in New York?

I told you it was a revelation — a pure Eureka moment.

And what’s the difference between a sleigh and a sled, anyway?

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