Dinner on a Saturday night in the big city.

Posted on November 21, 2010 by 40andover

It is Saturday night and POB (partner of blogger) and I have a babysitter, so we can have dinner out.

We take a long walk and happen upon a new-ish Italian place. It is a double store-front sized space, with tables too close together to meet fire safety standards. We know it will get crowded at prime time which is within the half hour. But we are in the patch on the West Side that is a restaurant wasteland.

So we squeeze in between two tables and are close enough to share their food and, unfortunately, their conversations.

POB and I focus on each other and our conversation but the random bits and pieces of the surrounding conversations threaten to enthrall me in the way that bad movies are so horrible that they become intriguing. Just a flavor of the conversations:

The guy at the table to my right, who cannot afford school or dinner (prior soupçon), says to his date, “I am trying to diversify myself,” in trying to explain why he can’t finish any particular course of study. (I, of course, want to suggest remedial English because using big words in the wrong way is not really a career advancement technique.) He goes on to talk about how netting $1million after taxes each year is barely enough to cover living expenses and school for your kids. Hence his self-diversification because he is thinking really, really, really big. Makes me wonder whether dinner will stay in my tummy. But enough scatological musings.

A woman to my left is discussing a terrible tragedy about a family. However, her point is that she is so personally affected by it (and so her friend should soothe her) because her cousin’s best friend’s sister lives in the same town. Ok, somehow the tragedy is all about her. I am staring at this woman a little too long with this gobsmacked look on my face, so much so that POB has to say, “Eyes on me. Bring the focus back.” In this instance, she is not out of line.

But, I digress . . . .

Back to the freakish restaurant. The food is quite tasty and the service staff is earnestly incompetent. So earnest, in fact, that you think they are trying to get everything wrong. For comparison purposes, service staff needs more experience to reach the level of practiced, aggressive incompetence that would qualify for a job at Duane Reade, Rite Aid or CVS.

Luckily we are not in a hurry. In fact we are taking our time because we need to make sure our son is in bed and falling asleep before we come home, or we lose one of the perks of a night out — no bedtime drama, etc. So, the earliest we can get home is 9:30. If the service were not so head-shakingly bad, we might have stayed for dessert.

When we try to ask for the check, we end up pleading for someone to ring up our bill. We couldn’t get anyone’s attention for twelve or so minutes. I am handed someone else’s bill, for about 1/3 of what our bill ought to be. It takes me another seven or so minutes to get someone’s attention to get me the right bill. After ten minutes, I am given the right bill. I pay cash but I need some change. We wait, and wait and wait and wait — ten minutes. I cannot imagine that in their earnest incompetence, any of them expected a 25% tip (if I didn’t get change).

I am finally able to flag down someone in this small (did I mention tiny?) restaurant to ask for my change. The service person nods, and five minutes pass, and — viola! — I am handed the first bill again. AAAAAaaargh. The service person tries to dash away. At this point, I yell in an annoyed, commanding tone, “WAIT!! STOP!! COME BACK!! I want my change. I do not want another person’s bill AGAIN!!”

Then three people come over, each wanting to handle the problem. All of sudden, everyone wants to pay attention. I tell everyone to go away and designate someone to bring the change. Finally, the change comes. Another five or so minutes have passed.

Then I start to calm down and feel bad that they are so inexperienced at their incompetence that maybe they need the bigger tip to take some classes to perfect their art. Really, I feel bad. I turn to POB and ask, should I leave 20%? She laughs at me. She wonders if I have reached the tipping point of dementia. She reminds me that we have spent more time waiting for and paying the bill than ordering and eating. I remind her that we couldn’t go home anyway because our son is not yet asleep. So, they did us a favor by forcing us to stay and giving us a bloggable moment.

I still say the bigger tip was in order.

Captive audience

Posted on November 18, 2010 by 40andover

We all have experienced the hassles and indignities of air travel these days. And, of course, the screaming babies, the smelly row mates, the loud talkers and the drunks have also challenged our coping mechanisms.

But on my flight this morning, I think I witnessed a new high in lows. Two young women friends are seated in the same row (behind me), one on the aisle, and the other by the window. A stranger is sitting between them. The two friends are chatting loud enough so they can hear each other, and as a result, as can everyone seated in nearby rows.

The young woman on the aisle said to the stranger, apparently pointing to her friend by the window, “we’re friends, so we’re just going to talk over you.” STOP THE MUSIC. Whaaaat? As if what is good for her is good for a stranger?

The stranger offers to switch seats and the young woman says, “No, I need an aisle seat and my friend needs to be by the window.” So, what you are really going to talk over this poor woman? As it turned out, yes, yes, they were.

I thought to say something but then decided that it is not my job (although it is my secret thrill) to correct every display of atrocious manners. Some wrongs will have to sort themselves out without my uninvited intervention. The real reason is that I am not sure whether reprimanding another passenger for crimes against civility would cause the TSA to take me forcibly from the plane. And I really wanted to get to the office, get some things done and get home to my family at a reasonable hour.

So, I put in my ear plugs and fell asleep.

Family Album

Posted on October 31, 2010 by 40andover

I am the archivist for my original nuclear family (FOB (father of blogger), MOB (mother of blogger, may she rest in peace), SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB). And of course, for my nuclear family, POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger). I also have archived pictures of some of POB’s extended family.

After struggling to identify people in old photos, I decided that we need to catalogue pictures with names because the people who would know are forgetful or “no longer with us”.

So, I upgraded my iPhoto program so now I have face recognition software. I will have to press FOB about some people; MOB would have known. Thank Goodness, Aunt Betty was at FOB’s party and helped with some identifications.

Still, there isn’t room for the stories behind the pictures, but I will work on that next.

But there are some people in these photos who were important at one point but turned out to be rotters. But if we don’t name them, then later generations might think they remained important but their names were lost to history. THAT won’t do. So we have to name them, but in a way that conveys the backstory.

In the pictures of my sister’s wedding, there are many – dare I say TOO many — pictures of the one-time fiancé of one of SOB’s dearest college friends. Subsequent to the wedding, problems arose and we took to calling him Stan (not his real name) so that if they patched things up, we could revert to his real name without negative attachments. (Brilliant idea by HOSOB.)

Well, they didn’t patch things up and he is figuring TOO prominently in the wedding pictures. (see back story http://40andoverblog.com/?p=1907) Just to call him “Stan” would only convey his loser-ish behavior to very few people in the family, leaving subsequent generations to think his name was Stan and there is nothing more to the story. No, this will not stand. He was horrible to a dear friend of SOB, whom we have all known for 30 years and, despite her Republican party identification, is FAMILY. Every time he ruins a perfectly good wedding picture by his mere image in it, I become enraged. Yet, I am a mom, so I have to be careful how I characterize him (i.e., no profanity). I tried out a name, but I wasn’t sure.

As I was doing the endless name recognition (10,000 faces can be daunting), SOPOBAB was looking over my shoulder and asked, “Who is ‘Stan the Loser’?” And so I explained to the next generation the sins of Stan. And now the back story won’t be lost.

And then I knew I got the name just right.

Driving and Fishing

Posted on October 21, 2010 by 40andover

Just last night over dinner out, POB (partner of blogger) and I were discussing our different approaches in dealing with annoying people or circumstances.

POB is from a “good home”, has wonderful manners and rarely curses. Even though I , too, came from a “good home”, I have a potty mouth.

The practical difference is that POB can be baited for a long time before she boils over. Someone has to dangle that fish hook at her for a good, long while. In contra-distinction, I will drive to some barely noticeable bait, put in the water by a sleepy fisherman and impale myself on the hook, squirm and cuss.

Who knew that our theoretical conversation would almost immediately have practical application.

Our son’s teacher sent around an email that all the kids need to bring 2-litre clear bottles for a science experiment. Because POB is a class mom (and so am I, by extension), we decided to get some extra ones in case some of the kids’ parents did not receive the email blast.

Thinking, “reduce, re-use, recycle,” we went to the basement of our building to get used soda bottles. It was an event so I had to document it (pictures are a little unclear; darn that blackberry camera).

Last night late, POB sent around an email suggesting that the recycling in everyone’s apartment buildings’ basements would be a good place to look for this particular “school supply”. Just keeping with the “reduce, re-use, recycle” mantra.

One of the parents needed to send around an email this morning, “I was rummaging around our basement recycling area at around 7:00 AM this morning – not part of my usual morning routine. . . .”

Ok, AS IF any of us rummage through our building garbage as part of our daily regimen?

So, I had to, had to, had to email back (hitting reply to all, of course), that it was foreign for us, too, so much so that I took pictures to document the event.

POB emailed back to me (not reply to all, thank G-d — that good upbringing is so important):

“you just had to impale yourself on that hook, didn’t you?!”

Yes, yes, I did.

Play dates

Posted on October 17, 2010 by 40andover

Yesterday, my son had a friend over in the afternoon. The ground rules were no electronics — no computer, no video, no TV. His parents are rather concerned about the amount of time he spends on Wii and on the computer generally. So, low-tech play date. No problem, right? Now, remember it is 2010 and we are taking about an 8 year-old and a 10 year-old. BOYS.

First my son refused to stop what he was doing when his friend arrived. His friend was kneeling in front of the Wii remotes. Ok, ok, ok. POB (partner of blogger) took out all of this cool building sets, some even have circuitry (electric ok, but electronic, no). No one tried anything. Variably mournful and angry eyes were watching us. I started helping the friend put some circuit boards together and we made lights flash on and alarms ring. Just like those awesome kits that you could do at camp if you brought an extra $5 dollars which in 1972, was a lot for an 8 year-old. We were having an awesome time although my son was still pouting by reading train books, hoping that I would cave and let them watch a train video. Nooooo. Then his friend got up and knelt by the Wii again. I said no, and we had a tense moment when he kicked something over angrily. We walked back into my son’s room. At that point, the friend tried to make conversation with my son, but my son, who figured he was punishing me by being rude to his friend, was unresponsive. So I sat down with this friend and played scrabble and asked my son to help me. Finally, finally, my son decided that fun was a good thing to have and they started to play together. Phew. All is good, right? Ten minutes later, “we’re booooored.” Really? Really? With all of the toys in this house, you kids can be bored?

Then I remember what withdrawal was like when I quit cigarettes. And, I realized that neither of them bargained for a non-electronic play date, although we did tell our son the ground rules. So, in a lapse of parental judgment, I started a pillow fight in the living room with the couch pillows — some cushions, some just decorative. All fair game. POB looked on in horror and amusement as there were many near-misses with the lamps, etc. But the humans were each in one piece.

They were able to amuse themselves for a little while. But the electronic-free play date was running a little too long for anyone’s patience, let alone those of pre-tween boys. Recently, I bought a Star Wars light saber to match our son’s (Mom, please forgive me, for buying something that is a weapon, but your grandson is a boy.) My son didn’t want to play but his friend did. So, I handed him a pair a protective glasses (see, Mom, you did raise me right) because I cannot live in a world where a child is blinded while playing while fencing with light sabers in my house. Ok, I never, ever, imagined that I would be condoning, much less partaking, this behavior, but, sometimes, one has to stand less on principle in order to survive your child’s play date. Then the boy’s father came to pick him up just as he was striking me in the gut with his light saber. Score one for Luke Skywalker.

Luckily, POB and I had a dinner date with our machertunim (the parents of the girl that our son is intent on marrying). Machertunim is the Yiddish word that describes the parents’ relationship when your children are married to each other. This play date also did not have electronics. We coped very well with these parameters, since we have great fun talking and laughing, and there was wine and great food. Did I mention the wine?

Both play dates were fun. But I suspect that they won’t need my facilitating non-electronic play dates after a while. And to tell you the truth, the second play date was awesome.

SPAM is so much more than lunchmeat

Posted on September 29, 2010 by 40andover

Has anyone looked in the spam catchers lately? It isn’t about genital sizing anymore. In fact, it has been months since someone wanted to help me up-size my non-existent male genitalia.

The new spam scam craze is selling credit reports, which of course means that you have to give the company all the information it needs to steal your identity. Hey, as long as the economy is bad, only the size of your bank account matters.

It never occurred to me that spam is subject to the shifting tides of public opinion and concerns.

Fascinating.

You may wonder why I am focusing on this. Well, it is too exhausting to contemplate the insanity of world events and the inanity of our nation’s politics. Anyone notice that no one is talking anymore about the mosque at Ground Zero that isn’t a mosque and isn’t on Ground Zero? That’s because it lasted for the requisite news cycle and national attention span and now everyone is on some other made-for-TV-sound-bite faux issue, such as: was Sarah Palin booed when she appeared on Dancing With the Stars? (Was she there to tell her daughter to shimmy less and wear more clothes?)

It is so aggravating to watch the focus shift to meet the needs of a 24 hour news recycle that I have retreated into my spaminator.

Flying into the Wild Blue Yonder

Posted on September 28, 2010 by 40andover

So, I was coming home from an interminable conference on Saturday night. I knew I was in trouble when my row was called right after first class and those needing extra help or assistance. My row was the last row in the plane. The seat doesn’t recline. The bathroom was behind me and, behind that, the flight attendant service station. It was 8pm and I was exhausted. Someone used the bathroom while the plane was on the ground so I could get a preview of the wooooooshing waterpark experience that would almost consume me by the trip’s end.

I wanted to scream. The flight attendants were gossiping in loud, high-pitched voices that made me understand air rage. Luckily, the seats next to me were empty. At least, I would not feel claustrophobic. But, wait, a couple changed seats so they could sit together — next to me. The man sat next to me and sat “wide” in that way that makes you wonder if there is something horribly wrong with his testicles. Then he opene food that he bought in the food court in the airport, overwhelming me with the smell of deep-fried, faux Mexican food. So, no sleep for me on this plane ride.

Luckily, Jet Blue provides free TV (it charges for the headphones ($2) and the blanket and pillow ($7)). So many channels, so little to watch. I was desperate so I watched a Nicholas Cage movie. I am sure he is a fine actor, but all I can think about is his financial problems. (Why do I know this about him?) The man made millions and didn’t understand that buying multiple, multi-million dollar homes could bankrupt a person, or at least cause a cash squeeze? It is hard for me to watch someone who is either a raving idiot or a male version of a prima donna who can’t take responsibility for his decisions. The saving grace in the movie was Téa Leoni, who was just enchanting. She made me think of Ingrid Bergman. The movie was so plodding that I had to turn off the sound. Then I remembered (ok, I googled it) that Téa Leoni is married to David Duchovny. All I know about David Duchovny other than he starred in the X-Files is that he was at some point being treated for a sex addiction. Why do I know that? The same way I know about Nicholas Cage and that Lindsay Lohan has a drug problem even though I could not pick her out of a crowd and have never seen her in a movie. Popular culture seeps through even my best defenses.

My head aches from all of this useless information. I hope someone devises a brain dialysis soon so we can flush out useless information and reinvigorate those sad brain cells that have to hold that useless information. Poor, poor, brain cells. Help is on the way.

Orlando — Mundo Bizarro

Posted on September 26, 2010 by 40andover

I was in Orlando, FL, for a month these last few days. It felt like the End of Days.

First, swarms of insects that are called “Love Bugs”. Why? Because they are always in pairs, attached at their rear ends. Ok, I need to ask that again, but the answer is weird. Why?

I don’t know why insects attached at their butts would be called Love Bugs. Maybe, “Push Me Pull You” after the Dr. Seuss creature. Or, Fred and Ginger, since one of the insects does everything the other one does, only backwards (but probably not in heels).

The Love Bugs SWARMED-the-place-it-was-so-gross. And they looked wasp-like and menacing even though they apparently don’t bite. There was no place to sit without swatting away battalions of them.

Here is another crazy thing. Adults are dressed head-to-toe in Disney wear. Even the Mickey Mouse ears. Middle-aged people walking around with those things on, even though their own children are not. I guess if you are at the Disney attractions, a person (not I, because I am the living, breathing Grinch) could get caught up into it. But we were in a hotel conference center that was not near the Disney attractions. Still, I saw Mouseketeers of every age.

I can’t show a picture of the Mouseketeers wearing their Mouseket-ears, but imagine Annette Funicello but not cute, pretty or young.

I am sooooo happy to be home.

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.

What would you do?

Posted on August 29, 2010 by 40andover

A man with a battery operated, variable speed, hand drill (no bit in, though) is walking down the street holding it in his hand as one would hold a gun (ok, how else would one hold a hand drill?). Do you suppose that even though it is Sunday he is doing home improvements? Or do you think that he is so criminally insane that no one (even the bad guys) would sell him a gun, so he is relegated to using a drill for his nefarious ways? Remember, it is New York City.

I AM crazy.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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