iFamily

For my 40th birthday (just about 7 years ago), POB (partner of blogger) gave me an iPod.  There is new, souped of version of this dinosaur called “iPod Classic”.  Just like those “classic” Chryslers with all the conveniences of modern technology but with the fins and the chrome edges.  It was amazing in its time and, just seven years later, its limitations are quaint — in that way that a lop-sided homemade cake is really so, so, so, “homey”.

Then, it wore out  as iThings are designed to do after 360 charges. So, it stays planted in its iPlayer for music when we are in the house.

Then, we got something for the gym.

And this doesn’t really hold a charge anymore.  And so I get iRate at the gym when the battery idies on me and all I have to watch is the 24-hour-news-recycle to pass the tortuous 30 minutes on a constant-sweat machine of choice that day.

Ok, so then we got one that had more “juice” for the family.  But we didn’t know about the iDeath that happens after 360 charges (don’t leave an iPod in a charger or re-charge willy-nilly).  So this iDevice splits its time between two places: the kitchen, and, after hours, in SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) room so he can listen to audio books and then go to sleep to the music of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (yes, SOPOBAB is an old soul).  This requires TWO iBose systems for its two iHomes.

Ok, that was not enough, so we got two, TWO, iTouches.  Two iTouches. SOPOBAB has dinosaur, bird, football, baseball and hockey apps so he can play, too. (Our child cannot conceive of a world with typewriters, dial-up connections, Basic 8 computer languages.  Thank G-d, he loves real, honest-to-goodness books.)

The batteries are draining too quickly.  So we are probably going to get another one.  Oy.

Then we got an iMac.  [picture not included because of iMalfunction] [imagine iPicture here].

THEN, a MacBook Pro.

Now, an iPhone.  Not for me.  For POB.  Cool and groovy.

But I am a little iParanoid that our dependence on Steve Jobs is getting addictive.  But I really hate PCs since Microsoft Vista came out and ground our PC to a halt even for simple tasks, like say, logging on.

There was a time when there was no “I” in “team” (but there IS an I in family, which stinks for the metaphor).  Apple will get rid of that problem by creating the iTeam (who knows if that is true, but one has to believe that something like that has to come out in order to continue the mind control and advance the global domination).

In life, you pick your battles.  Steve Jobs, you win. iLove you and so does this iFamily.

A letter to my blackberry

‘Berry Darling —

You are the first thing I look at in the morning and the last thing I see at night.  You are next to me as I sleep.

I know these economic times have been hard on all of us; still you don’t always light up with a message when I look at you.  Is it something I did or didn’t do, dear?

Don’t I take you everywhere?  Haven’t we traveled to Europe and lazed on the beach together?  Remember, when you fell into a puddle and I lovingly dried you out?  I know you don’t such take good pictures any more and there is a lingering buzz.  But I still love you.  (And I don’t remember your bringing me flowers and complimenting on my outfits.)

Yes, I still love you, even though there are brighter, more fun models.  I think one even makes coffee . . . no matter.

The important thing is that we communicate.  So I am going to tell you what I need from our relationship:  I need you quietly by my side, until I look at you, and then I want you to have messages that bring business and good and happy tidings from friends.  Is that so much to ask?

Dearest ‘Berry, think about this — and us — and let me know what you think, but don’t buzz.  I’ll look at it in the morning.

Goodnight, my sweet.

Play dates

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.

Sanchez and Stewart

I feel bad for Rick Sanchez and I feel bad for Jon Stewart.

I think Rick Sanchez was wrong about Jon Stewart’s sense of entitlement or paranoia as a Jew.  I think Jon Stewart’s cultural Jewishness infuses his humor with that contrarian-isn’t-the-world-crazy approach, but that’s it.

But Rick wasn’t really talking about Jon Stewart.  He was talking about how he — Rick Sanchez — feels about his place at CNN and the things that have kept him down.  I don’t think one tirade should cost him his job.  That only cements the anger.  More famous people get to hire a spiritual adviser and keep their jobs or move onto the speaking tour.  So, I say, CNN needs to listen to him and figure out whether or not his anger is justified.

As for Jon Stewart, I am sorry that he felt the need to change his name, although it is show business.  And Leibowitz doesn’t really flow well.  And Jon Stewart may have issues with Judaism — hey, he works (or at least new shows air) on the high Holy Days.  Even the most lapsed Jew in the world finds a synagogue or stays home from work for self-reflection and contemplation on these holy days.   So, he has baggage, too.

I have baggage.  We all have baggage.  Rick Sanchez should get his job back and he should go into therapy.

I will say it is odd that some bullying assistant attorney general who is targeting a gay college student gets to keep his job on a “free speech” argument and Rick Sanchez gets tossed for a short rant that he probably regrets.


When “Rights” Just Cover Prejudice and Cowardice

A Michigan assistant attorney general, a man who is charged with enforcing the laws of the State of Michigan, is waging a vicious, cyber-war against a gay college student.

Ok, let’s take a moment and feel sorry for this assistant AG who has unresolved issues about his own sexual orientation and a big dose of self-loathing.  Now, that moment is over.

Time to rant about him and his employer the Attorney General of the State of Michigan, defends his assistant AG even though he calls him a bully.

The AG hides behind the “free speech” argument.  Let’s assume it is applicable here.  There are limits to one’s right to free speech. The classic example is “you can’t yell fire in a crowded theater” [unless there is, in fact, a fire].  The government can prosecute you if what you are saying is calculated to incite violence and does, in fact, incite violence.

Here are the rules of thumb for free speech:

Free speech is limited to reasonable time, reasonable place and reasonable manner. (That’s why there are limits to where you can hold rallies and when your neighbor can do heavy construction on his property.)

Free speech doesn’t protect you from the consequences of that speech.

Do you really think that if this Michigan assistant AG were harassing say, a co-worker, a female student or another civil servant, that the AG would feel the same way and hide behind “free speech”?  Really?

No, the AG doesn’t want to take the side of a gay college kid.

Because that would be unpopular and require that he take a stand against his conservative constituency.

So, the head legal officer of the State of Michigan in the United States of America in the year 2010 will call a subordinate a bully, but won’t stand up to him??

Don’t you think that bullying has caused too many young people to be emotionally scarred or so despondent as to be suicidal?  If the recent suicide of a Rutgers student doesn’t make law enforcement, law enforcement, stand up to bullying, what will become of our society?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Michigan attorney general defends employee’s right to blog

http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2010/US/09/30/michigan.justice.blog/story.shirvell.cnn.jpg

September 30, 2010|By the CNN Wire Staff *

Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox defended an assistant’s constitutional right to wage an Internet campaign against an openly gay college student, even though he considers that employee a “bully.” “Here in America, we have this thing called the First Amendment, which allows people to express what they think and engage in political and social speech,” Cox told Anderson Cooper on CNN’s “AC 360” on Wednesday night. “He’s clearly a bully … but is that protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution? Yes.”

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

Long time passing.  Long time ago.

On our way to the beach last week, we listened to 70s music on Sirius radio.  “Afternoon Delight”, “Handy Man”, “Monster Mash”, “Young Hearts, Run Free” and all those other long ago summer time songs had POB (partner of blogger) and me screaming the words as our son looked on in horror and embarrassment.  (He also said, “E-mom, you should blog about this.”  I love my son.)

At camp, we used to sing “Anticipation”, “Circle Game” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “Cruel War” at Saturday night campfires.  These and other songs made us both melancholy and grateful for each other in ways I didn’t understand then.

Since those days, we have all lived with not knowing about the days to come, the (stupid, stinking) painted ponies going ’round and ’round the carousel of time, and war and its cruel endings.  Life has, as it inevitably does, lifted us up, let us down and gave us a few battle scars along the way.  And, sometimes, songs sung when I was so young resonate with me now as, with each passing year, I spend more and more on an ounce of (alleged) skin rejuvenation cream.

I firmly believe that, if I slathered olive oil all over my body (instead of throwing gobs of money away on creams and potions), it would give me a more youthful (and, ok, smarmy) glow.  People might also like to brush up against me with chunks of bread.  Maybe if I used extra, extra, virgin (as in the driven snow) olive oil, I would look even younger.  I would do it, but for fear of the inevitable question from a colleague, “did you have salad for breakfast?” or, after a meeting, someone sitting next to me saying, “you know, I have a strange hankering for Greek food.”

Oops, there I go digressing again.  About camp.  Sometimes those memories make me laugh out loud or just give me a wonderful feeling and a lift to my step.  And it has been a gift to reconnect with old friends on Facebook about batik, peach pit rings, the Leoj, Plaque Night, etc.

Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver and the other’s gold.  Ok, campers, repeat in rounds (with Lodges 1 and 2 starting, followed by Lodges 4 and 5) and Lodge 3 please add the harmony.

Better than gold.  Really.

A Note to My Sister

Dear SOB (sister of blogger):

I really appreciated your notes of appreciation (“you’re a saint” — but we are Jews, for G-d’s sake) and helpful hints (“take care of [my husband] while I am gone”) this week.

It was epic to set up Dad’s computer and bring him into the 21st century, especially when he was so comfy in the 19th.  He still can’t access email even though I made it as simple as possible.  (I think the double-click is the problem.  He remembers to click once but not twice.  How do you teach a 90 year-old reflexes of the computer age?)  I guess sainthood — or beatification at least — is indeed warranted.

I am sorry you missed Sunday night dinner, but HOSOB (husband of SOB) carried on valiantly.  I appreciated your email reminding me (threatening me?) that HOSOB could only have one dessert serving.  Good thing we had a big enough plate:

 

Just kidding.  He had a small piece and some fruit to amortize the artery-occluding stuff in the chocolate cake:

 

ReeeLAXX, will you?

HOSOB and Cousin Gentle played with SOPOBAB (son of partner of blogger and blogger) and we all learned a lot of things about playing together.  Don’t worry, it was SOPOBAB that did most of the learning.  HOSOB and Cousin Gentle offered helpful hints, like “incorporate everyone’s imaginative story lines” and “don’t drop your pants until you’re in the bathroom, the light is on and the door is closed”.  These are important things that the bigger guys need to say to littler guy.  Lesbian moms just don’t have that authenticity when it comes to bathroom and trouser-dropping etiquette.

FOB (father of blogger) had a little too much wine, but what the heck, at 90, he can live a little.

He is coming over to my office tomorrow so we can go over “some papers”.  Um, BOB (brother of blogger), aren’t you a lawyer, too?  I think I may have to conference you on the phone so you can share these tender moments of wrapping up Mom’s estate and dealing with FOB’s talking about the end of his life.  [Imagine my putting my hands over my ears and making crazy noises to block out the conversation.] Ok, here is the deal:  I may be strong enough to put FOB on the internet, but I am wholly too young and immature for the rest of it.

FOPOB (father of POB) also came.  I think he had a good time, even with a large complement from our side of the family.

Cousin Gentle recounted his tour yesterday of Revolutionary War-era New York.  SOPOBAB was quite taken with the subject and Cousin Gentle needed to make up stuff to satisfy the boy’s endless curiosity.  I had to throw some curves into the conversation to give Cousin Gentle some time to come up with a plausible story line about the slave trade during that time and other assorted information that SOPOBAB needed to know.  FOB was so taken with SOPOBAB’s curious mind that, together with the extra wine, he was pronouncing our child Einsteinian.  Ok, I have to say that SOPOBAB’s questions were impressive in that they were probing and based on some knowledge he has gleaned from videos and books — more than I will ever know about that historical period, I assure you.

Also, Cousin Gentle bought Reddi-Whip after having it at your house.  He served it to a guest at his house.  He said it wasn’t as good as your supply.  Do you have private label Reddi-Whip because you buy it in bulk?  That was also a conversation topic.

Now you are caught up.

I leave on Thursday for my 25th college reunion.  I will blog from there — it will be like Anderson Cooper reporting from the field.

~ Blogger

Look away

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.

Fantasy Football and Real Life

My son’s best friend is wild about football.  So, my son is now, too.  This is an awesome event because my son has had trouble connecting to peers in the past.

So, football.  Ok, two women raising a boy and he wants to watch football.  My son, who learns through reading — books, websites, whatever — said to me, “E-Mom, we need to fire up the iPod with serious football apps!!”  Ok, how did he know there were football apps?  So now we have THREE football apps on two iPods but because they are not iPhones we cannot play together.  Uh-oh.  I am feeling an upgrade on the horizon.

When kids want the next new gadget (or at least the gadget they’ve recently discovered) and are feeling extra deprived (as only spoiled children can feel), they no longer make references to the Stone Age or pre-WWII Europe, like we did or our parents did.  My parents would quote their parents, as in, “when we were starving in Europe, we only asked for food and water” to which I remember responding, “gee, sorry, can I get Frye boots anyway?”

No, our kids say things like, “we’re being raised like the Aaaa-mishhhhh!!”  As I remember, Kelly McGillis was very hot in that movie with Harrison Ford, “Witness,” about an Amish boy who witnessed a murder in Port Authority or Penn Station.  Ok, so I am missing the point of the intended scathing analysis of our child-rearing techniques.  Never mind.

It is important to listen to kids because they are experts in being children and being childish.  If they are happy all of the time, then you are a push-over, the moral equivalent of a chump, and, ultimately, a bad parent.  I hear tell of a magical zone where good parenting meets the right level of whining for proper childhood development.  This may be a myth (actually, I know it is because I just made it up). But there are books written about errogenous zones that exist only on runway models and elixirs of youth, so maybe I have found my way out of the daily grind by discovery a new theory.  Hmmm. 

What does this have to do with fantasy football?  Work with me here.  My son is into football and I have a fantasy that he and I will both survive his childhood and adolescence as high-functioning individuals in environs more luxurious than Amish.   Also, part of my fantasy involves my brother-in-law watching the football games with my son.  Here the reason why it is a fantasy: he is an artist and in touch with his animus and anima (I think these are Jungian terms) — that is to say, he is too evolved for football and in touch with his feminine side as well as his masculine side.  Bottom line — he is not a chest beater or head-butter.   Which makes him wonderful in general but useless at football.  Maybe he is a closet alpha male.  (Don’t tell SOB — sister of blogger — because she will un-alpha him in a NY minute.  She IS tough but gentle and uses her powers for good.)

I am rambling because my mind goes to crazy places on Friday nights as the work week winds downs and cartoons cometh in the morning.  I feel a good kind of tired — the kind that comes from playing with my son — tackle football, of course, and “keep away” and monkey-in-the-middle with POB.  Then as we wind down to bed time, we have pretend adventures — because my son has an incredible imagination — I am a British tourist to Oregon (who would not set foot in the former colonies) and only goes to place that revolted against the French, Spanish and Dutch and my son is my uncle George.  Then I am a Kenyan who travels to Jamaica in hurricane season (because the airfare was cheap).  Where does he get this stuff?.  Soon to be followed in a slightly altered Fred Flintstone voice as I reprise my “Big Tuna” role in an undersea world where I have a talk show and he is my little ramora whom POB, as Secret Agent Swordfish (don’t ask), saved on her nose as he fell off a whale.   I am exhausted to my core.

Now, my son who is my joy is in his jammies and reading an encyclopedia of something.  Because that is the way he is.  And I love him because he is kooky and loving and kind and imaginative.  And I can take no credit — I am genetically irrelevant to him.  He is like the most fabulous gift that keeps changing and challenging the recipient.  Sometimes, like tonight, I max out from his intensity.  But no worries, he will come charging at full volume into my bedroom tomorrow to wake me up.  Thank G-d POB is following with hot coffee.

I love my family.  I am blessed.  I am tired.

G-d bless books and smart phones

I am a prisoner of my blackberry(ies).  I read books on my iPod.  I am gidiot (idiot for gadgets). 

They prevented bad things from happening one night on the subway.

A few nights ago, I was on a stalled train for 25 minutes.  There was more than one would-be rabble-rouser in my car.  But so many people had gadgets or books, that no one took the bait.  I ended up having to walk through four or so cars to get to the front of the train in order to exit at my station.  In each of those cars, the would-be rabble-rousers were unsuccessful in provoking any meaningful disturbance.  People were reading or playing electronic games.

There is hope for our civilization.  How ironic that, in this case, it comes packaged in electronics that in a larger sense rob of us of our identities and anonymity.