A Sign of the Times

So one lazy morning when I could not, should not, would not go gently into the underbelly of New York which we fondly call the subway, I took a cab.  I know, I know, in a recession, the cost of a cab is like taking  candy from my child’s mouth or food off his plate.  Then again if I lose my mind, then I would not be able to put candy in his mouth or food on his plate.  In fact, it was a “wellness” initiative that should be covered by insurance deductibles.  Every urban dweller should get a few moments of peace (and Urdu or other language) once in a while.  But, as usual, I digress.

So back to life inside an air-conditioned, yet still stale-aired, cab (an oxy-moron only city dwellers can appreciate).  I was just reaching to turn off the video screen (provided courtesy of the Taxi and Limousine Commission in recognition of the global shift toward ADD as an evolutionary goal) when I spied the following sign in a liquor store:

Yes, a LIQUOR STORE, advertising 50% if you come in between 8AM and 10AM.

Are alarm bells going off?  I know we are all seeking solace somewhere in this economic meltdown (Thank you, GOP — NO, I will not accept sharing the responsibility, you greedy bastards), but this, THIS, says we are hurting.  And hurting DEEPLY.

Food for thought or, more appropriately, elixir for numbness of the mind.

Let’s Party Like It’s 1929

If I read the news, I will go into that bad place in my head that holds all my fears of being destitute and homeless.

The stock market is tanking, confidence is tanking, the economy is sputtering, unemployment is high and nerves are frazzled.  At first, everyone was talking about a double-dip recession, then about, PHEW, how we escaped the double-dip and now, how it looks like a triple-Lutz-followed-by-triple-pike-nosedive recession.

No prognosticator today can know for sure what the Monday morning quarterback will say with a certain smug clarity (after all, he who survives gets to write the history). 

But that doesn’t stop the pundits from scaring me to distraction.

If you love someone

If you love someone, then don’t make him or her executor of your will.

It is one of the most thankless jobs.  Sifting through the detritus of someone’s life is bad enough (you simply don’t need to know some things), but, then, you have to file tax returns and speak to the IRS because one never really leaves one’s affairs in order.  And there are clerical errors and the wrong tax identification numbers are submitted and life gets complicated and you remember that you love this person who died peacefully knowing all was in your care, and you know he or she would never have asked this of you had he or she known what it really meant.  [SIDEBAR: Ok, that was one of those crazy long sentences reserved only for established writers who look elegant in smoking jackets and cravats.  I am just a journeyman lawyer.  If I were Hemingway, I would continue on: “That was a damn good sentence.  A f@#$ing good sentence.  They opened a bottle of wine — a damn good bottle of wine —  and took turns taking swigs from the bottle because they were too proud of that f$%^ing sentence to move from the table.”]

I live my life so government stays far away from me, even as I am willing to pay more in taxes for better education, health care, etc.  I believe in Obama’s presidency and what he wants to accomplish because all of my grandparents were immigrants who struggled to provide a better life for their children, my parents.  And my parents embody the American Dream.  And I represent downward mobility or “regression to the mean” (which means that subsequent generations will achieve the stupidity of Joe the Plumber).  I support the “system” because it really can work (witness my parents and their entire generation in our extended family); I just work hard not to rely on the “system”. Yet now I have to deal with the government for the taxes on the estate of a person whose life is now reduced to a spreadsheet of dividend distributions and capital gains.

Ok, worse is to be guardian of a mentally incapacitated person.  I know someone who took on that burden and I believe there is a place in Heaven waiting for her after what I hope is a long, happy and healthy life on Earth.  But I digress.

POB (partner of blogger) believes that, in light of all of this, we need to rethink our financial future so that we give everything away except for two nickels at the second in time immediately before our deaths. That way, no one needs to do anything for us except have a little shiva cocktail party and light a Yahrzeit candle every now and again.  But the two nickels are really important to her.   I think she never wants anyone to say that we didn’t have “two nickels to rub together”.  Which is why I love her so.  She doesn’t want a “pot to piss in” because that is too crass.  She also expects “a roof over her head” so that doesn’t factor in (although she would consider a reverse mortgage so that there is no fuss about the homestead when we “go”).

She picks her aphorisms and saws to conjure a picture that we timed it all with precision and aforethought.  And she wants to live — and die — by them.  Of course, being the disaster planner that I am, I need to have only “two nickels to rub together” but also a sack of gold just in case.  Don’t tell her I have an extra stash, ok?

I guess the point — and I do have one — is that I am one of the lucky few who can be generally self-reliant and avoid government.  And, I have no expectations of an efficient government because I believe that is frankly impossible to achieve and unrealistic to expect.  If we were looking for efficiencies, we would ascribe to the Wall Street model and we know how that turned out.  No, government is tedious, hopelessly inefficient, and sometimes catches the do-gooders in the web of bureaucracy.  It is easy to complain about government.  It is hard to defend government.  There is a lot of paperwork to get benefits, but remember you are asking for money from the government.  It should be hard to get.

So, SOB (sister of blogger), because I love you, I will relieve you of the executrix role.  You are asking, “no, really, why?” Ok the answer is: (i) you’ll torture me for it and I will never get the last word for ALL ETERNITY and (ii) Mom would not want this to come between her two girls.  I believe BOB (brother of blogger) is also protected because Mom would not stand for that either.

Did you think there would be a point to this? Are you a new reader?

Wall Street Cab Driver

It was too beautiful this morning to get into the subway (and, surprise, I was running late), so I hopped a cab and asked the driver to drive through Central Park, so that I could enjoy the beauty that the car exhaust was destroying.  But I digress.

The cab driver mentioned how New York has changed since the 1970s even though he believes that there is more crime than the official statistics would suggest.  I asked him if he had always driven a cab, knowing in the back of my mind that anyone who didn’t know that you could get the Park Drive going south at 100th Street and Central Park West hasn’t been a cab driver for too long.

No, he was a bond trader and was laid off in 2000 when the bond markets were rocked by one thing or another.  He was a golf caddy for a while and he turned down a job back on Wall Street in 2001 because the pay package was too low.  Yup, you guessed it — at a firm in the World Trade Center.  Ok, Gordon Gekko, in this case, greed saved his life.  Actually, he isn’t really Gekko-esque.  After all, he is driving a cab.  He said the pay package was too low because bond traders were a dime a dozen and people were scrambling to get work.  But he had paid off his mortgage and cashed out of equities as soon as he was laid off, so he was ok.  Not rich, but ok.  Clearly, because he is driving a cab.

A serene cab driver who would rather compete for fares in New York City than go back to Wall Street.  Now that is saying something.

Doctor, heal thyself

The urologist who put up a sign saying, “if you voted for Obama, go somewhere else,” got his information from the Internet and . . . wait for it . . . it was misinformation.  We did not “misunderestimate” him (my favorite moment of the otherwise bleak Bush years).  He was flat-out wrong.

The Internet is an amazing tool.  It also must be viewed in its context.  Opinions — informed, ill-informed and maliciously disinformative — are out there.  It is up to each person to glean the facts, evaluate the sources and come to one’s own conclusion.  Just because I can write an opinion that you might read doesn’t mean that I am right, that I have all of the facts or that, quite frankly, I am interested in the truth.

Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but that doesn’t mean that each opinion deserves equal weight.  I spoke to a tea party goer about a year ago that heard on an unnamed “news” station (ok, FOX) that the health care bill would give social security benefits to illegal aliens.  Ok, let’s set aside the fact that we are not talking about E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial, or Martians, and that they are humans deserving at least the catch-all phrase of “illegal immigrants”.  I asked this woman if she ever dealt with the government.  She asked me to get to my point.  I responded that even if President Obama were seeking to give away the money in the Treasury (which he can’t because there is a 3 trillion dollar deficit), that the government needs a social security number to take any action with respect to a person’s benefits.  So if someone doesn’t have a SSN (let’s assume that an illegal immigrant hasn’t stolen one because why impugn someone who is seeking a better life here, while there are native born executives of Enron and Madoff enterprises who have committed heinous crimes and haven’t yet had their days of reckoning), then it is impossible to give that person social security benefits.  The commentator was either mistaken or intentionally misleading.

Ok, let’s be honest.  MSNBC is slanted the other way and sometimes uses inductive reasoning — basing a hypothesis on one fact — and gets the whole analysis wrong.  For me, sometimes, it is analogous to watching a show about law or maybe a doctor watching ER or Grey’s Anatomy.  It strains credulity and sometimes is farcical.

However, when I realized that I paid more in 2009 taxes than most, non-celebrity, tea party-ers pay in two decades, I realized that I put my money where my mouth is.  I believe in universal health care, medicare and a safety net for those like my grandparents who slept at night knowing that, if they lost their jobs in sweatshops, their children would not starve.  As a child of those children — the embodiment of the American dream — I pay my taxes for those like my grandparents and my parents, and not for the ungrateful masses who are the tea-party-ers.  Why?  Because this is America, the greatest nation on Earth.  But if you don’t want to buy in, that’s ok.  But there are consequences.  How about we mess with your medicare?  Would you be partying then? I hope you get along with your neighbors because if I join your group, there won’t be money to pave the roads outside your homes.  But because of my belief in America, and my indebtedness to my forebears, you get to be parasites sucking on the dream of America.  To tell you the truth, I cannot wait to heave the yolk of your entitlement of my already heavy burden.

How about that?  Let the generous, gentler and kinder America (thank you, Bush I) reclaim what is America.  I live America — I work hard, I pay my taxes, I pray that the government is good, right and just, I do not believe in torture and I give charity to those who need help to jump start their lives.  Yes, what Jesus would do.  And I am a Jewish, lesbian, Ivy League educated, Northeastern elitist.  And I embody the promise and opportunity of America more than most of the greedy, uncharitable, talking heads that pollute our airwaves.

Bring it on.

Tea Party-ers in Revolutionary Get-Ups

Ok, I don’t get what was so great about the pre-Revolutionary War period.

Milk and water had deadly bacteria, “medicine” consisted of bloodletting and leaches, and the economies of the colonies went through more boom and bust cycles than we have in the 20th and 21st centuries combined.

Also, women didn’t vote, slavery was legal and an education was a luxury.  Life expectancy was short and infant mortality high.  You were either born into poverty or great wealth — no in-between.  There was war and its unspeakable human carnage.

In case the tea party-ers are not students of history, they are in the costumes of either the unofficial American aristocracy who made incredible fortunes from smuggling and the slave trade or those who were the impoverished masses and were controlled by that unofficial aristrocracy.  And the Boston tea party was a Samuel Adams’ instigated mob riot intended to rile everyone against the king of England.  All engineered by the wealthy colonials, not the “common people”.

If you are looking for grass roots democracy, try the Native American tribes on which Jefferson based his vision of government.

So, tea party-ers, what is your point?  If you want to go back to that time, well, have fun but count me out.  I would rather deal with a spoiled society on the verge of global devastation, but with the brain power and ultimately, I hope, the conscience and the technology and intelligence, to figure out how to save our earth and our humanity.

But if you just want to dress in knickers and wigs, then knock yourselves out.

Toxins aren’t only in labs

A great philosopher and life coach (and a college friend) once offered up a simple, yet mind-blowing concept:  situations and relationships can be toxic.  Now, this great philosopher and life coach may reveal herself in a comment but I do try (as best I can) to exercise some discretion in naming names.

Think about that: not just WMDs and not just science experiments gone wrong, but the relationships can be, well, combustible. Or more often, a slow carbon monoxide leak.   And this is true in business relationship as well as love relationships as well as family relationships.

 

It is possible to overstate the point.  My child’s periodic tantrums and exhortations of “I never get to do ANYthing” are annoying but they are not toxic.  And they are more than balanced by the sheer joy I get from spending time with my partner and our son.  My partner and I may argue, but we are soul mates.

Even relationships that ostensibly start out fine can turn toxic.  They get toxic when one feels bad and unloved and exploited.  But we must remember that relationships are not balanced all the time, every day.  For example, recently I have been leaning more on my partner for emotional support than usual (and I am so lucky to have her).  So, technically, there is an imbalance.   And I may never be as supportive of her as she is of me now, but as long as she feels loved and respected and appreciated, that can also balance the cosmic equation.  Toxicity comes in when the power in a relationship is taken or (let’s admit it) ceded to one person.  Usually that happens out of fear but sometimes it happens because that is the only relationship model one knows.

Over some months, I realized a dangerously high toxin level in one relationship.  Still, I was desperate to keep it in part for economic reasons, but mostly because I was looking for vindication, acceptance and a great epiphany that I imagine I deserved.

I keep reminding myself that if I knew I was being poisoned by carbon monoxide, I’d run, like the wind.

Still, breaking up stinks even if it is for the best.

I’ve lost that blogging feelin’

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.

Blackberries, iPhones and other means of electronic torture

A few years ago, we were always on our blackberries because we were always juggling deals and family, etc.

Sometimes, we would look at our blackberries to be passive-aggressive if we were angry with our spouses.  Not with my spouse, however.  I tried that for one week and, thereafter, when I came home there was the ceremonial handing over of the blackberry to her and she would throw it somewhere, at least until dinner was over.

Now we are always on our blackberries, fiddling with the battery, checking whether the wifi is on, because we can’t imagine that no one needs to reach us immediately.  In fact, I have three different electronic gizmos just in case one doesn’t work.

Blackberries won’t give us business and restart the economy, but looking at it all the time will anger friends and family.  Sooooooo, I am starting a 12-step program.

“Networking” is a drag

So, last night, I go with a colleague to a networking party in our professional field.  I realized after scanning the faces in the crows how many of my friends and clients lost jobs.  I knew a few people there but not many.  After I spoke to them, I decided that I would just introduce myself and start talking to whomever and even work my way toward introductions with potential business sources. 

I was, in essence, speed-dating.  Some conversation starters worked, some didn’t.  Some situations were uncomfortable (as in former clients) and some were comical. 

I was trying to meet this important guy who was clearly not interested in talking to me.  But I planted myself next to him — why not? he doesn’t give us business now so what do I have to lose? — but unfortunately I also planted myself in the path of the waiter staff trying to pass hors d’oeuvres.   Someone in the conversation asked me what I do (as in for a living), and “I said I try not to get in the way and I am not always successful” as another waiter nearly beheaded me (AND I had moved out of the way) with a tray of almond crusts chicken on skewers.  Then we start talking about facilitating transactions and someone spills wine on my blazer.  “Don’t worry,” I say, “the color is midnight blue so no one will notice”.  Needless to say, I felt like the comic entertainment.  And my blazer needs to be dry-cleaned.