Tag Archives: humor

Like a Hurricane

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Our newly re-acronymed child, SOS (source of sanity) needs to go back to TLP (the little prince), at least for a little while.

On Saturday night, we hunkered down after checking in on all local relatives who might need help.  TLP wondered why we couldn’t camp out at the beach like his cousin, his aunt and his other grandfather (not my dad).  (In fact, to add insult to injury, we made him come home from visiting them at the beach in anticipation of the hurricane.)

They aren’t camping actually.

In fact, they didn’t intend to “camp”, since they live in a perfectly lovely house in East Hampton.  We tried to explain that Hurricane Irene could cause downed power lines and flooding, which would then lead to “indoor camping” by necessity and not by choice.

TLP thought it would an important manly experience, except he forgot that he is a (little) man who likes his amenities, let alone “essentials” like TV, computer access, running water, flushing toilets, etc.

You get the picture. He knows what he wants until he realizes that it is not at all what he wants.  Until that eureka moment, he has the determination of . . . of . . . well, POB (partner of blogger).  Genes are a boomerang.

It is ok that he is not so self-aware of his lack of earthiness.  He is only 9 years old.

Sunday dragged on and on.  TLP couldn’t really focus on the usual mind-numbing TV because he wanted to go back out to the beach.   The hurricane washed out our week at the beach, at least initially.  When the owners of our rental called to say that the power was out and there was flooding on the property, TLP became inconsolable.  Ok, ok, ok, ok, his entire life up to this point has been a vacation.  It is I, I, I, I, I, I, who needs a vacation. Me, me, me, me, me. (It may be important to note that I am ranting here and not TLP.  I can see how you might be confused.)

POB needs some time away, too, but she has had the summer off so, this year at least, a week at the beach is more tradition and less a sanity-saving device.

I had already started looking at other options.  Of course, anything west required a plane and airports were backlogged.  Going south was clearly a non-starter since that was the trajectory of the storm.

Northwest, maybe. Lake George.  Aaah, the Sagamore.  I loved the Sagamore years ago, even though tennis whites were required on the courts and I had to buy clothes in the gift shop.  What does a New York Jew know about tennis whites?  Oh, yeah, Wimbledon.  But that is in England.  Oh, wait!  These people descend from those who came from England.  Ahhhh.

I called the hotel and they had available condos, etc.  So, maybe they allow lavender on the tennis courts?  After all, these are trying economic times.

I took down the information and said I would call back, because I needed to confirm with POB that she was ok with all goyim all the time at a WASPy retreat. POB has some of that blood line in her so I figured her first question would be ask what would there be for us to eat, because clearly she understands the differences in the traditions.  We don’t drink martinis and we don’t eat honey-roasted bar nuts (we eat healthy, raw nuts).  Clearly, we would starve.  In fact, she did ask, and I looked at her with the “after all these years, you think I can’t read your mind” look.  In a calm, but slightly hurt voice (intending to get some martyr points), I told her about the condos with full kitchens that we could stock up in case we couldn’t recognize any of the food.

I guarantee you the first thing anyone at the Sagamore would think upon seeing our family is not, “oh, Jews”.  Especially when they see my accidentally too-severe Janet Napolitano (US secretary of something) style of haircut (thank you, IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) for drawing that parallel).  In fact, I was betting on an upgrade to the furthest and possibly nicest available condo on the property.  We would get the privacy we want and, if they were particularly freaked out, I planned to ask about Shabbat services.  Hell, they would offer in-condo dining, absolutely free.  Grand slam homer for a patched-together vacation, if you ask me.

My delusions of vacation were interrupted when I called back to book the reservation.  In the 6 hours between my calls, Hurricane Irene had hit them hard.  That area was not supposed to be really affected.  I felt bad for my gloating over the dyke-Jew plague I was going to bring on them.  So, we’ll go there sometime soon, when my hair grows out and we will pay full price.  It is the least we can do.

Ok, no vacation plans.  And the boy who earns the acronym TLP is inconsolable.  So, today, Day 3 of When Havoc Struck The Blogger Family, we set out to the train museum in Danbury, Connecticut.  POB and I decided we needed a road trip and we needed to ease TLP into the staycation reality.  He was happy and POB and I were relieved to have him immersed in something.  And the trains were pretty cool, I have to say.

Tonight, we got word that our rented house will be in reasonable shape on Wednesday.  TLP is over the moon.  We are all relieved as well because it is good to get away.  Still, we have tomorrow.

Using some of my martyr points, I have cleared a Blogger mental health and physical wellness morning tomorrow, which means I get to run and look at the river for a while before we all have lunch.  Then, on to preparations for the delayed vacation.

I am thinking of showing TLP pictures of the damage caused by the hurricane and some pictures from Tripoli so he understands that life is not always a vacation.  I just don’t know when is the right time to introduce reality into a happy (and privileged) childhood.  I don’t want to scar him, but I want him to be grateful that we and none of our family was irreparably harmed in a natural disaster that claimed lives and livelihoods of so many.  I want him to have empathy, but I don’t want him to be afraid of what life throws in our path.  I want him to learn to “roll with it”.  I want him to understand his good fortune.  Maybe these are not 9 year-old thoughts and ideas.  Maybe that is too much to put on someone so young.

Parents out there:  HELP!!!

 

 

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Chopped Liver

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Since POB (partner of blogger) has been “at liberty” this summer, she feels the need to explain the incredible discounts she gets on everything she buys.  I absolutely don’t care.  I trust POB with my heart, our son and our bank accounts.  It is her meshugas (craziness).

A typical conversation:

“I bought these pants but since they are last year’s color, I got them for $40 and you always need another pair of khaki-colored pants.  I know I have three pairs now, but the others don’t fit me anymore. . . .”

“If the others don’t fit you, then you only have one, which you bought.  So, you needed it.  They look great.”

“I didn’t really need it [air quotes], but they are good to have.”

“Why are we having this conversation?  I am really glad you have something that fits and looks great on you.”

“But it was a good deal.”

“This is your meshugas, right?  I am here so you don’t look like you are talking to yourself, right?”

[Mean, but loving look in my direction.]

********************************************************

Last week, I noticed that POB’s roots were growing in a little.

Remembering her meshugas, I say to her, “Please don’t try to save money by not getting your hair done regularly.  I am committed to your blond hair.”

You might think because I am a girl, I can get away with saying that to POB, whereas a guy couldn’t.  WRONG. 

“Are you trying to say my hair looks bad?”

Aaaaargh.  If only we can rewind the tape in life, I would have said, “I see your roots.  Make an appointment with your colorist.”  Instead, I had to backpedal with, “what’s important is how you feel.”

POB thought about it for a moment.  “After we get back from vacation, I’ll get it done.  Who am I going to see until then?”

WHO?  WHO?  WHO?

“Really, is that your final answer?”  Oooops, I guess POB forgot I would be seeing her.  What am I?  chopped liver?

Thank G-d she joined me on the seventh rung of Hell.  Otherwise, it could have been a “situation”.

What is even better is that the appointment is this afternoon and POB had already had reservations on the Jitney in from Long Island.  The only issue last night was whether SOS (our son, source of sanity) was staying with his cousin and aunt out at the beach or coming back with POB.  (SOS is coming home, thank G-d.)  There is a hurricane coming after all.

After the hurricane passes, POB and I are going discuss elevating my status to paté.

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Life unscripted

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TLP (our son the little prince) was cuddling with me one morning a few days ago and he was staring at the swaying branches of a tree outside our window.

“Whatcha thinkin’ buddy?”

“The summer just flew by.   Time goes really fast.”

I think, my 9 year-old son has an old soul.

And, of course, I felt a song coming on .  .  . Joni Mitchell .  .  . ♫And the seasons they go ’round and ’round —–♫ I am interrupted.

“Ohhhh, Eeeee-Mom, please, not that song agaaaaaain??!!“

Ok, so I think, he has a old, yet non-mushball, soul.  Also he knows I start to weep at: ♫Now the boy moves 10 times ’round the seasons . . . .♫  And it is only 7:30am and before my second cup of coffee.  An intervention is necessary.

“Well,” he continued, “at least we are going on vacation next week.”

Ok, now he is back to being a spoiled NYC kid.

“Buddy, YOU have been on vacation since you were born.  You are just changing locations for a couple of weeks to keep Mommy and me company while WE are on vacation.”

Thank Goodness he morped back into a regular kid.  If he hadn’t broken my sentimental downward spiral, I would have arrived at the office, grabbed my assistant’s box of tissues, put in a DVD of family photos and disintegrated into a puddle.

Thanks, bud, for keeping it real.

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Just Give Us Something To Talk About

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A friend who is slightly paranoid about being known as a friend of blogger (and ergo, SPOBFOB) and I were discussing (and, might I add, solving) the world’s ills over lunch.  It is so frustrating when two people make major breakthroughs in world peace, economic policy, and moderate reformist politics and no one will let us see the President.  We wouldn’t have made him take notes (he is the President); we know enough about protocol (we could write the book) to bring a short-form and long-form memoranda setting out the action points for achieving these huge global steps forward.

Not only did SPOBFOB and I have important problem solving breakthroughs, but we also took stock of the freak show that comprises the leaders of our nation.  Let’s face it:  Men like the game — thrust and parry, if you must — of negotiations.  Women want to get the damn thing accomplished in the least amount of time with the most impact. Sure there are women who are impossible to deal with in these situations (Michelle Bachmann, par exemple) but by and large, you don’t hear women say, “let’s say this and see what they come back with” when you know full well that “saying this” will only lead to vengeful behavior and reverse any constructive negotiations up to that point.  We rarely make grand pronouncements that make compromise impossible because our egos are in the way.  Just sayin’.

Maybe President Obama would not like to think that he is pretty much in the same camp as John Boehner and Mitch McConnell when it comes to purposeful and constructive negotiations.  Ok, so the answer is that the White House would slam the door on our advance team.

I was despondent because here we had answers and no one who would listen.  I mentioned having a cable talk show and SPOBFOB came up with the brilliant idea of naming it the “Alternate View” because we look at the world quizzically and with our heads tilted, as if we were trying to understand really edgy art.

[So, this is where I go off on one of my tangents and SPOBFOB has no responsibility for anything that follows:]

We can invite our friends and family to come on the show.  They represent a varied and seasoned cross-section of America.  Ok, the liberal, urban/suburban, well-heeled and over-educated America.  So, there would be wide national appeal.  (Ok, that would be in the sovereign nation of No-Where-istan, a state of my mind (see prior blogs).  But, I digress.)

Everything would be fair game, from:

  • did anyone really think Justin and Selena were anything but a media creation?
  • to: should you home school your children in places where the gay liberal communist agenda has not fully infiltrated main stream public school education?
  • to: should fertility treatments and surrogacy be tax deductible for same-sex couples in states where gay marriage is legal?
  • to: who is the sanest person in the Tea Party asylum? and is that like debating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?
  • to: whether quinoa is subversive grain that could reduce America’s dependence on hamburgers?
  • to: how to keep skin from sagging without surgery?

And everything else anyone wants to cover.

 

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The bet

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DOB (dad of blogger) came over for dinner.  We were without reinforcements.  And SOB (sister of blogger) and I had the bet.  SOB said DOB would sing Sholom Aleichem within an hour of arrival and I bet that it would be well before then.

About one-half hour into the visit, DOB was in the bathroom for too long and, well since he is almost 91, I became concerned.  “Dad, are you all right?”  “No problem,” he shouted, “just a little [insert scatological issue].”  I had to call SOB at the hospital about intervening events that might either delay the bet or give me an automatic compassionate win (depending on the judges).

SOB was adamant that the bet was still on.  SOB is tough, but loving and caring.  So, the bet was still on.

With DOB back in the living room, we discussed certain issues relating to the pain, tightness and possibly a little blood relating to the unnamed scatological issue.   I think, “this is sooooo not what I bargained for.” But time was running out.  I thought, “how will I explain to POB (partner of blogger) that I literally bet the house on whether DOB would sing Sholom Aleichem within the first hour of his arrival?”  This would not go over well.  POB might even cancel the wedding and kick me out with a frying pan, like Felix Unger’s wife did to him. Determined not to be a divorcee on a 1960s TV sitcom, I became desperate.

Desperation propelled me into action, even though I know that the final accounting between SOB and me on these types of bets will be at the gates of Hell.  [As an aside, SOB claims that she engages in this kind of infantile behavior to make sure she goes to Hell with me because she would miss me too much if she were in Heaven.  Haven’t I a wonderful sister?]

With little time left, DOB starts singing “Happy Birthday” to TLP (our son, the little prince) to whom we have sung happy birthday ad nauseum.  However, DOB never tires of singing random songs like, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” or “Yes Sir, She’s My Baby”.  In what can only be described as a Hail Mary play, I say, “well, that is better than singing Sholom Aleichem!!”  And, G-d bless DOB, he starts singing at minute 58 and 45 seconds.  I call SOB at the hospital, “I won because even though I affirmatively coaxed him into singing it, there was a whole lot of information beforehand that was unnecessary for the non-doctor child to know!!”

SOB, a saint of a woman, wanted to come and save me.  I said, “no, but we will call this a draw, ok?”  She agreed.  What an awesome sister.

POB asked, “why did you have to call your sister twice?  She usually reads things on your blog and then you discuss.”  I didn’t want to tell POB how close we came to financial ruin at the gates of Hell (of course, she’ll be in Heaven, hanging out with our Moms).

A typical Sunday night chez nous.

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Aleichem Sholom

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A point of clarification on my last blog entry about SOB (sister of blogger) and DOB (dad of blogger) and the documentary they saw on Sholom Aleichem:

Sholom Aleichem was the great Yiddish writer/playwright’s nom de plume.  It is a Yiddish variant of the Hebrew “shalom aleichem,” meaning “peace be with you”.  The correct response, is “aleichem shalom.”

Shalom Aleichem is also a song for the Sabbath (check out this video): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72wDlNi3fJs

(Translation: Peace unto you, ministering angels, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.  May your coming be in peace angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He. Bless me with peace, angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He.  May your departure be in peace, angels of peace, messengers of the Most High, of the supreme King of kings, the Holy one, blessed be He.)

It is relevant, in some miniscule way, to this blog entry.

Today, SOB took TLP (our son, the little prince) to have lunch with DOB and then see the movie, “Cars2.”  TLP was telling SOB and DOB about his favorite parts of camp and he mentioned that Shabbat services was a Friday high point.  Now, there is a totally irreligious reason for this:  TLP gets an extra snack of grape juice and challah.  SCORE!!!! 

Unfortunately, even though no one even mentioned Sholom Aleichem for almost 7 full days, DOB immediately launched into his off-key rendition of “Shalom Aleichem” in full voice for the, er, um, benefit (?) of all within earshot — other patrons of the diner and assorted vermin hiding to get away from the cacophony.

So, two irreconcilable desires derive from this episode:  One, we all agree never to mention anything about Shabbat ever again in DOB’s presence, even the innocent references made by TLP.  The other, is to see how quickly we can trigger the song in DOB at any time and all the time.  The first option would save our sanity but the second option has a slightly mischievous appeal even though it would be tantamount to mutual assured destruction.

SOB and I are dutiful and loving daughters.  Which do you think we chose?  The latter of course.  And, to make it even crazier, we bet on it.  With each other, we only bet in the millions of dollars so we are always going for broke.  It seems appropriate since we are betting on our sanity and that of DOB.

DOB is coming for dinner tomorrow night.  SOB has to work, so I have the advantage.  I might meet him downstairs so that I trigger it even before he crosses the threshold. I am the evil younger sibling.

But, SOB needn’t worry about transferring assets so quickly.  There will always be new bets, even more cynical and macabre bets, long before the Final Accounting is due.  (And, as I understand, Hell doesn’t take cash or credit cards.)

But until then, hum with me:  ♫ Sha-lom a-lei-chem, mal-a-chei ha-sha-reit, mal-a-chei el-yon, mi-me-lech ma-l’chei ha-m’la-chim, ha-ka-dosh ba-ruch hu. . . . ♫

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POB

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I love POB (partner of blogger).  She is the better half of my soul.  She is extraordinary.

She is also “at liberty” these days, since losing her job in a corporate restructuring.  To my mind, she can rest on her laurels and eat bon-bons for the rest of her life. I want her to be happy.  But recently, I think she needs to have a job for her sanity and well, frankly, for mine.

A few weeks ago, I learned from POB all about the scam of recycling plastic bottles.  The bottles are shipped to China (add to carbon footprint) where the process of recycling those bottles causes noxious gases to be released into the atmosphere (EPA would not allow such recycling in our country) and then the recycled product is shipped back to us (add to carbon footprint). All this, over dinner, after a long day trying to woo clients and bring in business.

Last night, we were at dinner at a restaurant with friends and POB had questions about the fish special.  Was it farmed? Was it certified as “happy fish” before it was fooled by bait and impaled on a hook?  Where was it fished? (as in, was it fished in a place that is overfished?)  I had an extra glass of wine that had a huge carbon footprint.  I felt bad but the wine felt good.

But it was really the other week that I decided that POB needs a job, ANY job, with or without pay.  POB announced over a gluten-free, nut-free and (dare I say) taste-free dinner that we should get one of those apartment-size composting kits so that we can create fertilizer and then drop it off at compost-receiving stations in Central Park.  That way, the parks will be greener and we will be, too.  Ok, ok, ok, ok, at age 47, I am composting nicely, thank you.  I will disintegrate enough just in time for the worms, etc. to break down the rest of my cells at my death.  POB is not mollified by the knowledge that I am in slow-burn compost mode.

What, am I not compost enough for POB????  At long last, has it come to this?

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Conversations with my father

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DOB (father of blogger) came over for dinner. Just DOB.  No others to redirect the conversation when it, as it invariably does, turns to scatological matters.  And with my having an endoscopy on Friday, we would need the conversational fortitude of all family members to keep the subject, shall we say, appetitive.

I became a little desperate when I realized that the “regulars” for Sunday dinner were unavailable and it was just DOB and the three of us:  POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince) and me.

The excuses:

  • SOB (sister of blogger) was working this weekend at the hospital,
  • therefore, HOSOB (husband of SOB) had to stay home to feed SOB, and
  • Cousin Gentle and CB (Cousin Birder) were separately out of town.

All reasonable excuses; however, in the aggregate, totally unacceptable.

And POB, always a little afraid of what someone from my side of the family might say, stays in the kitchen and cooks.  She can hear everything and I can tell her displeasure by the increased numbers of needlessly dirty pots and pans that are left for me to clean.  Oooops. I digress.

For the record, DOB is a perfectly lovely man and he was a wonderful father. Now, let’s get to it.

He asked how I was feeling after the endoscopy.  Not waiting for an answer, he told me how lucky I was not to have a colonoscopy.  He has had over ten.  I mentioned that I am glad that he no longer has them (he is near 91) because I understand that the preparation for a colonoscopy is rough.  He started discussing all the things that could go wrong in the procedure, like a puncture of the bowel or whatever (at this point, I am not listening because I am deciding whether or not to lunge out of the window).

POB walks in because she felt an intervention was necessary.  She almost texted SOB at the hospital to rush over to run a Code Green (as in POB was turning green from the conversation) and save us from ourselves.  POB, G-d bless her, tried.  And failed.

DOB paused politely while POB tried to maneuver us away toward more common pre-dinner conversation.

Then DOB started to tell me that he thinks he needs a colonoscopy because — I tried to stop him there.  I don’t need the details. But his hearing isn’t so good, so he didn’t hear me plead for him to stop. Instead he alluded to discomfort, waiting for me to ask for more information.  I didn’t ask because if he tells me, I will surely lose my mind. He made more allusions but I wouldn’t take the bait.  This is a battle for my sanity.  If DOB realized the stakes involved, he wouldn’t push it (he is after all a lovely man and good father).  He would have walked into the kitchen and grossed out POB.

He moved on to the procedure he might have.  Sanity preserved — for now.

Of course, he said that if the doctors found anything, that given his age, he wouldn’t want any invasive treatment. Ok, ok, ok, ok.  You want to have a risky procedure at your age just as an information gathering exercise?  And torture your daughters, who will go with you and take care of you afterwards?

In my head, I am screaming, “SO, WHY ARE WE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION AND WHY DO I KNOW DETAILS ABOUT BOWEL MOVEMENTS THAT I NEVER, EVER, NEEDED TO KNOW??”

Just then, SOB called, as if she knew I was about to lose my mind.

“So how’s it going over there?” she asked.  I imagine that her head was already in her hands as she was awaiting my answer.

“Dad’s having some elimination issues.”

“OOOOooooh.  I am really sorry I couldn’t be there tonight.“

SOB knows my sanity is on the line and she is my protector.  But there are sick patients in ICU.  There are just crazy people in my home.

“Dinner!!!” POB calls.  My salvation.

 


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Meanwhile on the other side of town . . . .

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Some back story (again).  TLP (our son, the little prince) asked BYP (beautiful young princess) to marry him two years ago.  BYP said, “Sure!!”  And they have been betrothed ever since the tender age of 7 years-old.  The Yiddish name for the relationship between parents of a married couple is “machertunim”.  The mothers are “machertenesters” and the father is a “shver” (not a really pleasant translation).

So, while I was having my well-documented endoscopy, our machertenester was having  laparoscopy to remove her not-quite-burst appendix.

How did we find out?  Our machertenester was emailing from her blackberry to tell us because they had to cancel our dinner plans for tonight.  Really?  Really? That was on your mind as you recover from surgery?

Laparoscopy, open-heart surgery, whatEVERRRR.  Surgery is surgery.

The emails went something like this:

“We have to cancel dinner tomorrow night.  I had my appendix removed this morning.”

[Blogger side bar:  I am thinking, WAIT, WAS THAT WRITTEN IN THE SAME WAY AS, “Sorry, we couldn’t get a babysitter”  ???????  Really, machertenester?   What, all of sudden, you like minimalist and Bauhaus in an emotional context?  Are you too assimilated?]

“OMG, what happened?”

“What do you mean ‘OMG what happened?’ You have an out of office message about an unanticipated absence! I am freaking out!”

“No, you can’t freak out because YOU-U-U had major surgery?”

“Not so major; it was caught before the rupture.  What did you have done?”

“Endoscopy, with Michael Jackson drugs.”

“And you thought you were going to the office after THAT?”

[OK, this conversation is going in the wrong direction.]

“Wait, we are talking about your almost disastrous brush with rupture, peritonitis and shock.”

I look up exactly what happened to Machertenester.  Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

(ruptured appendix)

(surgery)

“I’m fi-i-ine.”

“Should we take the kids? Do you need ANYTHING?”  [I am thinking if she said, “New cable box or blender” I would have gotten it for her.]

“We’ll check in tomorrow.”

Ok, Machertenester is a strong woman.

I don’t care if our kids marry.  She is my machertenester forEVEH.

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Transformations

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Over the last half-year, POB (partner of blogger) started exercising to handle the stress generated by her job.   (I wanted her to quit because she was working so hard at making a difficult situation workable that I didn’t think it was worth it.)

POB balances so much — she takes such fabulous care of TLP (our son, the little prince) and me — that I tell her often she can stop anytime and then eat bons bons and rest on her laurels for the rest of our lives.

Recently, POB’s job ended [more on that later].

All of a sudden, she had time to shop (she needed new clothes for the summer and for her slimmed-down body) and do things for her and the family that often went undone because of our schedules.

Then, one night, I came home and walked into the kitchen to see this tall, slim, blond woman in heels and form-fitting clothes, cooking dinner.

I was a bit surprised; who WAS this women?  Then, I remembered.  Before she could turn around, I asked, “Excuse me.  Are you the trophy wife I ordered from Amazon?“

POB turned around and said, “Yes, yes, I am. Be afraid.  Be very afraid.”

Ah, all is the same.  POB is still POB and she is a gift.

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