I have been wallowing in old and recent pictures of the family. You know, the end-of-year auld lang syne thing, except without the drunken protestations of undying friendship.
Jews, as a rule, are not innately happy, because if you are happy, then the Evil Eye will visit some horribleness upon you and your loved ones. Preventing the Evil Eye from coming is hard work when you’re up against all the Yuletide cheer. It requires devotion to cynicism (which is extremely difficult this time of year — as you may remember, even Ebeneezer Scrooge gave in to the Yuletide cheer), remembering every lost loved one, predicting doom and gloom in the New Year, and staying up nights thinking up disaster plans if your family is suddenly homeless.
While I was protecting my family and the world from imminent disaster (say Keynahora — don’t ask why, just say it) by tearing up while looking through photos of my mother of blessed memory (don’t worry, no bringing in the Joni here), I noticed in the pictures that over time, the muscle tone in my arms went from “awesome” to — er — “pretty good for middle-age”. I decided that I needed to return to arms — not to “awesome” but — to “omigod, your arms don’t look like they belong on a middle-aged woman!” I determined that if I said “keynahora”, the incantation said by my grandmother right after she kissed the mezuzah and put money in the pushke (box for charity) enough times, no harm would come to my family if I indulged in a little narcissism.
Turns out I didn’t need to say “keynahora”, kiss anything or anyone because the Evil Eye got the last laugh.
Background: I have silvery hair, and have taken to “glamming out” a little (earrings, lipstick, scarves, jewelry) to balance the harshness of “going gray”.
TWICE tonight at the gym, men who are easily 20-25 years older than me were checking me out. I noticed they tried to meet my gaze and I looked back to see if they needed something. Seeing that they were holding my gaze, I turned around to see if there was someone else intended for the gaze. Just my reflection. Uh oh, I think. I am gray but I could be your daughter. Eeeeeewwwwww. Besides, you are at the gym either because you were too speculative in the last years and need to continue to work (greed is a boomerang) or you are just here to check out the women (shame on you because, statistically speaking, you have a wife at home with sagging arms). In either case, I don’t date MEN — and therefore men on social security — and I am married (as much as one can be in New York) to woman with whom I have a family. And does Medicare pay for that Viagra?
The other thing I noticed is that all young women (gay or straight) have tattoos just above the cracks of their tushies, and they make sure those tattoos are visible to all by wearing revealing gym wear. (I can look.) You can tell the non-straight girls because they are doing military pull ups and the really hard kind of push-ups. And some don’t even have that ooky muscled-up with no breasts look. But I digress.
The harsh truth that hit me is no girl was even glancing in my direction. So, what I am saying is that women may gender-bend, but they don’t generation-bend, although I look fabulous for 50 (I am 46-almost 47).
So, I didn’t need protection from the Evil Eye. I need protection from REALITY.
Most every other family can get it together to take a photo, get prints done, put in envelopes, address the envelopes and mail them. We can’t.
In fact, POB (partner of blogger) would rather do laundry and I would rather destroy the house under the guise of “home improvements” than undertake this gargantuan task. (As an aside, we have had to contract repairman to correct my home improvement projects, but I digress. . . )
So . . . Not happening until our son is of an age where he can do all of that.
But we love getting the holiday pictures from our friends and family. (Note to friends: we love seeing your kids, but we also want to see you in the picture as well.)
SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) especially likes the pictures of the kids he knows. Even he says stuff like, “wow, they’ve grown!!” There is one family with an adorable little girl and two younger twin boys (you know who you are) whose card was particularly of interest to SOPOBAB. (I think he likes the willfulness in the girl.) But he is betrothed to another (this, he decided at the tender age of 7, so his interest in the willful one is merely big-brotherly.)
He also likes to see pictures of my college friends’ families. A group of us female friends have remained tight-knit (the “Soeurs”). SOPOBAB asked POB, “when are the Soeur kids getting together?”
He also asked POB, “[Blogger] is a Soeur, and I am a Soeur kid, then what are you?” POB responded, somewhat sheepishly, “I am a Soeur Consort.” Since not everyone has a spouse and partners may change from time to time, it seemed like a suitable name — heck, Queen Elizabeth’s husband is called “The Queen Consort” (I think). Unfortunately, it sounds a little tawdry. Maybe we will all get married by the time he is old enough to think the name is ooky and then “Soeur Consorts” will be “Soeur Spouses”.
But our boy is used to eccentricity.
It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed. This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.
At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window. In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair. (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)
POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs). Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah. (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.) So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.
What could be bad? Well I am glad you asked.
First, HOSOB is making the latkes. That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook. Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window. This old-style, with schmaltz. My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.
Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends. That’s fine, we love other bird nerds. Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr. Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!” He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying. And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive. Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation. Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.
Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there. HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”). The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).
Fourth, I may be too sick to go. And I love my family. SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.
I’ll let you know what happens. Now time for a nap.
POB (partner of blogger) and I have barely enough time in a day to do anything for us — you all know the drill. It is a typical day in the life of two working parents. So we buy everything we can online, at the craziest hours. POB needed sports bra and I needed underwear. So, we bought the necessaries on http://www.jockey.com.
All was good. We received the package with a lovely envelope . . .
that opened to reveal a discount certificate:
But it also revealed that our underwear was packet with extra care by Bob:
EEEEEEEEEEwwwwww. Bob packed our underwear with EXTRA CARE? Somethings you just don’t need to know.
I suffer from migraines. They have gotten worse over the years. A few years ago, an old white male ob-gyn cheerfully told me that my migraines should go away after menopause. I have since moved on to another ob-gyn (not that I need the “ob” part anymore). His name is Dr. Jew. He is a great doctor and lovely man and, yes, I would go to him in any event because of his name. Why? Sometimes you have to laugh at the odd twists and turns of your grandmother’s every dream — a Jewish doctor. In this case, the doctor’s last name is Jew. He is Korean. But I digress.
Back to my migraine.
I had a blow-out one yesterday. The aura — no peripheral vision in my right eye, tingling in my legs — made me reach for the prescription medication and not just “tough it out”. If I take the medication in time, it can really blunt the pain and limit the duration. I got home at 6:30pm and took to my bed in the dark. POB (partner of blogger) and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) came home a little later. I crawled out of bed with my sunglasses on (migraines make me sensitive to light) and looked like a holdover from Halloween celebrations. I think I scared my son more than any Headless Horseman could.
Anyway, I had to go back to bed because it was all too much (those with migraines can understand) but I was feeling helpless and useless and getting angrier at my migraine (again, those with migraines can understand). So, I put on my sunglasses, turned on my laptop to read up on new ideas for prevention. Instead, I read, www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/79402.php, which essentially says that having auras correlates to higher risk of stroke and heart attack in women. I emailed it to Dr. SOB (sister of blogger) and, overwhelmed with this new information, I drowned even further in self-pity.
Luckily, SOPOBAB (who, at 8 years old, is sometimes a better doctor than Dr. SOB) came in and kissed me so that I would feel better, but really he wanted to tell me in full voice about some new train magazine. Wallowing was over. Happily, so, too, was my headache. SOPOBAB is really good medicine.
It takes all kinds of crazy from all kinds of people to make New York City a unique human experience. A key to survival in this city is to think you are less crazy than at least one other person. And if all you can do is feel less crazy than a raving lunatic, well, then, you only need to walk a few streets in either direction to find a more subtle version of crazy. Of course, you don’t always have time to search for a less lunatic, but still crazier, person.
Here’s is what I mean:
If you are running late in New York City, the best way to travel is by subway. Of course, the impulse is to take a cab because it should be faster since it is a door-to-door trip. But there is always traffic in this City. Yet, what did I do yesterday morning when I was running late for work (as I often do)? Yep, I took a cab. And I was surprised and frustrated that there was no magically clear avenue for the cab to zip down. Even more irritating was that my driver was a traffic magnet. Who drives down Broadway from the upper west side to midtown at 9:15am? And, adding insult to injury, he had been a cab driver for years (I asked). Still, I wondered why taking a cab didn’t miraculously reduce the time it takes to get to my office. Crazy is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
Realizing this, I had to find someone very quickly who was more crazy than I.
But I am in the backseat of a cab stalled in traffic a few blocks above the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. Agitated, I looked all around me. There were the odd assortment of passersby but no one crazy enough to be crazier than I. I felt a cold sweat come on. In my head, I was screaming: I cannot be the craziest person in this City!!!!!
Then I saw a homeless man standing in front of a former bank branch doing his Yoga stretches in the sunshine. He was breathing in deeply as he moved his arms in arcs above his head and down. Then he did the stretch with an arched back (something that has a name that contains the word dog?). All I know was that he was breathing in deep, cleansing (ok, it is New York City, so not so cleansing) breaths and seemed to be calm and happy. Ok, he is a crazy, homeless man because if you are homeless you simply cannot be serene and happy unless you are crazy. And, according to the great philosopher Forrest Gump, crazy is as crazy does.
So, I was less crazy that morning than the man on the street. And some days, that is the best you can do.
Our dad’s 90th birthday party was a wonderful success. It was a beautiful day and the party was in a greenhouse with an outdoor space.
One of my dad’s friends spoke about meeting Dad in 1943 when Dad was a corporal and his friend was a private. They re-met during the Korean War (my father almost ran him over in Tokyo) and then at dental school and have been friends for 67 years. I can’t imagine knowing someone for that long who could still say wonderful things about me. Crazy.
Lots of relatives or people who are relatives just by longevity. Follow me on this one. My aunt, my mother and Blossom (among others) were sorority sisters at college in the 1940s. (My aunt was dating my uncle and introduced my mother to her boyfriend’s brother (my dad) but that is another story for another blog entry). Blossom married my aunt’s cousin whom she divorced. (That cousin was there with his wife, even though they are not technically related either, but longevity is more important than blood anyway.) Blossom then married Aaron. Blossom died and Aaron married Marjorie. The first time POB (partner of blogger) and I met Marjorie was at a cousin’s bar mitzvah. But Marjorie must have been part of the family in another life, because she had no boundaries from the start. POB was pregnant and Marjorie turned to her and said, “Known donor or unknown donor?”. POB, having been raised in a good home and not quite used to direct, personal questions from near-strangers was so shocked that she actually answered. I then turned to POB and said, “well, now that Marjorie knows, don’t you think we ought to tell our parents?” So a person married to someone who married into the family who was married to someone who was no longer married into the family asserted family privilege to ask any question that came to mind, without filter. I love this family.
My cousins — Dad’s nieces and nephews — talked about things they remembered about Dad from when they were kids in the 1940s and 1950s. Cousin Gentle (from prior blogs) talked about how Dad gave tickets to a ball game to his father (my Uncle Dave) so Uncle Dave could take Cousin Gentle to a ball game. It turns out it was Don Larsen’s 1952 World Series perfect game. Still the only ball game that Cousin Gentle has ever attended.
Another cousin talked about Dad’s teaching her to build card houses, and another talked about Dad’s taking him to the Opera. All of them talked about the beautiful things he brought home for each of his nieces and nephews from Japan after the Korean War. They remembered him as someone interested in them and kind and gentle. It was really touching to hear new things about my Dad and hear the love expressed in those memories.
One cousin started talking about the meaning of family and how he is a trust and estates lawyer (I had to stop him from taking the opportunity for self-advertisement) and how he has seen families fight and disinherit each other. He started to go off on a tangent and get a little worked up, without an end in sight. SOB (sister of blogger) gave me a sign that I had to intervene, so I got up, went over to my cousin and took the microphone away and offered it to the next cousin who wanted to speak, in age order. Cousin Gentle and SOB now call me “Hook” because I pulled that act off the stage.
SOB talked about the first night she was an intern and was in the hospital all night and was scared and overwhelmed. At about 3am, she got a page. It was Dad, wanting to make sure she was alive. She never forgot that and it helped her through that rest of that night’s torture.
Then BOB (brother of blogger) talked beautifully about how Dad is a role model for being a good husband and father and how special it was that Dad was his best man at his wedding. BOB is not usually that emotional, introspective or even talkative around us. I was so moved. But the moment was over like a shooting star flaming out, so all returned like a flash to status quo ante. But for the moment, there was kumbaya in the air, as if it were being sung for the first time.
My dad is such a sweet, and humble man. When it came time for the cake, he thanked everyone for coming and said how fortunate he was to be surrounded by friends and family and he was grateful to everyone for being there and for their kind words. The cousin from whom I had to yank the microphone said in a stage whisper (really a stage SHOUT), “what, that is all he is going to say?” Aaaaargh. My dad said it all in a few words and did so with grace and humility. Dear Cousin, a lesson might be learned here.
We had the quintessential Jewish goodbye — we all said goodbye but didn’t leave. In fact, I must have said goodbye three or four times to the same people. The rule is if there is more than a half-hour between goodbye kiss and departure, you have to start over again. I don’t know the provenance of the rule, but it caused the goodbyes to go on for almost 2 hours. Also, it probably didn’t help that we had pictures from 1920 to the present out on a table by the door so people starting reminiscing anew as they were leaving. Some of the older folk sat down in comfy chairs to nap a little while they waited for the rest of their group to finish. I wish I had pictures of that.
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.
Further reinforcing my hypothesis that older people progressively allocate more time to traveling and invariably arrive early, our fathers came for 6pm dinner at 4:30pm, which coincides with the time-honored “early bird” hour. Which makes one wonder whether restaurateurs named, rather than caused, the phenomenon.
I don’t know about other Jewish families, but the first dinner after the Yom Kippur holy day involves comparing Yiskor books (books of remembrance for those who have died) and book plate honors (having someone’s name put in a prayerbook) from the various synagogues to which various members attend. It is a morbid combination of “Bingo”, “Wheel of [Mis]Fortune” and “Celebrity Match-ups”. I like to think of it as “Did You Remember to Name that Dead Person?”
My dad was upset that he forgot to list POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom (z”l). I said, “Don’t worry. You’ll remember next year, Dad. We had her covered.”
I mentioned that we also covered several uncles and cousins and he mentioned a few we forgot and also the grandparents. Oooooh. Darn!!! Missed that! Harumph. We need to have a huge list for next year, even if the dollars pile up (wait, you thought it was free?).
But we had a book plate put in a prayerbook for Dad’s 90th birthday. SCORE!!! (POB is sooooo awesome.)
POB’s father and our son were watching the football games. The other Jews shrugged and then started to talk about concussions and debilitating diseases, as a way of showing interest in the football game.
Then SOB (sister of blogger) wanted to take out the old family pictures so we can mount them on poster board for my Dad’s birthday party. We all got a little teary-eyed about how young and vibrant everyone looked and how most are now gone.
So, to recap: we have talked about death, destruction and death again. Just what Jews need to work up an appetite.
POB made a delicious dinner, over which we discussed the importance of building that Islamic Cultural Center right where they planned it and argued about the meaning of life, chaos theory and the mysteries of the universe. It got rather heated when we were contrasting a Jewish, G-d-centric approach that assumes that actions have meaning and can cause change versus the view that most of what we do doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. I ventured that, while I am not so sure that I believe the former, if I in fact believed the latter, then what’s the point and POB should just get my life insurance. At that point, POB’s father then asked, “how much?” in a very oddly interested tone. My brother-in-law (the bird nerd from other entries), quietly advised me not to go anywhere alone with my father-in-law. All this while I was choking over the salad course.
Dessert brought calm to the table as we talked about the Million Moderate March on October 30th and exhorted our TV-challenged relatives to tune into Jon Stewart on the web. (I could not speak to Stephen Colbert, because I remember him when he was really a right wing-nut at Dartmouth.)
So, death, destruction, death, religion & chaos, politics and comedy. Another excellent family dinner with the extended family.
