Tuesday, the day the lawyer sleepwalked through life

Posted on July 14, 2010 by 40andover

Most people may think that lawyers have no scruples and sleep like babies. Well, most lawyers are neurotic messes and control freaks, so sleep is often restless, filled with stress dreams.

You know, the usual stress dreams: your teeth are falling out, you are not wearing enough clothes, you are running but you can’t get where you are going, you forgot to drop a class in college and now you have to sit for the exam, or you forgot to graduate from law school. (Imagine the irony of waking up relieved that you are actually a lawyer and admitted to, and in good standing with, the state bar. That is more than mere irony. That is true perversion.)

On Tuesday, I had all of these stress dream episodes but I was watching them happen to other people. First, I passed a woman on the street who was wearing what looked to be a man’s dress shirt accessorized with a belt. It was so short that even for the summer in the let-it-all-hang-out culture of NYC, that she looked like she forgot to put on slacks or a skirt. It really weirded me out. Stress dream #1 √

I went into the subway where there was a pack of young Europeans blocking every turnstile and acting as if the turnstiles were a make-shift café. The train was coming and I was wading through a sea of Eurotrash humanity. I got through but missed the train. I stood on the platform sweating profusely (it is hot in the City). Out of the corner of my eye, I see a person on crutches I passed a half-block before the subway hopping down the stairs to the platform. Now, I know I am getting nowhere fast. Stress dream #2 √

The train comes and it is packed. I am cheek by jowl and nose by armpit with strangers. The man seated below me is talking to a friend and laughs so loudly that I look down — he is missing most of his bottom teeth. Stress dream #3 √

The train thins out at 96th Street and I overhear a woman talking about her daughter’s falling behind on her bar review course materials and freaking out because the bar exam is the last week of July. Stress dreams #4 – ∞ √

I arrived at my office, tired and freaked out. And glad I was awake and not living through my stress dreams starring random people on the street.

My son’s most excellent adventure

Posted on May 20, 2010 by 40andover

My son is an intrepid traveler. His partner in crime is Cousin Gentle.

They boldly go where no one on our family has gone before — Staten Island.

Now Staten Island — that is RED state country. We descend from the red palette, too, but closer to the blue–red (socialist) part of the spectrum. The kind of red that would make today’s red staters would prefer to be dead (better than be red).

And these two did not just go to the ferry stop on the “other side” and then hurry back to the safety of our (Manhattan) island sanctuary. No, these two Upper West Siders took the SIR — Staten Island Rail — to the end of the line, Tottenville. You might be surprised that there are over 20 stops on the SIR and it takes an hour to go the length of that island.

They stopped for pizza and the proprietor asked Cousin Gentle, “what country are you from?” Cousin Gentle replied, “the Upper West Side”. The proprietor nodded that he had heard of it. Who knew you didn’t need a space rocket to visit Mars?

Apparently, Tottenville has a shore line and beach area and my son waded into the ocean not yet sullied by the oil spill. Over dinner (back home in the bosom of our effete, white wine sipping, brie cheese eating, intellectual elitist Upper West Side), my son said, “Tottenville is just like East Hampton!!” I looked at Cousin Gentle who whispered that he didn’t say that while in Staten Island (because those are fighting words there) and I checked that FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) didn’t hear that statement because, well, FOPOB has a beach house in East Hampton. Honestly, I would rather risk offending FOPOB than inciting people to riot on Staten Island.

There are so many sociological layers to my son’s statement. I, however, will go with “my son, the pampered egalitarian”. And leave it at that.

Mother’s Day

Posted on May 10, 2010 by 40andover

Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one. The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes. Ok, I am living in the past. The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic). And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes. This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”. SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out. POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out. POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair. Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world. Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner. Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day. The warning was clear: be there or be talked about. Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year. In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level. Grandnephews and nieces are not invited. However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited. So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news. FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration. Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family. Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner. Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most. He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB? Two family gatherings missed. I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest. You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today. Yes, I did. But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid. Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog. Ooooops.)

One thing leads to another

Posted on April 18, 2010 by 40andover

I started the weekend early by slipping out to go to the ear doctor. Most people wouldn’t call that the start of a weekend. But my ears have been clogged and itchy on and off for some time and more and more people have told me that they’ve been to the ear doctor and the problem was wax. Deriving from a deep-seating egotism or martyrdom — I am not sure — I assumed that the ear doctor would look into my ears, faint at the sight of the wax and then, once regaining consciousness, would suit up (a HazMat, of course) and begin excavation.

He looked into my ears, my ears and my throat. He said, “No wax. Your ears are clean.” He looked at my expression and asked, “You were hoping for serious wax, weren’t you?” I nodded. He felt bad. He said, “I am really sorry, but your ears naturally dispose of excess wax, just the way they are supposed to. And it just may be allergies causing the itching and clogged feelings.” I was so dejected. He started to feel really bad. He continued, “Look, I kept you waiting for 30 minutes and there was no wax, so I am waiving the co-pay for the visit.” I protested, after all, it wasn’t his fault about the wax and he apologized for being late the moment he walked in the room, so my anger at that was assuaged. “No,” he insisted, “give it to charity.”

I walked onto the street and tried to hail a cab during that ridiculous time of day when ALL cabs are “off-duty” — why every cab company must have the shift changing times is beyond me. I inadvertently cut in front of a guy and ran to an off-duty cab because sometimes the driver will take you if the destination is on his way to the designated shift-changing location. I felt bad — I don’t usually cut a line and this was right after the doctor waived a co-pay. The guy looked odd but harmless enough. So, I offered him a lift to his destination — Port Authority. This is a very non-New York thing to do. A cab is one’s (rented) private domain from the beginning to the end of the ride. Don’t get between a New Yorker and his or her cab. It would get ugly fast.

It turns out the stranger in my cab was a doctor and a sheep farmer near Binghampton, NY and was in the city for a medical conference. He hates the city and the thought of living on a farm gives me hives. So, total opposites and that does not bode well for the 20 minutes remaining in our time together. That is an eternity in a small space with a stranger who somehow feels beholden to make conversation. And he was clearly not a natural conversationalist. For example, he mentioned that not only does he get wool, milk but he also gets hides. Picture a dead Bambi starring in the movie, “The Silence of the Lambs.” He had noooooo sense of humor and seemed somewhat sad. When we got to Port Authority, I declined his offer of payment and told him that my doctor waived the co-pay, and telling me to give it to charity and so I am doing the same here.

As the cab driver and I continued on to my destination, I said congenially, “Was I crazy to give a stranger a lift?” The cab driver looked at me in his rear-view mirror and said, “You seem like a very nice spirit and a professional, educated person.” I knew that that was a compliment and a way to say he thought I wasn’t crazy doing a good turn for a stranger, but it is fascinating how different cultures and the “immigrant experience” shape our language. He then asked rhetorically, “You are Jew?” Turns out Moustafa is a Muslim from Egypt and a civil engineer. (A weird factoid: he is the third cab driver — all were Egyptian — to ask if I were a Jew.) We had a wonderful chat about life, happiness and universality of humanity.

It is crazy how a doctor’s waiving a co-pay led ultimately to a conversation with Moustafa. A conversation that lifted my spirits and reminded me of our common humanity.

A New York moment

Posted on March 21, 2010 by 40andover

Ok, no one is going to believe this. But I think it is clear already that I attract the bizarre and inane like mosquitoes to carcasses. But POB (partner of blogger) is my witness. (And she agrees that I have a certain magnetism that I might want to have reversed.)

A woman is walking ahead of us on our street on this beautiful spring day. She is shouting into the phone. I look over because my attention is drawn to the noise. At that moment I notice:

that toilet paper is making a paper tail from her pants.

She feels something flying around at just about the same time and looks around as she is grabbing the toilet paper.

Our eyes meet for what seems an eternity. I think of Gilda Radnor doing a 1970s Roseanna Roseannadanna (Saturday Night Live) skit about Princess Lee Radzwill (Jackie O’s sister) with toilet stuck to her shoe. Except in this case, IT WASN’T STUCK TO HER SHOE!!

I am also shell-shocked.

She keeps yelling into the phone as she grabs at the toilet paper and her slightly horrified look dissipates.

Another New York moment.

Look away

Posted on February 21, 2010 by 40andover

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.

Family Weekend

Posted on February 15, 2010 by 40andover

This weekend was family weekend.

Last night, POB made a huge tenderloin which didn’t seem so aggressively carnivore-centric, until her vegetarian sister (SOPOB) called to say she and her son were coming. POB’s father (FOPOB) also came over, in part, because he liked the menu. (Not only can you not fool all the people all of the time, but you can’t please them either.)

And to round out the alphabet of “OB”-centric initials, sister of blogger (SOB), husband of SOB (HOSOB) and father of blogger (FOB) also came. HOSOB got a really short haircut and looked so adorable in that way that little boys do when they get their hair cut (except he is 54 or so, but still sooooooo adorable). And not the way an older man looks cute and helpless when he puts on a hat with ear flaps (you know, the “look” that cuts one’s IQ in half).

Since having a child, it makes me happy when those whom I love have home-cooked meals. Of course, POB has to do the actual cooking — I just plate everything and set the table, except when I don’t, and then POB is overworked and I don’t deserve her. But last night I wasn’t a slouch or sloth. (Of course, I think I deserve a merit badge for good behavior, but I digress.)

My nephew didn’t like dinner and was honest about in that way that kids can be. Everyone else was polite and HOSOB seemed to enjoy the carnivorous portion of the meal especially. FOB seemed to enjoy the wine. SOB seemed to enjoy leaving (she later reported having a really sound sleep — must have been vicarious dose of triptophan from all of the food HOSOB ate). FOPOB was non-committal. Our son and nephew enjoyed being together.

Today, another generation descended. A cousin from the Catskills who studied and lived in China for 5 years came for brunch, along with her half-Dutch, half-Israeli boyfriend who went to school in Switzerland and whom she met in Shang-hai. He is now in the States, in New England. It is too confusing to figure out which of the many pairings of culture shock he is currently experiencing. He is sweet and gentle notwithstanding his inherent Dutch directness and Israeli hubris.

Also along was a brother of this cousin who traveled the far distance from the Catskills to a suburban hamlet in Massachusetts. He introduced us to his girlfriend. This was big. His girlfriend was polite, sweet and quiet — i.e., not Jewish. Hey, non-Jews have tamed our family, to wit: my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. So, really, we are scared the non-Jews we love won’t marry into our family because we are so loud, and — hmmm, how shall we say — undiscriminating about our dinner/brunch table discussion topics.

So we were loud, especially my cousin (her boyfriend), and she didn’t seem unnerved by it, even when those cousins started talking about importance of sloping leaching fields in the separation of solid waste from non-solid waste. Septic tanks and the related issues of sanitation are not approved topics of conversation at my table (even though these were favorite topics of their father z”l who was a wonderful, if controlling, human). As I was trying to stop the story (we WERE eating), his sister piped in about the variations of “spicy stomach” she and her friends had in China. Ok, ok, ok. All of this after I lectured them (again) about the inappropriateness of pictures they put on Facebook.

My dear cousin (DCOB) — an elder of my generation — also joined us. He is such a gentle soul. He is very involved in eastern traditions, medicine and meditation. He also has a tremendous collection of American folk music. I know that you are thinking Asian monk living in the splendor of secluded monastery that has access to folk music and occasional WiFi. Think again. Think yin-yang. How yang? He is a criminal defense attorney living in a large apartment complex. DCOB’s wide ranging interests and openness to new and different things was evolutionary in our family. The next generations is more free to focus on their inner muses.

Still, after 3 hours, I called SOB, who prescribed M&M — meditation and medication.

The greatest generation

Posted on January 21, 2010 by 40andover

I know, I know. I write about death and destruction a lot. But life is like that. And movies and TV depict death and destruction with a certain enthusiasm that seems, well, ooky.

Today, I went to a friend’s father’s funeral. I didn’t know my friend’s father but I knew about his life. I heard him speak once. And his is a life story worth telling again and again, over and over.

He was born in Turkey and raised — before World War II — in France. He was a Jew and fled to the forests in unoccupied France. There he met his wife and together, with others they met in hiding, fought with the Resistance.

I remember his saying at a talk at our synagogue that he never really thought of himself as a survivor in the same way that those who survived the concentration camps were survivors.

At the funeral, the rabbi asked those who hid with him to stand and three very old people slowly, and with assistance, stood, two of them very stooped over. These old people did heroic things in a world gone haywire and they survived in a jungle of sorts where other humans were hunters and they were the game.

This man did the exact opposite of what was done to him. He loved, he gave generously of his time and his resources, he was grateful for life‘s gifts and, as someone at the funeral said, he didn’t blink when adversity hit.

He is truly the epitome of our greatest generation. He saw the worst, endured the worst and gave his best back.

I didn’t know him but I stand on his shoulders and those like him — my own parents and grandparents — and therefore I need to pay my respects to a man who made possible the opportunities in my life. For the debt I cannot repay to those who so willingly gave to me, I promise to pay it forward to the next generation, all the while telling the heroic stories of those who came before me.

Monsieur Henri, your memory is a blessing to all who know you and your family.

G-d bless books and smart phones

Posted on January 8, 2010 by 40andover

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.

Only in America and only in New York

Posted on January 4, 2010 by 40andover

POST-SCRIPT: The part about the beer is my imagination running away with me.

I get out of the 96th Street subway station at 94th Street (if you live outside NY, just trust me on this) when I go to the gym. Invariably, I pass the same panhandler asking for change. He is not earnest in his request (“spare change?”) because he sits on a standpipe in front of the storefronts and doesn’t really work the crowd. I feel guilty not giving him something but I rationalize my hard-heartedness by concluding that if I were a beggar I would be the best damn beggar on the street and this guy is so mediocre at his job that he doesn’t deserve spare change. And this beggar is rather, well, blasé about the whole begging thing. You see why New Yorkers are a breed unto themselves; we even have jaded beggars.

So far, for a New Yorker, nothing new in this story. YET.

As I pass him, and he is saying a half-hearted “spare change?”, his cell phone rings and he answers, “hey, where you at? I’ve been waiting for you.”

What, to go out for a beer? Or does he meet his friend every night and while he is waiting, begs for change? A kind of “fringe benefit” or “value added” for his wait time?

I couldn’t make this stuff up and I am really sure I wouldn’t want to.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Tag Archives: Personal Moments in the Big City