Best Hump Day Ever

Forty-four years ago today, I became a bat mitzvah with a dozen other girls around my age. It was Shavuot, a lesser holiday among secular Jews, a fitting day, I suppose, in a Conservative temple, to consolidate the celebration of the coming of age of the lesser sex.

Though I had attended Hebrew School twice a week for years, I don't recall knowing all that much about the significance of that holiday.  To this day, I still associate Shavuot with my bat mitzvah and the long purple and white dress with the wide purple ribbon that formed the dividing line between my flat chest and my protruding belly. (It would be a few years before the protrusion and concavity rearranged themselves, still more before gravity would lead the two to intermingle.)

It would be over a decade before I travelled to Israel, before I was finally able to put some of those Hebrew School stories and news reports into context. My memories are like sound bites. The eerie discomfort of standing within what seemed to be spitting distance from the demilitarized zone of the Golan Heights. The heart stopping sonic booms of Israeli fighter jets patrolling the border as we scaled Masada. The indescribable first glimpse of Jerusalem as we emerged from the winding sub-sea-level roads. The glorious Dome of the Rock, open to the likes of me on a very limited basis, and only if I removed my shoes. The ghostly echoes of Yad Vashem. Had I thought it was possible, I would have gone back, spent time on a kibbutz, wrap myself up in that mystical patch of real estate for which so many have given their lives. Back then I didn't realize how much was possible.

My youngest daughter landed there, yesterday, only minutes before the CNN breaking news banner told me a plane had disappeared. I already knew she was safe, but those few moments without details reminded me how vulnerable I feel. How vulnerable we all feel, these days. It's difficult to find good news in a report of a plane carrying almost seventy people being lost, other than the knowledge that my daughter was not on it, and that nobody mentioned Trump for hours. (He did not disappoint -- with a particularly presidential tweet -- something about terrorism being bad.) A little vague, but I'm sure he'll hash the details out when he hashes things out over kimchi with Kim Jong Un.

As is always the case, I cannot know for sure that my kids are safe and I have less control than ever, but I keep the faith. I will never stop worrying, but my daughter is thrilled to have arrived in Israel, and I am thrilled for her. From what I hear, it is quite a different place from the one I visited more than thirty years ago, but the world is, as a whole, quite different. I love the thought of her walking the same streets I did (not to mention a few more famous characters), of her having the same feelings of awe and wonderment and, ultimately, understanding. She will see, as I did decades ago, as her sister did more recently, and as countless others have, why this place means so much to so many.

And, as I reminisce on this throw back Thursday, I smile when I think about how history repeats, even though neither of my daughters would ever have been caught in a long purple dress with a purple ribbon slicing an oddly shaped pre-pubescent body in two.  I smile (despite all my worrying) about how all the planets and stars will align next Wednesday. Hump Day. Her birthday. Camel ride day. How we used to laugh out loud at those commercials.

What are the odds? A fitting day and a fitting way for my daughter to turn twenty, to experience the adventure of coming of age in a strange time and a strange place.

Wading Through the Muck

When it occurred to them I had been listening, they asked me if my ex-husband had cheated on me.

I admit I had been at least half listening to their conversation as I pretended to be engrossed in my work. It was unanimous among the five or six men, all of them in some phase of marital or post marital complacency or bliss. Not one ever had or ever would cheat. No matter how tempting. It was all about fear, not so much of eternal damnation but of what their wives might do to them before death could provide some relief.

I have no reason not to believe them. A woman scorned is a notoriously scary thing. And though the statistics should make me skeptical about the unanimity of faithfulness among these men, statistics can be as reliable as, well, a cheating spouse. On the issue of marrying men having affairs, the numbers are staggering in their variability. Two minutes of online research gave me percentages ranging from 21 to 70. More than zero, for sure, but then again six men in one suburb hardly comprise a statistically relevant sample.

There is little that surprises me, notwithstanding the meteoric rise of Donald Trump from sleazy real estate tycoon to sleazy presumptive presidential nominee. I believe that many men have affairs -- many being anywhere from 21 to 70 per cent. I believe that some lie about it. And I believe that most would choose eternal damnation over the wrath of their wives. What surprised me, though, was the question they posed to me: did your ex-husband cheat? 

It never occurred to any of them that a woman might cheat. I suppose it makes sense that they think that way -- that women are either too busy worrying about mundane things like finding flattering premium denim or too self-righteous to even consider the possibility of eternal damnation. I suppose I should have been flattered that it would never occur to these men to doubt my integrity, but for some reason I found it insulting that they assumed women could only be victims.

I didn't answer the question; it's a question I truly believe to be beside the point. In the grand scheme of things, people cheat or do not cheat for all sorts of reasons, all of which have some sort of logic at the time, however twisted. Good people do bad things and bad people do good things -- even a stopped clock is right twice a day. I have yet to meet someone who is perfect.

Back to Trump. And Hillary. And Bill. I never thought Bill's dalliances were particularly relevant to his ability to lead a country, and I never thought of Hillary as a victim. And really, who's to say Hillary never cheated (on Bill, that is). Not necessarily in the stained blue dress kind of way, but surely there are other ways to stray, to keep a secret from the person to whom you have promised, in the presence of God or a guy in some weird cap or Elvis or your family and friends, or all of the above, everlasting devotion. I believe most people mean it when they say it, and sometimes that's just the best they can do.

If most humans are inherently flawed, politicians often appear to corner the market on defects. Partly because they put themselves out there to be judged and voted upon, but largely because it's a self-selecting pool. Kind of like pedophiles and the priesthood. Let's face it; regular folks who just want to keep to themselves and worry more about how their children will remember them at the Thanksgiving table than about how they will be remembered in the history books do not go into -- or stay in -- politics. I don't want to sit in Starbucks shooting the shit with my President. I want to know that she -- or he -- is committed to certain goals that transcend her or his own personal ambitions and smart enough and energetic enough and credible enough to work toward them. Emphasis on the credible.

Sometimes, we just need to remember the person who said I do, or the person who tossed a hat in the ring. Look past the the muck and really see what the person who may have been knee-deep, once, does moving forward. Some stains can be washed out; others are just too stubborn, too insidious to ignore.

The Meaning of Chai

Before Starbucks came along and had everyone pronouncing the "ch" in chai the easy way (as in choo choo), chai, to me, meant life, not tea. A chet and a yud, two Hebrew letters that also happen to be numbers that add up to eighteen. Which means the number "18," to us Jews, is lucky.

It seems odd to talk about life and luck on the anniversary of my father's passing, especially when optimism has been crushed a bit too often this year. The stairway to heaven has been crowded in the past few months with rock stars -- both famous and not so much -- who died suddenly and inexplicably and way too young. Eighteen years ago, when my father succumbed to pancreatic cancer, his death was nowhere near as sudden as doctors had initially predicted; it was not inexplicable, though it was certainly tough to swallow; and he was not, at least according to actuarial tables, particularly young, though had it not been for a nasty tumor, he could easily have stuck around for years.

Today, as I wonder where eighteen years have disappeared to and I tell myself there must be something significant in this "chai" anniversary, my habitual search for meaning in, well, just about everything, is at full boil. I wonder, as I often do, what my Dad would say.

Dad (okay, I admit it, Daddy) was smart and thoughtful and loving and exceedingly patient -- except when the "Appetizer" store on Avenue J was really packed on Sunday mornings and it took forever to get our turn at the counter so we could order our freshly sliced lox. He had zero tolerance for bullshit, and there was a lot of stuff that fell into that category. Like petty arguments and nastiness and the irrepressible urge to sweat the small stuff and, yes, old ladies demanding an eighth of a quarter of a pound of lox, not an ounce more or less. He taught me a lot about what's important in life and what is simply a waste of time. Important: honesty, generosity, unconditional love for your children, and never taking the last piece of bread from the basket. Waste of time: gratuitous criticism, worrying about what you cannot fix, talking about things you cannot change, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle in pencil. Sometimes I forget -- or ignore -- what he taught me, but I always do the puzzle in pen.

When my father was diagnosed, my third child was less than three months old. I was devastated, so much so that I wondered how I would ever fully enjoy this child when her arrival coincided with such great loss. When bar mitzvah season approached, a few years later, for my older two, I wondered how I would fully enjoy those milestones in my father's absence. As it turns out, my joy in all my children and their accomplishments and their very existence has been unadulterated and untainted, even without Daddy there. I feel the loss, always, and wish it could be different, but, as he would be the first to tell me, stop the bullshit. Why waste too much energy on the things I cannot change. So I move forward, and I revel in all the joy still to come, even though I don't get to share it with him, in person, or see the sparkle in his green eyes or feel the warmth of his beautiful smile.

So, in honor of my father, gone eighteen years, l'chaim. To life and to all the good things, and to moving forward when, some days, unspeakable tragedy or just a basic bad mood makes it tempting for all of us to go nowhere and pull the covers back over our heads. My father, faced with a prognosis of three months, fought like hell and stayed with us for almost two more years. Not for him, the path of least resistance, because he knew how precious life was. Chai. Not the tea.

The House on Poop Corner

Even the dogs are laid back here. 

After a few days in New Orleans, I've slowed down. Maybe it's the heat, or maybe it's the grits and the overabundance of all kinds of fat in even the simplest meal, but I barely even flinched when a car spun around the the corner behind me and screeched to a stop within inches of ending my life. The driver seemed far more rattled than I -- he must have just arrived from parts north. 

I was lost in a reverie of dog wisdom. Strolling back to my hotel with a coffee, I passed a large and, given the wooden signs placed at regular intervals along the fence making it quite clear that many dogs lived there and they made their own rules, strangely quiet house. I was skeptical, but realized that over the course of three days, I had encountered dozens of local dogs and had not heard a single bark, not even a whimper, had not witnessed even a small tug on a leash. I took photos of the pearls of wisdom lining the perimeter. If your dog doesn’t like someone, you probably shouldn’t either. I feel sorry for people who don’t have dogs…I hear they have to pick up their own food if they drop it on the floor. Lesson from a dog: No matter what life brings, kick grass over that shit and move on. Handle stress like a dog: If you can’t eat it or play with it, pee on it and walk away. 

Dog wisdom and plenty of people wisdom to go around.  Yesterday, an elegant black lady had watched me and my daughter as we lowered the box spring we had inexpertly tied to the top of our rental car for a precarious ride through a sea of potholes to her new apartment. She was still outside when I emerged, drenched in sweat after we had somehow managed to hoist the unwieldy load up the long narrow stairs into the bedroom and onto the shaky frame we had assembled at great risk to our fingers. 

She was ageless, with a frizzy, close-cropped cap of gray hair, smooth cheeks the color of rich honey, and full lips tinted red. Her ample but solid frame was tucked neatly into a bright, tight yellow top belted over equally bright green slacks. Not a bead of perspiration on her in the eighty-degree heat, not a hint of discomfort despite her high heels. "Don't forget the lessons you taught them when you sent them out there," she told me when I confessed this was my baby, the last of the brood escaping the nest at breakneck speed. "You'll be fahn, honey, you be just fahn." I had been kidding myself, thinking I was worried about my children, the ones who are way better equipped to handle new adventures than I am. 

We old folks, we resist dipping our toes in new waters. My Uber driver was smiling and patient in his gleaming Escalade, even though he had to wait while I went back upstairs to get all the things I had forgotten. Within seconds, we were chatting like old friends. His wife hates it he says, referring to his relatively new stint with Uber, but he loves the freedom and the unpredictability. He’s owned a barber shop for twenty-five years, wouldn’t trade it for anything, but this is new and different. He and his wife have raised five kids, and he doesn’t really get what they do sometimes, but they’re good people and he’s proud of them.  His child rearing philosophy: No whippin, just a lot of teachin. Not as clever, perhaps, as dog wisdom, but wise all the same.

He told me about his barber shop clients, the ones who are down and out, but not so down and out they don’t pop in for hair cuts. He reminds them how quickly time passes, and how priceless life is, no matter how bad things seem. Like the sign said, at the house on poop corner: Some days you’re the dog; some days you're the hydrant. 

A Big Easy Mothers' Day Eve

The taxi showed up early and my driver was just the right amount of chatty. TSA pre-check got me to the front of the line and saved me the trouble of retying my shoes and repacking my laptop, but the chicken caesar wrap in my carry-on raised a few eyebrows. Smooth sailing, like all good things, has its limits.

Halfway through my youngest child's college career, I should be accustomed to the assault of nostalgia brought about by each campus visit, a blurry multi-generational collage of vivid images frozen in time. The launch of my first one on a blistering hot day in D.C., dive coffee shops and long, aimless walks in New York with my second, a sickening beignet binge in the French Quarter with my third. The long ago day in upstate New York when I feigned confidence and independence and encouraged my own parents to go home.

I am overwhelmed, even more than usual, by the passage of time. Helping my daughter move her things from her dorm room to her apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror I carried under my arm, the one I had bought for her when I moved her in freshman year. When did I become so old, so bewildered, the way I always thought my parents looked when they visited. I marveled at the quaint charm of my child's first apartment, the upper floor of an adorable albeit ancient looking home that, in all likelihood, is younger than I am.

As always, I settle into a more comfortable rhythm when we venture off campus into the real world, even though New Orleans is as far from reality as any place I've ever been. Magazine Street is a motley cocktail party, with people of all ages and sizes in all sorts of costumes juggling cups filled with alcohol and plates loaded with food as they spill onto the sidewalk. Drivers are good natured and unfazed by the constant stream of pedestrians in the middle of the street. The full spectrum of beauty and ugliness is well represented, and there is a refreshing absence of selfconsciousness.

Hours earlier and a world away, I could feel my cheeks redden when I remembered the chicken caesar wrap in my bag. I knew it the moment the conveyor belt stopped, the guy in front of me staring wistfully at his carry-on so tantalizingly close but stalled out of reach in the dark tunnel while two agents squinted at the x-ray image. They appeared more amused than concerned, which is why I knew immediately it was the wrap, a thick cylinder with rounded ends. Nothing like busting an old broad with a dildo. (Not even close, I’m afraid. The wrap, soft and wilted after an hour without refrigeration, would offer me some small measure on the plane ride, but nothing even approaching what the TSA agents had imagined.)

Long after the embarrassing bag check and a world away, long enough after the disconcerting glimpse into the mirror, I felt remarkably unselfconscious just hanging in a tattoo parlor, navigating the crowded sidewalks, drinking wine and devouring mountains of Italian food with my daughter and her self-described quirky friend. A feast of simple pleasures against an oddly non threatening backdrop of bacchanalian revelry. I didn't exactly feel young, but I no longer felt old either. The three of us -- me, my quirky daughter and my new quirky friend -- enjoying a moment in time that will remain vivid for a long time, even as it fades into the blurry collage.

Sometimes a chicken caesar wrap is just a chicken caesar wrap. Sometimes it isn't. The possibilities, I suppose, are endless.

The Elephant in My Living Room

We always find common ground, my friend and I.

Baffled. That was my text to her after I watched the spectacle of Trump clinching the Republican nomination.

Barfing, she replied.

Barfled pretty much summed it up. Even my dog was puking, the enticing new bone I had tossed his way apparently a bit hard to swallow. He held onto it, though. So good going down. Coming up, not so much, by the look on his face, but he cannot make the connection. He looked longingly at the mess as I cleaned it up.

I was happy for the distraction. As barfled as I was, I had been transfixed by the spectacle on my television screen, of Trump's greenish yellow cotton candy hair, his row of impossibly white bottom teeth, the backdrop of plump red lips, smooth, botoxed cheeks, and ample breasts. I entertained myself with a little game of Name that Adjective, guessing which one would be next as Trump recounted poll numbers and crowd estimates and even wondered aloud whether Ted Cruz liked him. Incredible. Terrific. Amazing. He cycled through his happy words, as if he had not, that very morning, managed to penetrate the preternatural calm of his unctuous rival and provoke him into a venomous rage.

The victory speech was as predictable as always, as lacking in substance as it was filled with the three adjectives in Trump's lexicon. What really almost made me lose my cheesecake, though, was the commentary afterward. The exclamations, by some, that the speech was good, that the speaker was really giving "presidential" the old college try. Trump has managed to set the bar so low that he is deemed "presidential" when, for twenty minutes, he manages to not hurl a single insult or shout out a vile nickname. He was passing out love like hundred dollar bills, love for Hispanics (the ones who can make it over the wall?), women (as long as they're hot?), coal miners (a new and convenient cause celebre), the National Enquirer (okay, that one may have been unspoken). And for the once "Lying Ted," the camel whose back had been broken, the oozy orator who had finally decompensated and become, well, Trumpish. Which, apparently, only works for Trump.

I'm moving to Mexico, I texted my friend as I tried desperately not to throw my plate at the television. It's relatively new, and the cheesecake was kind of expensive. It didn't occur to me to power off, or, for that matter, to stop eating, despite the churning in my gut. It's not that I didn't make the connection; it's just that I couldn't seem to stop myself.

Trump will be back today, I am sure, in full buffoon mode, peppering his recitation of poll numbers and crowd estimates with derogatory jabs and other overt behavior not befitting a commander in chief. His supporters will eat it up, and the news anchors will wonder for hours on end what happened to the other Trump, the one who was presidential for an opportune moment.

I will text my friend, and we will connect in our barflement. I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, a Trump presidency isn't the worst tragedy. Nowhere near what my friend has suffered this year, what a whole bunch of us have endured, personally. Maybe the Trump phenomenon is a much needed distraction as we trudge up our own narrow path to recovery.

Come to think of it, it's been a barfling kind of year. With any luck (and maybe some good therapy and good political strategists), we -- all of us -- will see the light and come out better and stronger on the other side. Back to reality for us, back to reality TV for Trump. Incredible. Terrific. Amazing.