Keeping an Eye on the Ball

December 31, 1977. I've never been a fan of science fiction, but I appreciated the brief toasty comfort of a movie theatre, even if I had to watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I don't remember being all that impressed. UFO's and aliens and strange force fields going bump in the night don't hold a candle to the other worldly experience that is Times Square on New Year's Eve.

It was one of those bucket list things, back before we had bucket lists. Standing outside in Arctic temperatures for hours, the technological shortcomings of my pre-Canada Goose down jacket somewhat neutralized by the cumulative body heat of the massive crowd. I didn't even see the ball fall; I'm pretty sure I was facing the wrong way. My date whipped out a bottle of champagne and some plastic champagne cups, the kind with the screw-on base. For some reason, I worried it would spill.

If there was a police presence that night, I didn't notice. Those were days of innocence, tucked somewhere between the tumultuousness of the sixties and the scourge of AIDS in the eighties. Our heroine of the moment was a princess with Cinnabon hair and we all still believed that good triumphs over the dark forces of evil. Just like in the movies.

My children are all older, now, than I was on that New Year's Eve in Times Square. They have grown up in a different world, a world where bucket lists are filled with items far less dangerous than being in a big crowd in a big city on a big night. Relatively risk free things like, say, sky diving.

There is much to look forward to this year, even though a few sucker punches in 2016 have left me a bit wary. The princess with the Cinnabon hair is gone, as are many others who seemed to be on the side of the light, and close encounters of any kind are wrought with suspicion. Still, the crowds will descend on Times Square, and forty years from now, some middle aged woman will look back on this night and smile, wondering how she survived the cold but glad that she did it, at least that one time.

I, for one, will be at my friend's house, enjoying what has become a somewhat annual tradition of watching a small crowd of lobsters crawl across the kitchen counter. Talk about other worldly. Mostly, I just feel really bad for them because -- like most of us, I suppose -- they have no idea what's coming, and, unlike most of us, they're pretty much out of options. Talk about a sucker punch.

Inexact Science

Halfway into my first pregnancy, alarm bells were sounded when a routine sonogram revealed a higher than average number for the cranium-to-femur ratio. In that early glimpse into the too-much-information-age, a newly discovered minuscule correlation between such a ratio and serious fetal abnormalities sent my doctor (and me) into a tail spin.

Thanks to the miracles of modern science, I was reassured that I would not have to worry about that one particular (and already statistically unlikely) fetal abnormality, though they were unable to explain the slightly skewed ratio.  Mystery solved years later: the girl with the out sized prenatal skull and the stunted shinbone turned out to be really smart and really short.

In each of my pregnancies, I looked forward to those ultrasound images, craving whatever reassurance I could get that my baby would be perfect. Odd, to hang so much hope on grainy and fuzzy photographs of floating translucent blobs that looked more like prehistoric sea creatures than humans, but Xanax wasn't an option.

No amount of information could be too much, but the truth is, I knew nothing. Nothing of the explosion of love I would feel, nothing of the way my heart could expand each time to accommodate a new explosion of equal magnitude, nothing of the unremitting worry that comes with being a parent. Nothing of how short lived that initial sigh of relief would be, the brief exhale that comes after counting up a total of twenty fingers and toes.

I get caught up in the end of year hand wringing about how bad 2016 was. The deaths of so many talented people who have done more than their share to enrich our world. I had lunch with my good friend yesterday, exactly eleven months after the inexplicable and sudden death of her son, a perfect child with ten fingers and ten toes, a young man who had survived the trials and tribulations of adolescence with flying colors and who had entered adulthood with as much promise as any parent could hope for. The kind of promise that ultrasound pictures can never guarantee, but the kind of promise that comes as close as anything can to allowing us to finally exhale. Close, but not quite.

We confessed to each other our embarrassment at the resentment that bubbles up when everyone talks so much about the famous ones, when our hearts (and I cannot even begin to compare mine with hers) have been so irrevocably broken. Let's just say I was hardly surprised to learn that Debbie Reynolds' heart stopped beating a day after she lost her daughter.

My friend and I tried to sort through it all, yesterday, as we made our way through a pack of tissues, why everything still seems so raw all these months later. Adam died early in 2016, days after his 27th birthday, and we, like a lot of folks, cannot imagine that 2017 will be any worse. But unlike other folks, my friend won't be able to turn the page and close the book when the ball falls on New Year's Eve. The loss just gets more permanent, and continues to defy belief. The ache is different but unabated, more stabbing in a lot of ways.

I feel lucky. I feel lucky each day when my kids are healthy and thriving, but I never exhale. Good riddance to 2016, for many reasons, but, for me, the year was filled with good things as well, for which I feel very blessed. I know my friend will, one day, be in less pain, but one trip around the sun just isn't enough time for that kind of healing.

Gosh, I don't mean to be so morbid. Between tears, my friend and I shared at least a few laughs, and even some snarkiness, as we always manage to do. And we hope for better days for each other and for everyone who has loved and lost, and we look forward to reveling in each others blessings, moving forward.

Put Up Your Nukes

And the demagogue said: Let there be an arms race!

And, heaven forbid, there might be an arms race.

Oh, the power of the word of the demagogue.

Game on, says Uncle Vlad. Oh dear, Christmas dinner might be a bit strained this year. More vodka, please!

It's been years since I've celebrated Christmas in the traditional way, with stockings and trees and ornament hooks buried like land mines in the carpet. Divorce has brought me back to the hallowed Jewish traditions of Chinese food and a movie.

But still, a Jewish girl can dream.

All I want for Christmas is a Trump interview with Rachel Maddow. 

Last night, I watched Kelly Anne Conway, referred to by someone the other day -- quite accurately -- as the "High Priestess of Spin," actually break a sweat as she sat across the table from the left leaning and brilliant and refreshingly unrelenting cable news host. Sitting ramrod straight with her hands folded in her lap (probably stapled to keep her from slapping her interrogator), her fake smile broadening the angrier she became, Kelly Anne denied and justified and filibustered and pivoted, just like she always does. But Rachel kept calling her out. She assaulted her with the truth. She cut her off. She outshouted her in a calm, measured voice -- you know, the kind of voice a mom uses when she really wants to scare the shit out of her kids and then look shocked when they accuse her of yelling. She unspun the spinner. Kelly Anne wobbled like a cheap dreidel.

And -- I have to say my favorite piece was the lecture on the nuclear triad, which Kelly Anne admitted to knowing nothing about while she attempted, in vain, to defend the demagogue-elect's capacity for policy making on the subject. Let's face it; Kelly Anne is smart and evil. Her boss is cunning and evil, but, unlike the Priestess, stupendously uninformed and aggressively proud of it and determined to stay that way. If she knows nothing about something, he knows less.

Yes, I hate to admit it, but my fantasies last night were about the boss sitting in a gilt throne of his choosing and letting Rachel go at him, hold him accountable. Ain't gonna happen. Though he is certainly shameless, he is infinitely less shameless than Kelly Anne is, and it will be a cold day in hell before he lets anybody -- let alone a woman -- make him actually answer questions. In English. Out loud. In more than 140 characters. Not saying it's impossible, but I think I'm more likely to see Santa squeezing his ass out of my chimney.

I know Christmas has become kind of secular, but this year, while I stuff myself with Kung Pao chicken, I'll be deep in prayer. In fact, I'll be praying a lot in the next four years, or at least until the impeachment.

Let there be peace. Let there be tolerance. Let there be no nuclear proliferation. Merry Christmas to all, Happy Chanukah, and pass the vodka, please.

Fishing in Troubled Waters

Just when I thought nothing could surprise me, I read a little teaser on my morning news for dummies  email about two brothers rowing across the Atlantic, naked.

For the life of me, I can't imagine why anyone would want to row across the Atlantic. It's so wet.

Maybe, I thought, they're just doing it because they can, or maybe because they want some attention. I was curious enough to read beyond the teaser, and, as it turns out, they are raising money for cancer research, spurred on by the untimely death of a friend. Sometimes it's a good thing to do something because you can, and because you want some attention. They certainly got my attention, and I'm sending in a donation.

Like many of the folks I hang out with, I am far too attached to creature comforts (not to mention lazy and out of shape) to spend days on end exerting myself in a never changing seascape. But, I suppose, it's not really about doing what those guys can do, or about getting attention. I'll set my sights lower, try to push my own version of the envelope. For some, it's extreme physical exertion. For others, it's trying to land a tough job that most sane people don't want anyway. (Just sayin'.) For me, on my worst days, it's dragging my ass out of bed, but on a garden variety half decent day, it might just be about staying alert and doing something good in the smallest and most unnoticeable way. I can do that; most of us can.

And, though I admit I have dashed out on an occasional minor emergency mission without a bra, I will try my best not to paddle around naked. The waters, these days, are troubled (and ugly) enough.

As to the two brothers rowing naked? Who cares? It's not as if any of the sea creatures wear clothes, though some do have very large and sharp teeth. But, I would imagine if one of those creatures gets close enough to the family jewels there are (no offense intended to the handsome brothers) bigger fish to fry.

Pros and Cons

Pros and cons. Professionals and Con-men. Well, con-man. 

This morning, I gave CNN yet another chance, and again I was disappointed (though certainly not surprised). A panel of giggling journalistic professionals pondered whether Trump the campaigner turned president-elect would somehow change when he actually becomes president, granting him yet another extension of time in which to become somebody he has never shown himself to be. Everybody weighed in -- on the impulsive, illiterate, and incredible tweets, on the master cabinet builder's glitzy Trump Kremlin, USA, on his unrepentant insults and his public discrediting of U.S. intelligence and security.  The pros' consensus: he sure is different. 

Different. As in vive la difference. Or dare to be different. As if the prospect of a White House filled with folks who are no doubt looking forward to a few celebratory toasts with Uncle Vlad (if he can take a break from killing children) is simply a point on the spectrum of normal. Vanilla versus chocolate (no racist implications intended). 

I'm not a journalist, and I suppose I cannot imagine what it feels like to try to remember everything I learned in journalism 101 while covering a career con-man who was cunning enough to win the presidency on an electoral technicality by knowing exactly whom he could con with promises of great fortune and assurances that this land is their land and he will help them take it back from all those other folks who have stolen it. And all the while keeping ratings up. Exhausting. 

Nope, I'm not a journalist, but I'm a person who has made a fair share of mistakes, and I'm a friend and a mother who has handed out advice freely about dealing with folks who tend to make life unbearable. Let's just call those folks different, for argument's sake. My advice: you cannot change their behavior, but you can certainly change how you react to them. 

So yes, a crass, bullying, self-interested, self-aggrandizing, race baiting (I didn't say racist), woman groping, impulsive buffoon who will stop at nothing to win and then stop at nothing to turn the presidency into yet another profit generating business venture is certainly different. Some might say scary, even terrifying. Certainly, a majority of those who voted said no to the con, and the continuing protests are a testament to the fact that this is not a new normal, and should not be treated as such. I prefer chocolate ice cream, but I can tolerate vanilla. Just don't ask me to eat arsenic. 

Journalists: This is not simply different. This is horse shit, and should be treated as such. 

Rules of Engagement

Life isn't always more about the journey than the destination, but sometimes it should be, if only because the journey is filled with much needed distractions,

Yesterday, a bit before noon: Landed!! The double exclamation point is key; I wanted my mother to know that I was gleeful after getting up to fly to New York City at the crack of dawn and, more than words can express, looking forward to the interminable drive from La Guardia to Syracuse.

Her response was slightly less perky. Get out here ASAP -- without any attempt at punctuation to soften the blow. Still taxiing, in Row 25, in a window seat. I despaired. My prospects for a peaceful drive were looking grim. The folks in front of me must have received warmer texts, retrieving suitcases from overhead bins at their leisure and strolling off the plane, completely unaware that I was headed for quite the tongue lashing at passenger pick up area B.

To make a long story short, there was no time for niceties, though there was ample time for my mom to ignore my pleas, shake off my grip, and march through a few lanes of chaos to attempt to slip the nice police officer who had let her linger there for more than an hour a twenty dollar bill. I wasn't particularly looking forward to the long drive ahead, but the prospect of spending the afternoon trying to bail my mom out for attempting to bribe an officer was not all that appealing. The cop must have seen the look of horror on my face, and poked his head in the window to assure me he had not taken anything from her.

Finally, we were buckled up and ready to go. I'm never picking you up at the airport again. Sigh. It's always so good to be home.

The ride was as interminable as I remembered. I used to make the trip often, back when I went to college in upstate New York in the late 1970's. And, just as I remembered, the clouds became dark and thick as I came within 60 miles of my destination, dripping some kind of hybrid precipitations that I always thought of as snow without the charm.

We are blending families in these last months before my oldest daughter's wedding. The central players have, for the most part, met, but still, there are missing links. This weekend, I would meet my daughter's future mother-in-law's sisters and mother for the first time, and they would meet me. And my mother. To be sure, my daughter was nervous, with good reason. The meet and greet would be coming on the heels of my having spent about six hours alone in a car with mom.

Distract and deflect. We have all learned a lot about that this year, and it's not a bad way to make it through life's challenges. A harrowing trip had driven me to distraction -- and made me forget my worries and lose a few inhibitions along the way. Okay, the glass of champagne handed to me at the door by my daughter's future father-in-law helped. As did the greeting from her new grandmother-in-law, who at first thought I was the bride's sister. Oh how I love the dark days and dim lighting of upstate New York in early December.

We all probably had good reason to worry. We are all, to some degree, loud, argumentative, opinionated, easily frustrated by loved ones, and exhausted by the simple fear of making a bad impression. And we are all, I think, relieved that the worst thing that happened last night was me knocking over a glass of red wine on the tablecloth. There was much common ground -- large appetites, large personalities, and, more than anything, an unshakable love for the young couple that has somehow made our worlds collide.