Caught in the Middle

In the life of a child, fourteen years is a big deal. It is the transition from toddlerhood to the brink of young adulthood, the morphing of a tiny, unruly, babbling thing into a person often beyond recognition, a person capable of intelligent conversation, a person who can share a knowing laugh at an off color joke. 

We revel in the process, the miraculous maturation of our children. When friends and relatives who have not seen them for long periods marvel at the changes, we are reminded that the days and years that can seem to move along at an evolutionary (and sometimes excruciating) pace are speeding by on fast forward. As the emptying of our nests draws closer, we anticipate it with an odd mix of eagerness and dread, and there is nothing like an annual holiday gathering to stir up the confusing brew. 

For about fourteen years, I have been in the middle generation, seated at the table with the other "neither here nor there" folks for what have become traditional holiday dinners at a friend's home. From the beginning, tsk tsks trickled down from our elders to us, and from us to our own children. Searches for guidance, at least at the beginning, trickled up the other way -- from our children to us, from us to our own parents. In our minds, I think, at the "neither here nor there" table, we remained unchanged as our children grew and our parents grew old. It was a comfortable place to be.

It is getting to be far less comfortable. In the life of a grandparent, as it turns out, fourteen years is a big deal as well. It is the transition from the palpable excitement and joy of a special time to the brink of old age. It is the morphing of an energetic and proud band of adults reveling in the lives and accomplishments of their children's children into people somewhat beyond recognition, tired, frail, a bit nutty, gradually incapacitated by the infirmities that go hand in hand with living long. People once capable of intelligent conversation seem suddenly on the verge of becoming unruly and babbling. The odd circle of mortality plays out before our very eyes. 

I exaggerate a bit, of course. The elders are still capable of conversation which, at least by the standards set by the rest of us -- which can be pretty low -- is intelligent and funny. And, knock on wood, the ones that were there at the beginning of our fourteen year ritual are all still there, and will be for a long while. The children still revert to some babbling and unruliness -- as do we, come to think of it -- but their number has dwindled. College and careers have kept many of them from joining our annual celebrations, and the dent in our group seems to become deeper and more irreparable each year. As for us at the "neither here nor there" table, well, we're enduring loss on both ends as we hang on to our chairs in that middle place for dear life. 

This morning I woke feeling a bit distraught about all this, weighed down by the swift and unstoppable passage of time. Maybe it was just too much brisket. 

OMG, OWS, OY. . . Shanah Tovah!

I imagine it's a lot like having your birthday fall on Christmas. You kind of feel cheated.

Today is the first anniversary of Occupy Wall Street, but I will be too, well, preoccupied with my resolutions for the Jewish New Year to celebrate. Frankly, as much as I would love to get in on the action and express some solidarity with the protesters, I have never really understood the movement. I am way too apathetic to comprehend why anybody would spend so much as a minute sleeping outside in the rain, much less an entire night, just because of some perceived social and economic inequality and a little greed. I suppose I am as greedy and self involved as the next guy. Heck, my temple is warm and dry and the entire Book of Life thing is at stake and I can't even bring myself to sit there and listen to an insufferable sermon and ancient Hebrew chants sung in English.

Nevertheless, I am a Jew, and there's no way I am playing Russian Roulette with my chances for another year on Earth to make things right, so God trumps politics today, and I am going to do my darnedest to get her attention. I will be turning inward with the American Jewish two per cent; if it's sunny next year on September 17th, maybe I'll give the OWS one percent a whirl.

I certainly don't mean to sound unsympathetic to the woes of different minorities; just because I am one of the "chosen" does not mean I am not tuned in to the plight of others. Quite the contrary, actually. Born and raised to be a Jewish princess -- and still sitting precariously on my throne as I avoid exile in a double wide -- I feel a sense of noblesse oblige, a need to give back to those less fortunate than I. When the barista in Starbucks this morning was puzzled at my failure to order a chai latte for my daughter, I explained that she is sleeping in because there is no school today. She was still perplexed, so I further explained the whole Jewish holiday thing and how the entire public school system in our neck of the woods is closed, even though that might seem to be a violation of some separation of Church and State thing in the Constitution. "I'm moving here," she announced, thinking this extra day off for some pagan holiday was something she wanted a piece of. Poor downtrodden shiksa, I thought. If I could have handed her the keys and the title to my house, I would have.

But really, enough trying to solve everybody else's problems. Today is a day for me and my ilk to reflect and to compete fiercely for the limited slots left in the Book of Life. Sure, charity begins at home, but it's just going to have to begin tomorrow.

Morning Mojo

I told a friend yesterday I thought I had lost my mojo. He said he wasn't sure where I could find it, but he did know a place where we could get a good mojito, which seemed close enough. Even better, I decided, so we agreed to go get a couple this afternoon. I may not find my mojo, but I will no doubt forget about it, at least for a while.

When I got out of bed (I'd say woke, but that presumes there was some actual sleep) this morning, thoughts of prolonging summer with a few minty, sugary cocktails on an outdoor patio danced in my head. If my mojo is to be measured by confidence, self-esteem, and a smug feeling of sex appeal, it has most assuredly not yet been located. But if I take a broader view, see my mojo as a tiny hint of optimism and contentedness (in spite of the fat dog farting in my face all night and the fright I got when I looked in the mirror and saw my hair), I think maybe it will soon be back within my grasp. As I've said before, aim low.

And so it was, with this slightly renewed feeling that things aren't totally hopeless, I got dressed and limped downstairs (oy, my aching hip), explaining to Manny as he waddled next to me that he would just have to pee in the yard this morning. He ignored me, and headed directly for the door to the garage, planting his ample butt and blocking my way.

He stared at me with his unseeing eyes, defying me to step over him. "I cannot take you with me in the car because I am going to actually stay at Starbucks and try to think of something to write about." Not so much as a blink. Don't ever try to out-stare a blind dog. You will lose.

I am not above bribery. "How about a cookie?" As much as Manny loves a good car ride (it's his idea of exercise), nothing beats a cookie. Out in the yard he went, munching away, and I began to gather my laptop and reading glasses and scrounge up enough change for my coffee. My mojo seemed tantalizingly close.

As I went to let Manny in, he was frantically batting away at something, licking some perceived wound. Once a mom, always a mom, and nothing gets my mojo running in overdrive like the thought that my child (or dog) is in distress. So I let Manny in and went out myself to deal with the attacker, only to realize a wasp's nest seemed to have exploded onto my deck. I wonder if Manny noticed the irony in all of this. There he was, in the kitchen by the glass door, while I stood on the deck wanting to go in, but thinking it might be a bad idea to open the door since there were wasps swarming all over the place.

Thank goodness my mojo was back, and I was at least feeling resourceful, so I trudged through the minefield of poop that is my backyard so I could get in the house through the garage, hoping I had been negligent enough the night before to leave the inside door unlocked. Not surprisingly, I was. Phew, safe in my kitchen. Just me and Manny. Shit. Me, Manny, and at least four or five wasps that had snuck in when I had first opened the back door.

Now I have always thought the Swiffer to be an amazing invention, the way those clingy little pads suck up dust bunnies like nobody's business. I don't use mine that often, but thank goodness I remembered where it was, and let me tell you the Swiffer is just as amazing by itself, even without the clingy little pads. Poor Manny listened in horror as I swung that thing madly around the kitchen, beating down the wasps. They didn't even have a chance. Okay, I cheated with one pesky little guy, and gave him a Raid shower, but in the end, it was mom, five, wasps, zero. Hello mojo.

And later, with a little luck and a few mojitos, and frightening images of me swinging a swiffer around the kitchen while shouting out obscenities at bugs kept tucked away in my own private photo gallery, hello smug feeling of sex appeal.

Phantom Twins

9/11/2001

It's official and I suppose it's the natural way of things. The tenth anniversary of 9/11 came and went last year, and the greatest tragedy on American soil has now been relegated to the history books. On my Internet news page this morning, the date warranted no mention, appearing only in the upper right hand corner in small print, as all dates do.

Ancient history, maybe to some, but the books on 9/11 are by no means closed. The other day, my friend showed me a picture of thirty or so smiling military wives, dressed to the nines in whatever finery they could afford on an officer's salary, drunk on cheap wine (and giddy from the rare excuse to hire a baby sitter for the evening). Their husbands are on the brink of deployment to Afghanistan. My friend could not help but wonder out loud how many of those beautiful smiles would be forever wiped away by the time next year rolls around, how many young widows to be were in that picture.

Ready or not, it's a day that will simply live in infamy, albeit quietly. Scars remain but open wounds have long ago faded. On my first visit to lower Manhattan in the fall of 2001, in the post 9/11 world, the southern tip of the island was an uninhabitable hole. Except for the bold and bright memorials to firefighters and other Americans who had lost their lives, and a veritable sea of yellow hard hats, color had been all but wiped away from the area. It was all dust and mud, a landscape of ash where business and commerce had once thrived. The World Trade Center, the buildings that had risen up during my childhood and shifted the city's skyline -- not to mention its heart and soul -- southward, had been destroyed in an instant. It took a long time for me to be able to gaze over to where they had stood, across the river, and not imagine I could still see the outlines of the towering twins.

On my most recent visit to the area -- some time early this year -- I marveled at the transformation. Brand new towers glisten as they soar over the site. Memorial banners have long been torn down, replaced by sparkling store fronts and brightly lit marquis from new luxury hotels. Tours spill into the Memorial, long lines of people for whom 9/11 happened somewhere far away, for some before they were born. There are still plenty of hard hats milling around, but it's all about building, no longer about repair. I wonder if the Officers and their wives, the ones smiling at the ball, see it that way.

Today I happen to be having lunch with one of the first people I saw that day after tearing myself away from the television and the telephone. My brother had been describing the scene from his office window only blocks away from what would soon be known as Ground Zero, and we were still trying to figure out where my mother -- always in the thick of things -- had disappeared to. But life had to go on, at least here in suburban Chicago, so out I went. My friend and I barely knew each other, much less what to say. We were both, like everyone else, trying to grasp what had happened as we tried to preserve our idea of normalcy and get our daughters to their dance class.

My guess is my friend and I, all these years later, will reminisce today. About the shock that seemed to alter our world that morning. About our sense of disbelief and despair. About our daughters, who have long since hung up their tap shoes and had no idea that day of how much things had changed while they danced.

Chairwoman of the Board

Every evening, after she cleaned up the dinner dishes "her way," my mom would set up the ironing board in the living room. I don't remember -- never really thought about it -- but there must have been grooves in the carpet where she had set up her nightly shop. The position of the ironing board, like most of my mother's routines, was exact and unwavering.

It has always puzzled my mom, my aversion to ironing. She is well aware of my aversion to housework in general, but ironing, for her, was different. It was relaxing, therapeutic, predictable. Same time, same place, every evening. With her back to the mirror hanging on the wall above the upright piano, she would stand under the glow of our rather garish crystal chandelier, her skinny legs poking out from under her house dress, one bony arm holding on to the board as she leaned over it intently. Slap, slide, retract, slap slide retract. A pause so she could lift the garment and turn it, then slap, slide, retract again.

Though I would think I never paid much attention -- I was either chatting with my father or engrossed in some sitcom -- I can see her now so clearly, lifting up each finished item, examining it, folding it up, moving on. Then slap, slide, retract, slap, slight, retract. The background music to our family evenings: relaxing, therapeutic, predictable. For me.

Recently, I've dragged out my own ironing board more than a few times. Not for everything, mind you. Not even close. But I have discovered the miracle of ironing. Not just the immediate gratification of watching wrinkles disappear (ahh, if only face cream worked so well), and not just the startling economic windfall of being able to wear favorite clothing more than once. More than those things, it's the nostalgic assault on my senses. Slap. The rattle of the board's  flimsy legs is so familiar, a sound oddly comforting as it conjures up images of my mother doing her chores, chores that she never viewed as optional. And images of my father, sitting in his favorite chair at the other end of the living room, curls of smoke lifting from the tip of his cigar, his New York Times folded in quarters in front of him as he read it from cover to cover, leaving the crossword for last. Slap, slide retract. Puff, crackle as he shook out the paper to turn the page, fold, puff, flick. The sights and sounds of my childhood, barely noticeable, I thought, but so vivid.

Up until now, I've been doing it in the privacy of my bathroom. (Ironing, perverts.) It just happens to be where I found the long dormant appliance. I am thinking of moving it down to the kitchen, making myself the background noise while my daughter texts with one hand and does her homework with the other. Slap, slide, retract. Tap, tap, tap, the whisper of a page being flipped, the dull clang of her binder rings as they open and close.

Vacuuming? That's not happening. But there's no reason my daughter and I can't just start to iron things out, together.

Reeling 'Em In. Really?

There are many things I love about my "fun" part time job in retail. Most of them just happen to be hanging in my closet.

Granted, I generally like doing things as efficiently -- and with as little effort -- as possible, which is why I had thought my four hours in the shop yesterday had been quite successful. With very little forced conversation, I managed to sell the entire outfit I was wearing (boots and all) to two customers, and half of it to a third. All I had to do was get dressed in the morning -- something I try to do on a regular basis so my children don't have to fear the news reports of a middle aged woman wandering naked through the wilds of deep dark suburbia.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I didn't have to talk to the women who ended up buying my outfit. We chatted and laughed plenty; I even joined them occasionally in the fitting room, allowing one of them to actually try on my own dress so she could decide on size. (It worked out well; she bought the other size and I ended up with the dress she didn't want which I just had to put on so my children wouldn't hear reports of the middle aged saleswoman wandering naked through the mall.) We bonded, these women and I. We shared stories of our kids, our own childhoods, our favorite restaurants. We commiserated about the flab in our stomachs and the size of our calves. We swore we would shop together one day (promising not to wear "the outfit") and we hugged.

I left work with a spring in one step and a drag in the other. My effortless successes were overshadowed by my continued refusal to engage in scripted "conversation starters" with folks who clearly have no interest in having a conversation with me. Don't get me wrong; I have three children and I taught for years. I am accustomed to being ignored, even being given the occasional "stink eye" by someone who holds me in complete disdain. But I am usually genetically related to those people, and have some plausible reason -- in my mind, at least -- for continuing to bug the shit out of them.

Here's how it went after I backed off of customer number one, who responded to my offer of assistance by turning her head away from me and muttering "I'm just looking around." Actually, she may have said "go fuck yourself;" it's tough to hear someone who's not facing you when the music is blaring.

Young, perky manager arrives by my side. "What's she looking for?" Hmm. Maybe she said she was looking for a round. A round of what? I was stumped. I admitted I did not know, since the woman had been quite clear about wanting me to disappear.

"Did you try a relationship conversation?" Seriously, I am not making this up.

"No." I was hoping my discount would still apply until the end of business on the day of my termination.

"Do you want me to try?"

I thought about that. As much as I felt horrible for doing this to the woman around my age who wanted me to disappear, I'm always up for some entertainment. "Sure. Go for it."

I watched and listened from afar. (That's how you learn.) If the woman could have turned her head more than one hundred eighty degrees, she would have. When the axis of her neck failed her, she just began the slow shuffle down the wall rack in a feeble effort to escape. She had to stop when she got to the front end of the store. She didn't seem like the type who would be willing to stand in the window and pretend to be a mannequin. She left, her head still turned at an odd angle. Actually I think it was spinning.

Young, perky manager arrives again by my side. "See how I got her talking?" Talking, walking. Practically the same word. I could see how she got confused.

That was my first of many lessons in "conversation starting" and "relationship conversations" for the day. I didn't have a pen, but I took a lot of mental notes. During one particularly difficult pop quiz on how I could have gotten an especially unfriendly browser to become my new best friend, I suggested a leash. She thought I was joking. "You just can't force the fish to bite," I said, feeling a bit maternal. "You need to wait for them to start to nibble a bit."

It was worse than trying to explain to a blind dog that if we took an umbrella we could go out in the rain and not get pelted. (Yes, Manny and I had that conversation at four o'clock this morning, and his puzzled head cock seemed vaguely familiar; now I remember where I had seen a similar look.)

Note to my children: if you hear about a middle aged woman running around naked downtown, it's because I looked so good on the unemployment line I sold the clothes off my back. Sorry.

If You Give a Dog a Green Bean...

I suppose it's par for the course that I spent a good part of the wee hours last night mopping up diarrhea from the family room floor. (Manny's, not mine, smart guys; I'm not that old or out of control. Yet.) Anyway, it seemed a fitting end to a day that had started with a bucket of shit (of a different variety) getting dumped on me.

Which got me to thinking deep thoughts. The stench still lingers in my nostrils, and though I keep wondering what I've done to deserve all this crap, I think I have learned at least one simple lesson from it all. When your dog is begging, just say "no." Do not feed him green beans. Especially after your sixteen year old daughter -- who is perfectly able to ignore the dog's whining, just as she was able to ignore my near death bout with the flu, except to the extent it inconvenienced her -- has warned you that dogs cannot digest green beans. Ahh, from the mouths of babes, even bitchy ones.

After mopping up the doggy mess and tossing the mop and the bucket and the rags and the actual mess itself outside so I could deal with it in the morning, or maybe never, I was reminded that I must really look like shit. I went upstairs and took a good long look in the mirror. As I scanned my tired face, my nose still slightly uplifted in a very attractive crinkle in my continued effort to ward off the smells, I searched for the signs of evil that might make me such an easy mark for dumping.

I'm not really sure what evil looks like, other than a man with a funny little mustache and a cold stare, but that's so limiting. My daughter told me the school tennis team is evil, which is why so many of her friends have either quit or wish they had. Maybe she's on to something. She did, after all, know about the green beans. I always thought "evil" became kind of manic looking when it became threatened, kind of like the Joker in Batman. The tired, beaten up face staring back at me in the mirror looked anything but manic. Ugly doesn't qualify.

So looking in the mirror made me think of a news story I saw the other day on the Today Show -- a real scoop, I might add -- about a woman (we'll just call her Alice) who went on a mirror fast for a month. She hung drapes over the mirrors in her house -- creepy, just like we Jews do when somebody dies -- and avoided looking at her reflection no matter where she went, no matter what the occasion. I assume she has really good friends who would tell her if she had spinach in her teeth. Anyway, I watched the entire segment trying to understand the point, other than some woman getting her fifteen minutes of fame on television (at fast's end, naturally, so her makeup was impeccable). She said something about worrying that the mirror had made her too self-obsessed, and finding that a month without the nasty little demon had made her self-centered -- in a good way, I'm guessing, as in yoga. I don't know. It was a lot easier for me to grasp the green bean lesson.

Frankly, I am not willing to give up my mirrors right now, because the last thing I want is someone else telling me what they see. We ourselves our best equipped to see beyond the surface reflection -- the wrinkles, the age spots, the sagging necks (thank you Nora) -- to our heart, our core, and if we ever start to forget what's really there, the bathroom mirror can be a useful tool. Even if we sometimes need to dim the lights. Maybe Alice (remember Alice) did figure that out; maybe now that she has her looking glass back, she uses it wisely. Maybe that's what she meant by self-centered. One can only hope.

Which makes me think of rabbit holes, and bunny carrots, and, yes, green beans. If your dog's begging gets to you, give him a cookie instead.