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. 

Why is This Night...?

It's an unconventional Seder. 

The wine (Malbec, not Manischewitz) flows freely well before we are instructed to bless and drink the first cup. Our Humanist Jewish Haggadah mixes modern plagues, like terrorism, with the frogs and locusts. For as long as I can remember, I have stood, salivating in reluctant solidarity, with my friend who has conscientiously objected to her mother's delicious matzoh ball soup (too filling, an appetite spoiler before the delectable lemon chicken and asparagus with hollandaise sauce, the sinfully unleavened home baked cakes). We hurtle though the story of Moses as we sneak bites of matzoh and butter under the table.

For seventeen years, the door in suburban Chicago has been open to me and my New York relatives, not to mention countless others. We are diverse in our religious beliefs, but that only matters when, say, a Gentile newcomer tries to be polite and choke down her first bite of gefilte fish. She was shocked when I told her that's how it was for me with my first honey baked ham. It could have gotten ugly, but we let it go. 

We are diverse in our political beliefs, too, and this year, everyone was wise enough not to even bring it up. Closing the gap between gefilte fish and ham was difficult enough. 

It was our first Seder in seventeen years without my friend's father, who passed away in January. We have lost (and gained) others through the years, but he was our leader. The hander out of crisp ten dollar bills to all kids, young and old, no matter who found the Afikoman. An observant Jew with a sense of humor, tolerating our irreverence but keeping us in line. His absence was profound. It has been that kind of a year, but somehow, we move forward, with empty places at our tables and gaping holes in our hearts.

Thanks to iPads and iPhones, some absentees were able to join us for a while -- to read a passage, join in a song, even help with the Afikoman hunt. As usual, we opened the door for Elijah, knowing he would be a no-show but -- at least for those of us of a certain gender and age -- grateful for the gust of cold air. 

When we leave, stuffed and wondering how we will make it through our various second rounds the next evening, we all silently pray -- to whomever -- that we will see each other again next year. We hope that maybe some of the ones who were just here in spirit or digitally will be here in body, breaking matzoh with us under the table, sneaking wine before blessings, protesting or not protesting matzoh balls. 

Joining us in our reverent irreverence, at our unconventional Seder, where the door is always open. 

Leaps of Faith: Memories of a Brooklyn School Yard

The neighbor kids were out playing jump rope with their babysitter. They dared me to try.

As if. As if there's anything difficult about playing jump rope, the kind that requires three people, one holding each end and chanting while the third has all the fun. I flashed back to the concrete school

yard in Brooklyn, the white girls skipping with rhythmic ease on one end, the black girls navigating double dutch ropes with a remarkable combination of grace and speed on the other. It never occurred to us to cross the divide and learn the game. We knew our limits.

On my end of the school yard, I jumped with carefree abandon, rarely getting tripped up by the rope. I would never have been caught dead standing next to the rope to start while the end holders swayed it gently and counted -- one, two, three -- before lifting it in a full arc as I waited, knees bent, for the rope to approach the pavement on my other side. I preferred the running start -- one, two, three -- timing my entry perfectly as the rope completed the first half of its fourth revolution. Not double dutch, but certainly pushing the envelope, for a white girl.

I handed my packages to one of the neighbor girls, and I stood at a distance from the rope, scoffing at the notion that I should start slow, standing next to the rope. They looked skeptical, but I held my ground, rocking back and forth, toe to heel, as the rope rose and fell in a perfect arc. I was suddenly terrified. I tried to channel the young me in the Brooklyn school yard, confident as long as there was only one rope turning, never even considering the dangers. Like the rope smacking me in the head; the rope getting tangled in my feet; me, landing in a face plant. The rope reached its apex, I surged forward, for about an inch, and hit the brakes.

Plan B. I swallowed my pride, agreed to a standing start. One -- I bent my knees; Two -- I got ready to spring; Three -- I straightened my legs, and achieved absolutely no lift off. Not a centimeter, Nothing. I no longer knew my limits. It's not that I didn't want to cross the divide, from now to then; I just couldn't.

It was even worse than the hula hoop debacle, years ago, when my own kids were little, and I thought I would wow them with my hula hooping prowess. My skills were pretty advanced, and the bar was, after all, pretty low -- they had never looked across a concrete school yard at a game of double dutch.

With a barely perceptible pivot of my hips, I used to be able to keep it going indefinitely -- walk while I hula'ed, even add a second hoop around my waist while a spun a couple of extras on each arm. Like the girls with the jump rope, my kids had looked skeptical, but I grabbed the hoop with confidence and held it against the small of my back. Alas, my imperceptible hip pivot was no match for the softening of my mid-section, and I found myself thrusting in a grotesque Elvis imitation just to keep the hoop up for almost three seconds. A first glimpse into the extent of my limits. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, all these years later.

Still, my bucket list continues to grow. Some of the items are attainable, some as elusive as double dutch in the concrete school yard, or hula hooping in my thirties, or jumping rope in my fifties. The older I get, the more comfortable I get with what I cannot do, but the more determined I get to continue to cross divides and push envelopes and test my limits, unless there's a very real possibility of a face plant.

The Family Von Trump

♬There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall

And the bells in the steeple too

And up in the nursery an absurd little bird

Is popping out to say "cuckoo"

(Cuckoo; cuckoo)♪♫

Tweet, tweet?

The moment was so fuzzy it made Donald's hair look flat. 

Adoring children from two former marriages plus the current wife (mother of the absent fifth child, Barron; the Baroness, perhaps?). Lesser known daughter Tiffany -- her lips permanently pursed in a sultry "O," her name conjuring up the unlikely combination of old wealth and stripper. Ivanka,

designer of spiked heels (and, oops, kicking them off on primary day, voting with her bare feet to not vote for daddy, all gushing aside). 

There was no sign of the working girl/slutty nun, the common little floozy who does all the dirty work. As in take a letter I mean take a tweet, Maria. Was everyone else so moved by the gooey blended family love fest to not hear the part about the Donald dictating his misogynistic tweets to one of the "office gals?" Keep the Kool-Aid coming. 

As I watched the morning CNN recap (through half spread fingers, as I tend to do these days), hoping that maybe clearer heads would prevail after a few hours of sleep, I was no less horrified than I had been by the immediate post mortem the night before. He made great kids, therefore he will make America great again. Seriously? I'll be the first to admit my kids are great in spite of their parents.

I was particularly moved by the appearance of the regular Joe Shmo who was tickled to be on TV -- again. At the Town Hall meeting, he had asked a question, which was somewhat pointless since he had prefaced it with his profession of undying Trump love and devotion. For Act II of his fifteen minutes of fame, he gave a shout out to his kids, praised Donald for his impending trek across the Verrazano to visit the oft forgotten borough of Staten Island, and, finally getting down to policy, said (and I paraphrase here, but you get the gist): "all everybody wants is to have more spending money." 

Speak for yourself buddy. All I want is, um, well, come to think of it, a bit of extra cash would be nice. Have I been too quick to judge? I glanced over at my dresser, at the package that has sat unopened since it arrived two months ago. I had flipped on CNN in the wee hours, some time between late night and early morning punditry, and oh my God I'm as shallow and dumb as the next guy. The infomercial sucked me in, and I sucked back, gulped down my own pitcher of Kool-Aid. I ordered a three month supply of some miracle potion that would make my neck look younger, which in turn would make me look younger, which in turn would change my life for the better forever. Hmm. Maybe even put more cash in my pockets. 

Shoot me now. Next thing you know, I'll watch Ted and Heidi tonight and I'll want to invite them to dinner. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. 

Hold the Knishes

A round of cheese curds on Bernie today.

The Kool-Aid's been flowing freely on both sides this election season, but the orange stuff has been the flavor of the month for so long that nobody's paid much attention to the rest of the slop. I admit it, I'm a little thirsty for some Trump tweets this morning. The Trojan Horse reference was a bit too high brow for my taste, though I take comfort knowing that Don assumes it was a condom reference. 

As a born and bred Brooklynite, I get Bernie, at least to the extent that he could be anybody's uncle at your average Brooklyn holiday table. We Brooklynites are all like Bernie, in the sense that we hold fast to our abrasive accents no matter how many years we spend living elsewhere, and when we talk we don't really pull any punches. But there are two things people should know about Brooklynites. First, even though we can sound illiterate -- especially when we get excited -- we're pretty smart. Second, we are not representative of the rest of New York State, so what Brooklyn thinks probably does not matter all that much when we're talking about picking the next leader of the free world. 

In fact, what Brooklyn thinks does not matter at all in most parts of the country. While everyone is cracking open the Manischewitz a couple of weeks early, the really scary Kool-aid is being poured in places far, far away. Like Mississippi. Quote of the day: "People of faith have rights, too." A real life governor said this, with a straight (and definitely not gay) face. I suppose he makes a good point. People of faith should have rights. I have a feeling the Mississippi gov defines "people" differently from the way I do. Kind of like the Nazis did. Or fans of slavery. 

Bernie seems nice. The governor of Mississippi does not. He seems downright scary, as do some of the folks who might actually run for President on the Republican side of the aisle. Maybe that's just the Brooklyn in me, wondering why the most important talking point in an election is an assurance that you truly believe a woman is not the person who should decide what to do with her own body. This, in a world where there are a lot of people drinking very dark Kool-Aid and committed to the idea of mass murder and destruction of all that is good in the world. 

This morning, though, everyone is finally paying attention to Bernie after he proved that he is definitely not chopped liver, er, bratwurst. And I say good for Bernie, whose Jewish mother can finally rest in peace knowing that, even though her son never became a doctor, he's making a credible run for POTUS -- surely the next best thing. Mazel tov Bernie, enjoy the moment, before reality sets in. Hold the cheese curds; pass the gefilte fish.