23 and Mommy

I complained to a friend the other day about how stubbornly independent my mother is. Okay, well maybe I just said stubborn, and he suggested independent. And then he had the gall to remind me I probably had 23 of her chromosomes, which I suppose he meant has a compliment but when you've spent much of your adult life pretending you are the opposite of your mother that kind of thing can sound like an accusation.

While it's all the rage now to send off saliva samples in the hope of discovering the mysteries buried within ones DNA, I have neither the need or desire to spit into a vial. I have enough trouble fighting off the genetic predispositions I know. 

My mother is 87 years old. Seven years ago, we were in a car accident together, and she got broken in several places. I, on the other hand, endured a few coffee stains on my dress and a little bit of a stressful entrance to my daughter's graduation ceremony. For the next year, my mother fought like hell to recover. She had to learn to walk again, and -- just as importantly, I think -- build up the strength to once again carry her two-ton "pocketbooks." Not even an intervening spinal collapse could stop her. She fretted. I snapped at her constantly. Her injuries and her negativity were infuriating, not to mention inconvenient.

She walked again, a bit more slowly. She tried her best to leave some of the designer accessories at home so she would not have to suffer the indignity of carrying an ordinary purse. I continued to snap at her about the ridiculousness of it all -- her refusal to lighten her load, her refusal to take a wheelchair ride to speed things up at the airport. Those are for old people, she told me.

Last year, she broke her hip. Again, extraordinarily inconvenient for me. I finagled and cajoled, and got the doctors to agree to release her in time so she could make it to Chicago -- in a wheelchair -- for her granddaughter's wedding two weeks later. The doctors were easy. Mom was not.

She did not make it to her granddaughter's wedding, but she is walking again. And carrying her pocketbook. And doing all kinds of things, for herself and by herself, that nobody in her right mind would be doing at 87, especially after so many broken bones. Stubborn. Crazy. Infuriating.

Independent. On the outside, my mother is beautiful and impeccably dressed and, to the casual observer -- and, to me, when I'm feeling particularly nasty -- all about appearances. My younger daughter, living with her grandmother temporarily, assured me, yesterday, after she overheard our somewhat heated telephone conversation, that my 87 year old mother was happily ironing her St. John suit before heading out on an "errand" I deemed wildly unnecessary and reckless. I had to laugh.

It is all about independence. I like to think, somewhere in the 23 chromosomes I can trace back to her, that "stubbornly independent" gene slipped in. My own children have already threatened to put me on a leash. They need only look at their grandmother to know that's not going to happen.

No Lobster Bisque for You, Professor Dershowitz!

I've been berated for being so dark, encouraged to post a happy tale.

Tragic news abounds, but there is indeed a comedic lining. Alan Dershowitz was shunned on Martha's Vineyard.  Move over, ghost of Mary Jo Kopechne; the esteemed professor might still be alive, but if he wants to stay on the island he's just going to have to eat fish sticks in a Red Roof Inn. Maybe, if he's lucky, someone will sneak him some leftover lobster salad.

Almost always, there are two sides to a story, more often three (with the first two being matters of plausible perspective and the third being closest to the truth).  I'm open-minded enough to acknowledge there are two sides to the story of America in 2018 as well. One is, let's see, how should I put this, RIGHT, and the other is, um, WRONG. SO WRONG.

There is no gray area here, on what we, collectively, are allowing to happen. Somehow, the darkest and most insidious rocks have been overturned and long dormant malevolence has been given the green light to crawl out and be heard. Somehow, a narcissistic thug has risen from the depths and it's not just the so-called deplorables who have lifted him up and carried him forward.

Come to think of it, the Dershowitz story is a happy tale. I am guessing the folks on Martha's Vineyard -- at least the summer folk -- enjoy their money and their tax breaks and their kelly green whale pants, and I would bet more than a few closet Republicans have cracked open some lobster claws with the liberal elites without anyone peeing in their terrines of melted butter. But it's encouraging to see that higher principles can trump (pardon the term) all else, and when anybody tries to rest on his laurels or supposed principles to use his own well positioned soap box to lend credulity to what is, in every sense of the word, an abomination, a line in the sand is drawn. No lobster bisque for you!

Professor Dershowitz, whatever your "principles" might be -- and I have a hunch they might even be noble if you weren't such a publicity hound -- you have become an enabler. There is little difference between you and the folks who rely on a twisted notion of religious freedom to  claim a constitutional right to shun homosexuals or, say, folks who believe in a woman's right to choose. Actually, there is a difference, and much danger. If a baker doesn't want to bake a cake for a gay couple, the gay couple can find another baker, and the local market will determine the fate of the local baker. If somebody's religious faith prohibits abortion, that person can choose to raise an unwanted baby or put her up for adoption. But when the people who have somehow grabbed the reins of our government and hijacked our democracy are doing everything they can to keep themselves in power while they chip away at everything we here have long taken for granted, people like you need to tread carefully when you wield your influence.

Professor Dershowitz, it's funny that, this holiday weekend, you didn't have melted butter on your hands. What's not funny is the blood that could replace it.

Independence Day, 2018

Life goes on in the bubble.

Here's the thing.  I have never been poor. I have never been raped. I have never regretted a pregnancy. I have been lucky enough to be thrilled about the prospect of meeting each of my unborn children, without reservation. I grieved when an early miscarriage took that chance away from me; I grieved, not for a life ended, but for a life never begun. 

I am thankful I have never had to make the choice, but I have never understood why it would be someone else's choice to make. I have never understood why the party of small government makes an exception when it comes to marching into a woman's womb. As if the personal decision isn't heart wrenching enough without a bunch of middle aged white guys scrubbing in. 

Oh yes, we've come a long way baby, which means we have so much farther to fall. The same folks who don't seem particularly interested in pushing back on a president who is slowly chipping away at the entire world order are literally giddy about the prospect of finally being able to push unwanted fetuses back in, no matter what the consequences. And separating children from their parents and putting babies in cages is okay as long as you're trying to keep them out, not in. I am so confused, here in my bubble. 

Tomorrow is Independence Day. It gives me pause. For the first time in my life, I feel shackled. Even while life goes on as it always has, in the bubble. While I sit outside at my neighborhood Starbucks, enjoying a relatively work-free Tuesday. While I decide whether to go to Pilates or take a bike ride or just spend the day waiting until it's a n acceptable time to switch from coffee to wine. While I still feel somewhat naively comfortable knowing that, here in my bubble state, my daughters will never have to resort to coat hangers to defy the intrusions of a bunch of white men who just don't get it. 

I cannot get this movie out of my head, a recent sleeper called "1945." The summer of 1945, somewhere in eastern Europe, where the war is over but people have not necessarily changed. A collective morning after, for the criminals and the accomplices and, mostly, for the ones who stood by, powerless, and did nothing. I wonder what 2020 holds for us, or, worst case scenario, 2024. Or, if I'm cautiously optimistic, 2018. I yearn to see the active collaborators get their due, but what of the rest of us? 

On Independence Day, 2018, I hope we all remember it's not just about the burgers and hot dogs, although I wouldn't give those up for anything. I hope the fireworks remind us all of how far we have come, and how far we can fall. There is much more at stake, this year, than a chance of rain on our parades. 

Creating Order, the Old Fashioned Way

A friend's mother died last week. I didn't know my friend's mother well, but I understood how much her absence was felt.

It takes a loss, sometimes, even if it's not your own, to step back and reflect on what you have. I still have my mother. Infuriating and awe-inspiring, ridiculous and wise, tough as nails and soft as Jello. I have zigzagged through life, made plenty of wrong turns but, so far, have come out fairly unscathed. My mother has always been there, ready to offer up advice or an occasional "I told you so."  If I get it right, she takes credit. Why shouldn't she? I do the same with my own children.

My friend reminded me, after the service, to be happy I still have a mommy. But your mom sounded so perfect I wanted to tell her. Come to think of it, I don't know any perfect people who are alive; they all seem to be dead.

I remember having this urge, almost daily, long after my father died, to call him and ask him a question. Advice, maybe. Or maybe something about a plumbing issue. Maybe just to hear his voice. I saved his last voicemail as long as technology would allow. I didn't need to -- I have never forgotten how he sounded, or how it felt to listen to him. Annoyed or reassured, impatient or riveted. It doesn't matter. I'd give anything to have another chat with him, but I will always hear him. 

So far, I've had twenty more years with my mother than I had with my dad, and I know her so well I never need to ask her advice or, perish the thought, her opinion.  She tries her best not to offer it up, knowing I will do as I wish regardless.

I was out of sorts, after that memorial service for my friend's mom. Even more so because I attended an event later that day to honor my other friend's son, gone almost two and a half years. He would be twenty-nine now. Eulogize him all we want, nurture his legacy until we're blue in the face, we would all prefer to have him back here, a little imperfect but zigging and zagging forward.  He never had the chance to infuriate and inspire, to err and to correct, to have his own children roll eyes at him (as he did, many times) while they secretly tucked away his wisdom.

That night, lost in memories that belonged mostly to others,  I took out my ironing board, fired up the rusty old iron. Every evening -- or at least every other evening -- when I was growing up, my mother would iron. I would sit with my father at one end of the living room, and mom would set up the ironing board at the opposite end, cross-wise, in front of the piano. She was there but sort of not there. Each time she set the iron down for another pass, the legs of the board would creak. Then the hiss of steam, and down again, creak. My father and I would do the crossword puzzle together, or maybe just sit. He would smoke his cigar. Few words were spoken, but I was content. And safe.  

My mother once suggested I try to iron occasionally. She actually made me guess what she was suggesting, a four letter word she said. I could not imagine where she was going with that. She finally had to tell me. Iron. That wasn't  in my four-letter-word wheelhouse.  Not even close.

It was surprisingly satisfying, ironing the other day. Instantly gratifying, wrinkles disappearing in seconds. A quick fix to create order out of chaos. Tough to do these days, when it's okay to wrest brown children from their parents' arms but it's not okay to refuse to serve a useless but dangerous idiot in a restaurant. Oops, didn't mean to go there, sorry.

So I will iron more. Because I know my mother would tell me how soothing it is, and it's taken me a long time, but I know she's right. 

Theology 2018

Sometimes you need to hit rock bottom before things can start to get better. I thought we had hit rock bottom on November 8, 2016. We had not. Things have gotten far worse.

I knew it would be bad, but I thought it would end swiftly. There would be no sudden shift to presidential; I was realistic enough to know that he would become no less vile, no less egomaniacal, no less willfully uninformed, no less pathological in his lies. His inarticulateness and his schoolyard bullying would continue to dominate the airwaves, fodder for jokes and consternation all at once, all the time.

I knew -- I thought -- even if "we the people" couldn't save ourselves from this mess, the good folks in Congress would step up. Especially the ones he had attacked in so many undignified, if not un-American, ways. I never really had much patience for politicians and their pandering, but who, really, could stoop this low?

God I'm naive.

Here we are, more than a year and a half into what I always knew would be a disaster, nowhere near rock bottom -- just flirting with the unthinkable as we circle the edges of what appears to be a bottomless abyss.

Evil henchmen are everywhere. Jeff Sessions, who thought nothing of lying repeatedly through selective amnesia at his confirmation hearings, has cited the Bible (a Bible not particularly relevant to some of us who are either not Bible thumpers or thump different bibles) to command us to obey (and forgive me for a bit of paraphrasing) the laws of an ignorant buffoon because God has ordained him for the purpose of order. At least I finally understand how Hitler happened. And, speaking of Hitler, snatching children away from parents seeking asylum in the City on the Hill is qualitatively different from what Hitler did -- keeping the Jews in the country so he could finish them off there. Oh. I see. Thank you AG Sessions.

Okay. I'm not going to waste time suggesting that Bibles of all stripes are more about love than blind obedience to madmen, or noting the irony of the passage just after the one cited by Sessions, the one about paying taxes and anything else you owe.  Hahahahaha. That's rich. Far be it from me to argue with the New Testament or the distinguished attorney general, especially when it has all been the given imprimatur of that great theologian and pillar of morality, Sarah Sanders.  "It is very biblical to enforce the law." Now I really understand Hitler. God's will is God's will. Amen to that.

At least we're playing nice with Kim Jong Un. Great guy. Loves his people. Actually knows how to keep them in country, and our president wants nothing more than to know his secret. This should end well.

What's a citizen to do? I can't remember last week's atrocity, can barely remember listening to the Parkland dad and Parkland students speaking at a ladies luncheon last week. My head is spinning.

Breaking news: The president is still an asshole; an asshole with a shitload of power. His henchmen are still evil, and they will continue to lick his ring and put their water bottles on the floor just because he does (oh dear, just a heart beat away). And too many Republicans are willing to sell their souls to the devil incarnate, which means "we the people" are pretty much on our own. We aren't even close to rock bottom, but I fear that once we find ourselves there it will be too late.

The Greatest Gift

Two friends who know me well forwarded the same link to me last night -- a New York Times piece about "MSNBC moms." The once-upon-a-time soccer moms whose empty nests are now filled with the steady drumbeat of left leaning cable news. One admitted to having her daily five o'clock glass of wine with Ari Melber (though he did not know -- until now, I suppose -- that he has been her cocktail hour companion). Many of the women interviewed live dangerously close to red folks -- some sleep in the same bed with one -- and their highly intelligent and articulate like minded friends on MSNBC make them feel less alone. I live in a pretty blue bubble, but I get it. I fall asleep with the television on, wake up periodically to the endless loop of the evening line-up. Sometimes it's repetitive, but sometimes I pick up a tidbit I slept through the first time around. My dog waits patiently for Mika and Joe to appear in the morning. That's when it's time for me to start really paying attention, and time for him to pee.

The article was liberating and well timed. My youngest daughter had been home for three days, and I found myself sneaking around, changing the channel on each television to get a quick fix. I lowered the volume in my bedroom each night, but she busted me every time. Eli and I would wake confused -- no Joe and Mika to herald the beginning of our morning routine. It was disorienting. I will still sneak around -- when my older daughter calls me in the morning I automatically hit the mute button so she won't know how deranged I am. But I feel validated now, like I've been told I actually have a syndrome.

This isn't about my MSNBC addiction, though, or even about my overwhelming feeling that I live in a country I don't recognize. It's about motherhood and daughterhood and grandmotherhood, and how we move through the stages of life, together and separately. My youngest daughter is starting a new chapter, and for now, she my mother's temporary roommate in Brooklyn. In the apartment where I grew up. Both her older siblings have done a stint in New York, spending more time with my mother for longer stretches than I have in years. My relief at being able to watch MSNBC with reckless abandon was matched only, as I watched my twenty-two year old toddle off with her oversized suitcases, by abject panic. My mother is judgmental and intrusive, and my daughter is judgmental and occasionally morose. I am afraid of both of them, sometimes. I had forgotten, I suppose, that my mother told me the day my first child was born that there is no describing the joy of being a grandparent. I had forgotten, I suppose, that being a grandchild is nothing to sneeze at either.

My mother and my daughter both sent me happy texts. "I'm home," my daughter said. "I adore her," said my mother. Here I am again, the necessary but irrelevant link, the forgotten one who brought them together. The exhausted quasi-soccer mom turned solitary MSNBC mom who wonders why she exists but is gratified to learn it's now socially acceptable to consider Nicole and Chris and Rachel and Lawrence to be her actual friends, even to uncork some wine while we chat.

To my daughter and my mother, thank you for letting me know you have settled in amicably together. And, to my daughter and my mother, you're welcome, as I am the one who made this all possible. Enjoy each other. It's time for mimosas with the Rev.

Doing the Hokey Pokey

I would do it more often, sit at a bar by myself, nursing a glass of wine, if it didn't make me feel so conspicuous and inconspicuous at the same time. Conspicuous because I fear others assume I'm there to pick up something other than the chicken paillard I have been fantasizing about for hours; inconspicuous because, really, nobody notices a fifty-eight year old woman sitting at a bar.

I'm not much of a conversationalist, but I like nothing better than listening in on others. The guys to my left covered all the bases -- brilliant children, miserable and ungrateful stepchildren, unworthy ex-wives, gracious new wives who gladly took them in, as is, damaged and laden with baggage. The circle of life in suburban America, same old story, except the guys are ignoring the sports on the TV behind the bar and getting touchy feely over grilled octopus (yuk) and marinated shrimp (yum). Not that my opinion matters; they didn't offer to share. 

Then came the make or break question -- triggered by some reference to politics so subtle I barely noticed it: so where do you stand, left or right? 

If there's one thing the lefties and righties always had in common, it was a tendency to avoid discussing politics and religion on dates or with people you don't know all that well. (Not that I was listening, but these guys seemed to be casual acquaintances, politely tap dancing around shared food choices and filling each other in on pretty basic life information.) 

Left. Way left. Except for criminal justice, then I'm way right. Not sure what that means in the era of "lock her up" and pardoning of white collar folk, but okay. 

And, oh yeah, fiscally conservative. Of course. Who wouldn't be? 

The answers seemed satisfactory; no octopus tentacles went flying, nobody stormed off in a huff. leaving me to lick the remains of the shrimp. 

I used to describe myself similarly, if a bit less extreme on both ends. That was pretty much the extent of it; beyond feeling self-righteous about good and evil, I had little interest in fleshing out the details. 

As I listened to the guys to my left (physically, anyway), I realize how complicit I have been, relying on labels and over-generalizations and never realizing how gray everything is. Having it all is complicated, if not impossible. In life and in politics. Every new wife or husband is somebody else's discard. And self-righteousness and a moral high ground come at a price. A price which is, however, far lower than the price we are paying now, where the line between good and evil is being so messed with its it's difficult to even see the gray. 

We all need to listen more carefully, to the folks on the left, and the right.