Sixties Chick

Yo, Wat up, Mayzee gurl?
Nuthin’ much.
Wat up wit da blog? Ben a long time.
True dat. Stopped writin’  fro a while.
Well where u ben at?
Jus chillin’…I be chillin’.

And damn if there wasn’t a lot I could’ve weighed in on too. For starters, there was the historic Gold family cruise in honor of my Uncle’s 90^th birthday. Underwritten by the birthday boy himself, 23 of us, bound by blood or marriage, floated from L.A. down to what they’re now calling the Mexican Riviera.  No question but that I could have mined a few nuggets of familial intrigue from the decks of that shining Sapphire Princess. Entertaining, yes, but family is family.

There was the week’s visit from my Brazilian ex-husband which could have made for a riveting piece had I felt like going into the ins and outs of our 19-year post-marital relationship. Or the saga of the twenty-four-year-old boarder I took in to help pay the bills, who turned out not to fit that bill or any other. I live and learn. Perhaps a story for another time.

I could have written about taking care of my grand nephews (7 and 9) which would have meant disclosing the “gum in hair” incident, but really, how could I rat on a couple of cute kids? Suffice it to say that males, no matter how young, are very strange creatures indeed.

There was yet another loan taken to finance the college education and my feelings about that, not to mention my state of mind upon completing the last financial aid form I will ever have to fill out. As usual, there was copy to write for clients along with the concomitant “two-step” of getting paid.

Torrential rains hurled shingles off the roof, and my friend Lisa Tracy came north to celebrate the launch of her new book, Objects of our Affection – a great tale about our national obsession with stuff.  To add to the excitement, I signed on to manage two decaying properties for friends overseas which, in only two months time, has shown all signs of a disaster waiting to happen. Future fodder to be sure.

There was the bar mitzvah I attended at a reconstructionist synagogue which touched my heart, the miraculous birth of a 2.5 pound baby in New Haven, and the sad departure of yet a few more wonderful souls from the earth. Add to that more earthquakes, gushing black oil, the mine tragedy, volcanic ash that stopped the world and, of course, Goldman Sucks – and anyone can see there was more than enough material. As usual, there was a lot to talk about.

I just didn’t feel like it. I picked lilacs instead. Bunches of them. I put them all over the house, everywhere, in every room. Lilacs were my mother’s favorite flower.

I sat with the lilacs, jus’ chillin’. Quietly. Because there in the midst of that haunting heady scent, there seemed to be absolutely no need to comment.

The Fruit Lady died last Saturday night. I had the honor of being there when she took her last breath and left the body temple. I had gone to be with my friend who was keeping vigil. I didn’t want her to be alone.

Joan Arensberg, aka the Fruit Lady, owner of the famed and first-of-its-kind charcuterie at 17^th and Walnut, was dying. Sharp as a tack, big-hearted, funny, tough and ever tenacious; she was finally letting go.

The end had started in October, though no one knew it then. Even the doctors had no idea if it would be a couple of years or just a few weeks. Regardless, she needed help, so my friend stopped what she was doing, packed up some books and moved herself to the Fruit Lady’s condo in Somers Point. She would take care of her – cook healthy food, bathe her, massage her – do whatever it took to get her well again. “This is what we do for one another,” my friend said.

With no children, in fact, no family at all and a partner who had died ten years before; the Fruit Lady had instead a few loving friends, a few incredible people who stepped up  and took care of everything she needed as she went in and out of the hospital, then into rehab and then home again.

They dealt with the bills, washed her clothes, made arrangements, smoothed her nightgown, dressed her sores, fed her like a baby, walked her dog then found him a home, changed the sheets, waited for doctors, ordered equipment and rubbed cream ever so gently into the creases of her thighs when she needed to be changed. They even put out their hands for the dentures she handed over, a sure sign  that matter no longer mattered to her. They stayed present while she talked crazy, sat with her as she slept, soothed her when she was full of fear. They held her hand. Day in and day out, she was never alone.

When it became clear she was not getting better, when she began to spend more and more time in some other place, holding animated discussions with beings long since gone; my friend opted to bring the Fruit Lady home so she could die in comfort, surrounded by her memories. At home, from her hospital bed in the living room, she would have a clear view of the big blue sky over the deck.

The Fruit Lady left next to nothing in the way of money or possessions. She didn’t even own the condo. What she leaves behind besides the laughter she spread around the planet throughout her life, is a legacy of love, a new bond among a few special people who, by loving the Fruit Lady, came to love each other as well. “Have you slept? Are you all right?” one would ask the other as they checked in with daily updates to coordinate care. “I could come over,” another offered  in the early morning hours after the death, grieving himself but not wanting her to be alone. “It’s okay,” she said, “my friend is here.”

And so it goes, on and on and on. Love  bequeathed, love bestowed, love passed on. It is the gift we get when we do for one another.

After enjoying a Sunday afternoon movie at a local theater, I, along with what seemed like most of the female audience, headed for the Ladies Room. The credits had not even faded, and it wasn’t just those of us past 50 either. As I rounded the corner and opened the door to the bathroom, I was greeted with a site familiar to anyone born of two X chromosomes. There was a line. A long one. But of course.

As I always do, I guess to vent my frustration, I said something to the woman in front of me, a kind of aside but loud enough for everyone to hear, something like, “Wouldn’t you know it; there’s always a damn line in the Ladies Room.” And as always, there were the requisite nods of agreement, and I felt a little better. But, I’m here to tell you, it pisses me off. It’s unfair. An outrage. It  suddenly dawned on me;  if this isn’t sex discrimination then what is?

The discrimination angle must have occurred to me as a result of doing some work for a couple of employee rights lawyers– writing copy for the firm’s website. Discrimination’s been on my mind lately; not only is there a lot of it out there in the world, it takes lots of different forms – age, race, national origin, disability, sexual preference and, of course, gender. And although a  line in the Ladies Room has been exempt from the charge thus far, I would argue that this kind of gender injustice is the worst kind. Being passed over for a promotion may sting, but it’s nothing compared to being kept from carrying out nature’s imposing call.

The theater, the train station, a restaurant, a lecture, a wedding, you name it. There are always women waiting in line to use the facilities. Take a look, however, at the adjacent door, the one marked Men or more elegantly, Gentlemen, and I challenge you to recall ever seeing, and I mean ever, a man tapping his feet, awaiting his turn.

Once again, it’s discrimination against you know who – not just in the boardroom, but in the bathroom, the most important place of all. Forget the precious time we’ve wasted; never mind the things we’ve missed. And though it might be a stretch to call it pain and suffering, the wait can be downright uncomfortable and at times, humiliating.

How did this happen, I wonder. Are these facilities all designed by men? And if so, you’d think they would have recognized the need. Haven’t they noticed that our plumbing is different? That it takes us longer?

If the discrimination argument doesn’t hold water with you, here’s another line of reasoning, also gleaned from my recent work. “Reasonable accommodation.” Yes, I know that “reasonable accommodation” applies to an employer’s obligation toward a disabled employee – to provide  whatever assistance is needed to successfully perform the job. Whether it’s providing a chair or rearranging a work schedule, there are Federal and State laws that mandate it. My brilliant legal mind tells me it’s not such a big leap to think that women should be afforded “reasonable accommodation” too. After all, who’s not disabled when they’ve gotta go?

What a wonderful world it would be if we women never had to wait for an available potty ever again. Besides being the right thing to do, it sure would go a long way towards making one half of the population a lot happier. Come to think of it, it would probably do the same for the other half as well – those on the other side of the door, patiently? waiting for us to finish up – powdering our noses or whatever it is we do in there.

When the notice from the county arrived in my mailbox, I had mixed feelings. I had never served on a jury before, but just ask anyone who’s ever been called, and they will moan and groan, citing a litany of long-winded jury duty stories. On the one hand, could I afford all that time away from the put-food-on-the-table responsibilities of everyday life? On the other, how could I pass up a new experience?  At a minimum, there had to be a good story in it.

And sure enough, by 10am I am in the jury box, Juror Number Nine, writing the answers to the questions the Judge is reading aloud. “Have you or anyone in you family been the victim of a crime?” I wonder if it’s worth mentioning the time someone walked into my house and took the keys to the car parked out front. It pales in the face of Juror Number Two’s story – his nephew’s murder the week before in Queens. After all, I had left the door open as usual.

It’s a criminal case, a theft of building materials, and to make it more interesting, the defendant is charged with eluding law enforcement as well. When my turn comes to present myself to the court – to talk about my profession, marital status, education, the TV shows I watch, where I get my news, etc., I sail through it. In retrospect, however, there probably was no need to name the Daily Show among my various news sources. I have to wonder what compelled me. The truth, the whole truth, perhaps? The excitement of the moment?

Then, like the other jurors, I am called up to the sidebar, the position next to the Judge’s bench where whispered conferences go on out of earshot of the jury. It is my Waterloo. There huddled in intimate proximity to the Judge, the prosecutor and the defense attorney, I simply fall apart.

“How do you feel about circumstantial evidence?” the Judge wants to know. “Do you think it’s necessary to have an eye witness in order to convict?” Why do you think you’d make a good juror?

I become more unhinged with each question.  My answers seem barely coherent.  I honestly do not know. Circumstantial evidence? I’ve never really thought about it. A witness? Hmmmm, I suppose I’d really prefer to have a witness. What, I wonder, is the correct answer? What is my truth? There up at the bench in a revered court of law, I do not know either, and I am getting the distinct feeling that they are definitely not  one and the same.

“Do you assume the defendant is guilty because he has been indicted and brought to trial?” continues the Judge. A wave of relief rushes over me.  At last, a question I can answer. This is something I can speak to. “No, on the contrary,” I say with assurance, and then, to explain my position, I enthusiastically launch into a Big Brother, police entrapment story that I’d recently heard on NPR. It had been riveting. I’d been thinking about it for days.

As soon as the first words are out of my mouth, I know that I have stuck my foot right in it. I also know it is too late unless I can reconfigure the story. But I can not even cut it short. It will not end. My mouth is moving on autopilot; and it does not  stop until the damage is done, and I glance up and catch the beady-eyed prosecutor glaring down at me through his rimless glasses.

All in all, it was probably a good thing I was kicked off the jury. The prosecutor was right. People like me do not belong on juries. First, who needs a juror who can’t make up her mind? In my book, not only are there two sides to every story, there are hundreds of them. New Jersey taxpayers certainly don’t need me dithering about when there’s justice to be meted out. Furthermore, even though I did think the guy looked plenty guilty, I was pretty sure I couldn’t send him off to prison. Believe me, I’m not proud to be a wimp, but “disciplinarian” is just not part of my nature.  Ask my kid.

“That’s where ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ comes in,” I tell my sister, recounting the day for her. “The responsibility rests entirely with the State to prove guilt,” say I sounding every bit like Perry Mason. “No doubt it’s a very tough thing to do. I might have been alright.”

My astute older sister pauses briefly and then sums it all up in a brilliant closing statement, “You, my dear, have enough reasonable doubt for the whole damn world.” Right she is. And she and I both know I’m not getting “beyond” it any time soon.

My horoscope for Wednesday, October 28th read, “You’re not one to worry incessantly, but money issues have popped up that are making you a little crazy. The good news is that you’ve got the mindset to deal with them head-on once and for all.”

I read this about a half an hour before I broke my tooth. My front tooth, bottom, leaving a gap that could have been cute if it hadn’t been so evident that half a tooth was missing. Now, if there’s one thing that stirs up the old money angst it’s a tooth emergency, because as anyone without dental insurance knows, those pearly whites can really devour a lot of green. Once you pass 50, you might as well sign over your savings to that masked man who so blithely orders you to “open wider.”

Unfortunately, teeth are rather important. And it goes way beyond chewing. My friend Dona tries to cheer me up. She works with a lady named Rose who, she swears, is absolutely beautiful and, by the way, has no front teeth. “You don’t even notice,” Dona insists. “She’s as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside.” Oh sure, I think, reminding myself that my friend’s judgment  is always of a higher order than my own.

I want my teeth. I am very attached to them. Not much in the way of worldly goods interests me; you can keep your flat screens, your designer shoes, the luxury car, but I do want my teeth. I start the calculation for what I  learn will be a root canal and a crown. What’s in the bank? I wonder. How much room is left on the credit card? Who owes me money?

“Damn this recession,” I snarl. “Damn these teeth. Which ancestor passed these down? Who’s responsible here?” I ask myself, trying to recall the mouths of those long gone. Clearly, it’s a useless exercise, but it occurs to me that I could sure use their help now.

So with what might seem like a novel approach to my horoscope’s, “dealing with  money issues head-on,” I begin the “Ask the Ancestor” campaign, a full-throttle program of an appeal for help from those who once loved me on earth, but who are now on the other side. What could it hurt? I think. I’d do the same for them.

I start with the women. (The men, I figure, are distracted at the moment with the World Series.)  My grandmothers, my aunts,  my cousins, my mother – I tell them what’s going on, what exactly it is I need, how grateful I’d be. “Could you please pull some strings?” I ask these dear, dear disembodied souls. “Please see what you can do,” I  beseech them as I walk the dog, take a bath, navigate the aisles of the Super Fresh. “Anna, Mary, Nan, Sarah, Louise and Rosalyn. Midge, Ruth, Janet, Jean and Gail.  Are you listening?”  There isn’t an opportunity I miss for this somewhat  strange, on-going monologue.

“I am open to receive,” I assure them. “But I will do my part.” And I will. As these old souls must know from their days in “matter,” those of us still here could sure use a hand from time to time. There’s no question  that a little help (from wherever  it comes) can  go a long, long way towards a brand, new mindset  and a million dollar smile.

Is there anyone out there who likes to be hocked? I can’t imagine. I, for one, feel an instant visceral bristle whenever someone starts in on me. “Yeah, yeah, here it comes,” I think to myself. “I know I should, but I haven’t, and I might, but I probably won’t,” so please don’t hock me.

For those of you from another tribe, a hocker, quite naturally, is a person who hocks – someone who nags, harangues, badgers and otherwise annoys. According to Leo Rosten of Joy of Yiddish fame, it is a shortened version of the Yiddish “Hok mir nit kayn chainik,” literally translated as “Don’t knock me a teapot,” which makes a bit more sense as “Don’t bang on my tea kettle.” In other words, “Stop with your noise.”

The Brazilian version of that comes from my ex-husband who with his fractured yet inventive English coined the phrase, “Stop putting bother on me.” It seems to work so much better than simply saying, bug off, another curious phrase.

And isn’t that exactly what we want to tell the people who hock us? With the exception, of course, of the ones who do it with a lot of love and ever so gently, with a tad of humor and not too often. Like me, for example.

Now frankly, I don’t think I qualify as a real hocker although my daughter might disagree with that analysis. Let’s face it; type B personalities don’t make very good hockers. We laid-back people simply don’t have the temperament for it. Or the stamina. My hocking is always quite minimal. When pushed, though, I usually resort to notes, the civil kind, like the one I taped to the toilet tank the other day for the aforementioned visiting ex-husband who long since stopped listening to me. It read “If you have a penis, please lift the seat.” I thought it was a succinct yet gentle way to get my point across.

High powered hockers are another thing. And my reaction to them, probably quite common. When accosted by a tried and true hocker, I subtly disengage; then I shut down. At times, you might say I even leave my body. This is followed by the vacillation phase in which I bounce between feeling bad and feeling really aggravated. It ends with a silent yet firm vow not to do whatever it is being hocked about–out of pure spite. I had hoped I’d outgrown this response, but I can not swear to it.

Hocking is just very tough to take. It was tough as a kid, it is tough as an adult. It reminds me of a sign on the wall of a Miami deli which read, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it annoys the pig.”

As a postscript, let me just say that I am sincerely grateful for those hockers in my life who lovingly prod me along, nudge me forward and at times, light a fire under my sometimes very slow-moving tush. You know who you are.

In response to my last entry (the rant about cell phone usage in enclosed public spaces), both my somewhat cynical brother-in-law and my cousin in sunny, foreclosed-upon Florida commented that they had been hoping to read something a bit more upbeat. “Uplifting,” I think was the word they used. Seeing that their comments came within minutes of each other, I figured I’d better take a look at it. Have I been too negative lately?

In my defense, it sure is easy to feel down. What passes for reality looks mighty grim. A jobless recovery (that should cheer up everyone who’s out of work!), more troops for Afghanistan, and Cheney’s snarly punim plastered once again all over cable news. It’s enough to wipe the smile off of any face.

My solution, inspired by those little monkeys of “see no evil and hear no evil” fame, is to boycott the news. I decide that in order to “uplift” myself, the news has got to go. On TV, on the internet, in print. Not even a quick peak at the rolled paper lying on my neighbor’s front walk is allowed. And just so I do not shirk my civic duty before I plunge my head into the sand, I send a round of e-mails to my U.S. elected officials informing them of their responsibility to stand up to the insurance companies and pass real health care reform for people like me and my daughter. Then I pull the plug. It takes a stalwart soul to stay upbeat. That which uplifts is what I’m after.

Lucky for me that one evening, shortly after instituting my news blackout, I happen upon a spider web hanging from the utility line in front of the house. It’s huge, at least five feet in diameter, magnificent. “Wow,” I exclaim to Rio (the dog) who pays no attention, “Would you look at the beauty of this thing!”  The web is incredibly intricate,  simple at the same time. It is light and delicate, yet said to be as strong as tensile steel.  It is a work of art, yet totally functional. I am captivated by the perfection of it.

The next morning, I rush outside –eager to get a better look, but it’s gone.  “Talk about being OK with impermanence,” I remark to Rio as he lifts his leg on the nearby bush. That evening, the web is back, just as big, just as beautiful as before, the brown spider in the center doing his thing. “Now that’s what I call perseverance,” I pronounce with conviction, noting that Rio is busy with his nose down a  hole in the yard awaiting his chance to finally snag something that can’t outrun him.

Everyday and every night for over a week, the pattern is repeated. The web is there, magnificent and whole at night, gone in the morning. “Imagine having that kind of willingness, that sense of purpose,” I assert, awed by what I am witnessing. Rio sniffs and heads for his favorite spot on the neighbor’s front lawn.

One morning around five o’clock, unable to sleep, I go out to see what’s going on with the web. There she is, my marvelous Charlotte, eating her creation, strand by strand, demolishing her masterpiece – a design more brilliant than any in Architectural Digest or Art News. There she is, deftly taking down the structure she so steadfastly builds day after day, even as she clings to it.  “What an exquisite dance,” I think as I watch her start to consume  the strand she is balancing on.

“This is a wondrous world,” I say quietly only to myself, knowing that Rio is not all that interested in my observations. He looks up, though, with those loving, deep brown eyes, head cocked, and I am moved to add, “Yes, you and I, we’re wondrous too.  Not to mention uplifting.” But this, you can be sure, is not news to Rio.