Meet Cadbury (photos)

Cadbury arrives! Jeff still fits in a MINI, sort of. But not like he did four years ago.

Trooper Tribute (photos)

Take the R-(rated) Train

This is the thing about public transportation. It's, well, public. I don't have occasion to ride the CTA often, so when I do, it's an adventure.

I caught the train today to head downtown. So did crazy-swearing-screaming-cell phone girl. As a matter of fact, she sat right across the aisle from me.

"What the *$#&! I was in the %$:{?=%^car, too, ya }&$%#! Don't give me that *#~(*%." Heads turn. The entire car, filled with Cubs fans, and other hapless riders stare.

"Hang on a *=%^$ minute. What the *&*}% y'all lookin at? I paid my *&=^%# fare and I'm talkin on the *[&^#$ phone."

Train stops. A conductor comes to see what's going on. "I am just on the phone," crazy-swearing-screaming-cell phone girl says, lowering the volume slightly. Satisfied, the conductor leaves. "Who the *&{#* you pointin at, &#$*&! Hold on girl, I am on the *+%$%^ train. I told you to *%{^*&#."

Train stops again. A larger conductor enters. Crazy-swearing-screaming-cell phone girl lowers her voice a few decibles so that only our car can hear her braying at her sister. He leaves. A male rider sits down beside her and begins to talk to her quietly. No dice. "I can talk $*(#&$ on my phone. Just mind your own &#^$* business, (*&}+&^%."

Train stops a third time. An even larger CTA employee enters and sits down behind her. "Nah, I am just talkin on my phone. I'm getting off this &*%%^& train anyway, so y'all just turn the &"}*&^ around!"

During this long episode, I kept my earbuds in and stared straight ahead. But this was a mistake, too. The couple standing in the doorway of the train turned out to be equally fascinating. Oblivious to the hubbub, they were standing so close to each other, had they been closer they would have been behind each other. But as I looked closely, it appeared that the guy could have been no older than sixteen and the woman no younger than thirty. Creepy.

An hour later, my seatmate and I exited downtown. "Some adventure?" I said as we walked east on Chicago Avenue. She nodded. "I am new here. My first ride. I just moved here from Brazil. I was afraid to change seats and I didn't know what to do." Welcome to Chicago! "I think the woman was harmless, just obnoxious," I told her. "It was the porno pair that made me nervous." She laughed. We made hasty introductions as we headed east.

On the train ride home, there was a couple sitting a few seats from me, both clearly developmentally disabled. His head was thrown back as his girlfriend gave his crotch a playful massage. Weary, I closed my eyes. When I opened them a few minutes later, I could examine their tonsils while their tongues thrashed around. I closed my eyes firmly and didn't open them again until the Howard Street terminus was announced. I'll tell Maria from Brazil the epilogue of my train adventure if she calls.

"A Real Frog Strangler"

In case you haven't heard, we have had record rainfall here in Chicago. It's been pouring down relentlessly for about 36 hours. My entire backyard looks like a primeval swamp. Cattails wave gently along the perimeter. Dragonflies dart along the surface. Juvenile alligators bask on the patio. The basement looks similar, only without the charm of the lily pads and wildlife.

Yesterday, Jeff and I were to attend a Bar Mitzvah. Our street seemed passable, but the block to the south had been cordoned off for public swimming. Taking another route, we slowly made our way through the deep streets. But my car had had enough. Three-quarters of the way through a puddle, the car died. I switched on the hazard lights. All around me, Indifferent Samaritans slowed their SUVs to get around, leaving us gently rocking in their wake.

The AAA operator was very helpful. "The tow truck will arrive within seven hours. Do not leave the vehicle." she admonished. I also called my mechanic's cell phone. "Sorry, Lydia, I can't help you. I am in Aruba. You must leave the car. If it gets any deeper, you'll float!" "But we are wearing our synagogue clothes," I moaned, "We'll have to swim to the curb." But just then a Hummer came by, drowning out his response and causing Jeff to turn a bit green with mal de mer.

A half hour and seventeen passing cars later, help was at hand. A brave little Honda Civic offered to push our car to dry land. Ahoy! We were safe and on our way to the festivities, thanks to friend and his car who offered to drive us. We arrived just as the Bar Mitzvah boy began his reading.

The Bar Mitzvah party was a lovely, if soggy, affair. The kids stayed upstairs where the computers were, and the adults chatted and ate under the outdoor tent. Being Chicagoans, we all agreed that the weather was perfect. "Not too hot, not too cold."

Today AAA suggested that we wait to summon the tow truck until the rain stops. So Jeff and I are passing the time at home. Better close this post. Jeff is calling from the basement. He has reeled in a few big ones. I better get to work if we are to have them for dinner.

Jeff (photo)

It's true that if you seen one of my boys holding a car, it is most likely Jeff. Conversely, the one with a stuffed animal is generally Hart. Just to liven things up, they occasionally switch. Hart lent Jeff Erica the Elephant for a month, so here's evidence that Jeff is taking good care of her.

My aunt (photo)

Bristol Palin: Shonde OF the goyim

I used to think I understood political rhetoric, that oblique insider way of speaking to like-minded people. For example, it used to be when people said "New Yorkers", that was code-speak for "Jews". As in, "that's fine for New Yorkers, but we here in Dubuque . . ."

When Dan Quayle railed against the "east coast liberal elite," I understood that to mean "Jews and their ilk." If that wasn't what he meant, what did he mean?

Now that the election is heating up, I am not sure what's going on anymore. Obviously the McCain-Palin ticket isn't speaking to me, but should I at least understand what they are talking about?

Samantha Bee, of THE DAILY SHOW, did a segment where she interviewed attendees at the Republican National Convention about Bristol Palin's pregnancy. There was no small schadenfreude watching the interviewees dodge and weave, desperate not to use the word "choice." Instead they universally co-opted the language of the last four decades of the abortion rights movement. "It is a private, family issue." "It is her decision." "This should not be a public issue." My understanding of all this obfuscation is the universal opinion, "We like it! We approve. We oppose abortion and contraceptives, too."

If Samantha Bee had interviewed New Yorkers, they would have screamed, "It's a shonde, an absolutely shonde!!"*

*A shonde; alt shande (Yid., אַ‮ ‬שאַנדע) – a disgrace; one who brings embarrassment through mere association, from German eine Schande, translated "a disgrace", meaning "such a shame"

Dear Mr. Obama

I am a life-long liberal Democrat, so it pains me to tell you that John McCain and Sarah Palin are going to win the coming election. This is how I know:

My mother, a life-long conservationist and environmentalist (even before it was fashionable) and a staunch pro-choice advocate, is leaning towards your opponent.

Hubris, stupidity, arrogance and lack of experience have never been a barrier to higher office.

Teen pregnancy is good, as long as the teens are white. It's heterosexual, anti-contraceptive and pro-life.

Proximity to another country is prima facie expertise in foreign policy.

Women who hunt and fish are hot. It's a primal thing that educated, elitists like ourselves do not understand.

Hart visits (photo)

Labor Day weekend dinner

You Look Just Fine! mailbag

Dear YLJF,

I have worked for a fairly conservative financial office for almost twenty years. I recently realized that I am the only woman there wearing pantyhose. Although my co-workers wear professional-looking dresses and separates, it is a forest of bare legs!
_______________________________ Nylon Nihilism


Let me share a few letters from the You Look Just Fine! archives.

Atlanta, April 1986-I will be a June bride. Unfortunately my church is not air-conditioned. Will anyone care if I don't wear pantyhose with my long dress?

Cleveland, August 1992-Every summer my firm holds a summer team-building retreat. Attendance is mandatory. I plan to wear summer suits or casual skirts so that I will still be professionally dressed. Must I wear pantyhose to outdoor programs?

There are two appropriate answers to this question. To see which one applies to you, N.N., answer this question:

Do you have a tattoo?

NO.

You are over forty. Wear pantyhose with dressy dresses and professional suits if you feel comfortable doing so. However, you are not permitted to malign your younger colleagues as vulgar, tasteless or slutty.

YES.

You are under forty. You go, girl! Thank goodness pantyhose have gone the way of chastity belts, girdles and white gloves. You may wear them if you choose, but not ironically.

Olympics 2008 Roundup

Under-age gymnasts, bikini-clad cheerleaders, exotic locations, arcane sports . . . bring it on! I love the Olympics. For 102 weeks, I disdain sports, then for two weeks I can't get enough. The Olympics: pomp, circumstance, spectacle, politics, scandal, international circus and, oh yes, there are a few games thrown in, too.

My favorite part is the opening ceremonies, specifically the Parade of Nations. Unfortunately, the commentators rarely talk about what interests me most: what are they wearing?* I submit my recommendations for medals in the Best-dressed Nation at the opening ceremony. Few recognize the difficulty. From pixie gymnasts and beefy weightlifters, all the athletes have to look good in the same uniform.

The medals for the 2008 Summer Olympiad are:

Gold-Gambia. Sky-blue dashikis with matching skullcaps. Fabulous!

Silver-Sweden. The Swedish women wore traditional Chinese cheongsam in the colors of the Swedish flag, blue with yellow piping. Clever and stylish.

Bronze-France. They're French. They always look good.

Chinese officials deemed a seven-year-old too ugly to sing on TV, but permitted a whole contingent of Hungarian female athletes to appear wearing hideous, loud, dowdy schmattes and dopey hats.* Go figure.

Second worst, the Russian team, whose male athletes wore traditional high-necked peasant blouses under modern blazers. Traditional, modern, hot and unattractive.

The little boy walking with Yao Ming had an upside-down flag. So what. Now that the flag manufacturer and the kid-wrangler have been thrown in prison, is it any improvement that on the video the kid is waving an empty fist?

As ever, the television coverage was woefully incomplete. I didn't see Ms. Bug Catcher whose job it was to catch moths in a giant net at the nighttime tennis matches. I missed the "Sandboni" at the beach volleyball, too. After the swimming events, Michael Phelps removed his prosthetic legs and swam home to Atlantis under cover of secrecy, but I would have liked to have seen that, too.

Track and Field events provided a batch of new aptonyms: Usain BOLT, Dee Dee TROTTER and mis-aptly-named Jamaican runner, Melane WALKER.

See you in two years for the 2010 Winter Olympiad!

*Even the on-air commentators mentioned these horrors!

Jeff, Tim and Meiya Walk With Dinosaurs (slideshow)

Click the title to see the photos!

Jeff at camp (photos)

Keeping Up

Sigh! I love to travel. It's healthy to get away now and then. But it never fails: I can be gone for a week, a month, a mere weekend, but upon my return I fall into a major funk.

When I get home, I feel pathetic. Other people have busy lives and uncluttered houses. They have jobs, high-achieving children, well-tended yards, up-to-date photo albums and appliances that work properly. Their lives appear manageable.

This time, I was only gone for four days, but I felt like a sullen teen-ager during the duration. "How are the boys?" Fine. "Will you go back to work?" Shrug. "Are you dating anyone?" No. "How does it feel to be child-free for a few weeks?" Weird.

After eight hours driving back, two hours through Chicago rush-hour traffic, I was home. Home to unread newspapers and mail, a living room filled with old computer parts and new components, a blinking answering machine. My new washer still does not work properly and my yard is still an eyesore.

Inspired, I prepared a "to-do" list. I'll show it to my fairy godmother when she visits. In the meantime, I should get out more . . . or less?

Ohio relatives (photo)

With my Aunt Ronnie and cousin Margie

Family Bat Mitzvah, Oct 2004 (photo)

Cousin Allison, Bill, Mom, Arnie, Ted, Julian (14 months), Allison, Hart (11)

News of "the Arm"

Consider this: Jeff's summer camp offers unlimited one-way emailing AND the camp website posts at least two hundred photographs daily, plus a daily newsletter. When I first heard about these services, I scoffed. My parents got a few letters during my annual camp stay and they never complained!

My derision has come back to haunt me. I have become a web junkie, eagerly checking the site every afternoon to view the pictures. The same faces, day after day. I feel like I know those kids, but none of the photos are of MY KID.

I did not expect Jeff to write home. I supplied him with four self-addressed, stamped postcards to fulfill the weekly letter-writing obligation. Two are addressed to me and two to his brother. Not only that, but I composed the text, too, so that he would only have to fill in the blanks for such statements as "My counselor's name is __________." "My favorite camp activity is _________." None were sent.

Judging from the camp website, it appears that Jeff has spent his entire time hiding. There are lots of pictures of cheerful girls with their arms around each other. Younger boys are mugging for the camera. Older boys are shooting hoops or playing softball or tennis. There are pictures of pottery-making, tie-dyeing, Israeli dancing, singing, sports, boating, dramatics, theme days. Jeff is conspicuously absent. I knew he had arrived when I saw the photo of his arm taken on the first day but there has been no news since then.

Yesterday, I had worked myself into such a lather that I actually considered phoning camp, when I came upon a new photo of Jeff, in profile, playing frisbee. I calmed down a bit. At least, I know he is still there.

Boston in July (slideshow)

Click the title to see the photos!

I Miss ♥

Mom, can I ask you a question? When can I come home?

Heart-breaking question, of course, but not unexpected. Now that Hart has been away almost a month, the honeymoon period at his residential school is over.

What has been unexpected is how much I miss Hart. Not Hart's behavior, oh no! I do not miss the crazy rituals, the parties in the wee hours, the unexpected tantrums and meltdowns. I miss Hart, the person, the sweet, sensitive boy. Sadly, Hart the boy and Hart the whirlwind of catastrophic behavior are inseparable. That knowledge hasn't made it much easier though. I have gotten through the past twelve years with an emotional menu of rage, mortification, and gritted-teeth determination. Now the unfamiliarity of resignation and occasional sadness has caught me unawares.

As predicted, Jeff is also calmer and more appropriately behaved. "It's quiet. Too quiet," he observed in the first week. True enough. Jeff still rolls his eyes when I speak. He is, after all, almost fifteen years old. However, he is chatty and gregarious much of the time now. He is funny, where in the past, he was unrelentingly silly.

The professionals who recently counseled me were unanimous: this arrangement will be better for everyone. And, of course, it is. Hart does not know or understand that all other options for him; day school, public or private, have been exhausted. This is the last step on the I.D.E.A.* ladder of providing "free and appropriate" education. So I had to say gently to Hart, "This is your new school and you will be there for high school. We'll make plans for a visit together soon."

* Individuals With Disabilities Education Act

Kumbaya, anyone? (photos)

This is why I am committed to sending my kids to summer camp. Great friends for thirty years . . . and counting . . . Noah, thanks for passing along the photos. We haven't changed a bit!

Say, isn't that Dr. Finch from Running With Scissors on end of the middle row in the staff photo?