Twin pix (photos)

According to an email, as of this week AOL no longer hosts AOL members' photos. Bummer! However, it was an opportunity for me to download some old photos that have been out there in the ether. Here are a few:

Inky (photo)

Food, Glorious Food

It's probably a good thing I didn't speak or understand the language of my table mates at Pita Inn. It might have turned ugly.

Pita Inn is a local treasure. The food is inexpensive, fast and tasty. Judging by the number of diners in head scarves or salwaar kemeez, the food is the genuine article. It's also consistently crowded. Pita Inn does a brisk take-out business, so the entryway is inevitably packed. To dine in, you must wait until someone vacates a chair, then grab it. This is how Jeff and I found ourselves sharing a table with a young couple and their 2-year-old.

The mother was desperately trying to siphon soup into her unwilling daughter's mouth. Each spoonful was preceded by 30 seconds of loud coaxing, cajoling, threatening, begging, followed by squealing, crying, sulking refusal. After twelve such tries, I wanted to beat the woman about the head with my plastic spoon.

My parents also had old world attitudes about feeding children, although they would not have engaged in such preamble to each mouthful. As a result, I have taken a radical feeding approach with my own kids. To wit: make healthy food available, shut up about it.

After a dozen years of this philosophy and its success--no dinner table tantrums, no weight issues, no waste--I have become fairly strident. Unfortunately, this woman didn't get my telepathic messages. My brain was screaming at her, "JUST LEAVE THE KID ALONE ALREADY!"

Go, Jeff, go!

Not too long ago, I spoke with a woman whose daughter has a theatrical background. Her daughter has professional credits onstage and has had minor parts in film. She was her school's film critic and had just been selected to write reviews for an international film festival. "But what she really wants to do is direct," the mother told me. Her child is an 8th grader.

I am not in Akron anymore, I thought. When I was a kid, childhood ambitions were treated like the whims of . . . well, children. We were expected to be good students, go to college and then do something--anything--productive. I was astonished at the matter-of-fact way this mother talked about her daughter's accomplishments and ambitions.

My children are not likely to win awards, go to international film festivals or even college, but once in a while, there is a special achievement which I can brag about!

Autumn in New York (photos)

The World's Most Expensive Cupcake*

*or what we have here is a failure to communicate

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. We were barely into the first act of A TALE OF TWO CITIES and Jeff was already bored. "Is it almost over?" "How much is left?" "Don't you want to see what happens to the characters?" "No." As ever, I started second-guessing myself. Would MARY POPPINS have been a better choice? Maybe I should have explained the plot beforehand.

Luckily, Jeff was able to make it through a long first act and he enjoyed the second act and the surprise twist. "He (Sydney Carton) tricked them and switched places!" With great relief, we left the theater but had several hours to kill before seeing SPAMALOT. Time for a treat. I had hoped to make my way out of the crush of tourists swarming 44th and 45th Street, but Jeff had seen the cupcakes at Junior's Bakery. He and Meiya grabbed an outdoor table and I made my way to the end of the queue. I dutifully picked out a fancy cupcake for Jeff and a treat for myself.

"Hey, may I have some tap water to take a pill?" I asked the counter man. "No." He gestured to a case of bottled water."

"That's OK then," I signed the credit card slip, balancing my purse, my purchases and dodging the onslaught of American Girl Place shopping bags and their owners.

Looking at my receipt, I stopped. "Did you charge me for the water?" The total was $24.30.

"No water," the counter man replied, turning away to box up a few cheesecakes.

"This can't be right." "It's right," said the second counter man, gesturing me to move along.

"Did you want the water?" First man points to the cooler. "Take the water."

"I do not want the water. I have been overcharged."

All three servers had long since ceased making eye contact and had moved on to the next customers crowding the tiny storefront.

I stormed back across the street, and railed at Jeff for insisting on a cupcake in the biggest tourist trap in New York. Meiya looked at my tiny bag--two pastries and a can of pop.

"Unless this is a twelve-dollar cupcake, I don't think this is right," she said diplomatically. We had already found out that unlike here in Illinois, where one gets an itemized receipt with a purchase, in New York, you are handed a register tape with the total only.

I slunk back to the bakery, emboldened with every step. "Excuse me, Joe. You waited on me. I was overcharged."

Joe was conciliatory. "Go ahead, take the water."

"I don't want water. I want this corrected."

Second counter man came to Joe's defense. "You were rung up at the other register."

The tourist crowd began to shift uneasily in the queue. I stayed put. Joe, possibly sensing my determination, stepped into the back room to summon the manager. I handed over the receipt on which I'd written the three items I had purchased. "Sorry about that." He handed me a new receipt. The amount was $5.29.

Legal arguments

Possession is nine-tenths of the law, right? Who knew Jeff was such a legal scholar? By now, I have come to dread the phrase, "look what I found!" Despite numerous reprimands and explanations that things in MY office, bedroom, car, purse belong to ME, Jeff still persists in frequent household treasure hunts. I have started taking harder line, namely that everything in this house belongs to me. All to no avail.

Recent excavations have included:

Mechanical pencils: "Put them back in my office where they were."

Brand-new bottle of rubber cement: "You didn't 'find' that. It was with my scrap-booking supplies.

Toys: "Pay me back for that. I can't give it as a gift after you have opened it."

A diamond engagement ring: I am still trying to figure that one out. I re-found it in the laundry room.

For a while I tried to keep my things locked up or hidden away. But this too, was fruitless. My grandmother's bedroom furniture survived the Nazis, a trans-Atlantic crossing and twenty years in my mother's garage, only to be attacked with screwdrivers a few months ago. I was aghast. "What on earth were you doing here?" I shrieked at the perpetrators. "Looking for Beanie Babies." The reason this drawer is locked is so no one opens it. Secondly, why would I have Beanie Babies in my jewelry drawer?

A rhetorical question, of course. If I understood Hart-and-Jeff logic, I could have spared myself years of headaches.

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)