Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life with My Parents (Page 2 of 11)

The Board Meeting in Queens

June 3, 2012 / / 31 Comments

On Friday, I learned that one of my blog posts has been chosen to be part of the keynote Voices of the Year reading at BlogHer ’12 in New York.  I am delighted to be included with so many talented writers.

The announcement couldn’t happen at a better time.  After all my fretting over my lack of niche and tribe, the choice has been made for me.  My category is humor, and my tribe is… women.

I take all ceremony with a grain of salt.  It is part of being a humor writer.  I know that in August, a whole bunch of new people will discover my blog for the first time, read it once, then say to themselves, “Jesus, this guy isn’t that funny,” and never come return.

I look forward to the experience.

The honor is most meaningful in that it is nice to feel accepted, especially by a group where I don’t quite fit in for a number or reasons.   I’m not a woman or even a daddy blogger.   I’m just a guy , a straight man, who — for various reasons that need to be discussed in therapy some day — has a sensibility that connects him with female writers.

I know for a fact that some women don’t appreciate the presence of men (the marketers excepted) at the BlogHer conference.  I’m sorry for that.   If you can’t see the feminism of men befriending women, learning from women, and discussing writing with women, with no clear business agenda other than friendship and creative inspiration, than it is YOUR problem.

For better or worse, the annual Blogher conference has collided with real events in my life, connecting with me on a personal level, like a secular Yom Kippur.

In 2009, in Chicago, I met so many bloggers for the first time.  I cried with joy when I finally met Schmutzie.  I introduced myself to Kate Inglis.   Amy Turn Sharp and I did a session on writing, which went on to influence a whole writing track.  A woman hit on me at bar, which was both flattering and scary.

In 2010, I attended BlogHer ’10 in New York.  It was a traumatic time for me.  Sophia’s parents had just passed away, one after another.  On Saturday night, I walked around the city all night, by myself, in a daze.

In 2011, Sophia and I handed in our divorce papers and then I drove to San Diego to attend BlogHer ’11.

It’s now 2012.  Time for some positive energy.

Being honored by BlogHer has had another unexpected result — a brand new writing gig!  Yesterday, my mother called me with the news.   Here’s the story —

One of the apartments in my mother’s apartment building in Queens was vandalized recently.  After much hand-wringing, a “Board of Directors” meeting was called, to be held in the board room (the former laundry room).   All residents were invited to discuss the matter.  The topic at hand:  too many strangers were coming in and out of the building.

The residents of my mother’s building are a polite group, and therein lies the problem.   They hold the door open for everyone approaching the front door.  There is no doorman, so the tenants are the only security system.

The meeting started with a stern announcement from the Board of Directors:  tenants shouldn’t hold the front door open for strangers.  If a person doesn’t have a key to the front door in the lobby,  the visitor should be required to ring the tenant on the intercom system.

Simple enough, right?  But if you know anything about the residents of a Queens apartment building, you know that they LOVE to argue, the more mundane the subject the better.

Two camps formed that at the meeting.  One was the “law and order” group.  They were gung-ho about protecting the tenants from the outsiders.  The progressives, including my mother, were more concerned about hurting the feelings of the strangers.

“How can we just close the door on people?” she asked. “We will look so impolite.”

David Feingold, the President of the Board, rubbed his beard like a Talmudic rabbi.  He was the building’s King Solomon and came up with a compromise.   The Board of Directors would tape a note to the front door, informing outsiders that the residents of the building were not trying to be impolite by closing the door on them.  The residents were just trying to be safe.

Betty Langer, a retired school teacher, and former civil rights advocate, brought up the elephant in the room, the racial overtones of the problem.

“I don’t believe that this will be treated fairly!” she said.  “Wouldn’t you all pick and choose who you let in?  Wouldn’t you refuse entry to the black boy in the hoodie, but hold the door open for the elderly white woman with a walker?”

The progressive tenants held their head down in shame.  No one likes to be confronted by their own racism.   But the members of the Board of Directors were adamant about taking action.   Something had to be done.

“Let’s get a doorman!” yelled Lillian Vanelli from the back row, who always felt inferior to her sister, who married well and now lives in an exclusive building on the Upper East Side, with a doorman.

“Oh yeah? And who’s going to pay for it?” said Russell Ross, the cheapskate tax attorney on the third floor, who was once caught stealing the Sunday New York Times from the front door of a neighbor, rather than paying for it himself.

A vote was taken and it was agreed that a note would be placed on the door.   But who would write it?   Who dare undertake such a dangerous task?

Most of the residents of my mother’s building are hard-working men and women, but inexperienced in the creative art of persuasion.

“I know who can write it for us!” said my mother. “My son is a writer!”

“What kind of writer is he?” sneared Lillian Vanelli.  “He’s been in Los Angeles for years? When is THAT movie coming out anyway?”

“Hey, Charles Dickens was rejected a 100 times before they published “A Tale of Two Cities.”

My mother, who worked in publishing for forty years, knew this wasn’t true, but is quick-witted, and knew that Lillian was clueless about literature.

There had been tension between my mother and Lillian for years, ever since Lillian was booted out of my mother’s mah jongg group for playing too slow.

“And besides,” added my mother.  “Neil  is going to one of the keynote speakers at BlogHer this year, along with other talented women.”

“Ha, ha.  I always knew Neil was gay,” replied Lillian, chuckling.

“He may be gay, but I love him no matter WHAT he is!” said my mother.

(note: my mother didn’t really say that, but I wanted to add a positive pro-gay message to this post in case I want to submit this post to BlogHer next year.  They LOVE THAT STUFF!)

After the Board of Directors meeting concluded, my mother called me up on the iPhone I bought her that she still doesn’t know how to use.

“Neil, I have a writing assigment for you,” she said. “There is no pay, but it will be seen by a lot of people.  In fact, everyone who walks into our apartment building.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“We need a note that says something like this, but written in your own unique style  — “I am sorry that I am slamming the door in your face, whether you are a black boy with a hoodie or an old white lady with a cane.  It doesn’t matter.  I slam the door on everyone who is a stranger.   This does not mean I am impolite.  I like you.   Maybe one day, you will live here, and I will hold the door for you.  But right now, I am closing the door on you, for your own protection.  But have a nice day.”

Yes!  Thank you BlogHer.   Can’t wait for the conference.  I feel this is going to be MY YEAR!

Mama’s Boy

February 26, 2012 / / 15 Comments

My mother was in her yoga class in Boca Raton last week, doing one of her chair exercise, when another woman accidentally moved the chair that my mother was leaning against for support.  My mother fell back, hit the floor, and when she stood up, the teacher noticed blood.  The paramedics quickly came and she received three stitches in the back of her head.   She’s OK now, or “Perfectly fine,” as she always says, and already back in the exercise class.

I was anxious that day, naturally worried about her.

I read this article in the Wall Street Journal titled, “Who Are You Calling a Mama’s Boy?”   The writer, a mother of a son,  poses the thought, “A strong mother-son bond is crucial, but heaven help the mom who admits being emotionally close to her son.”

So much of who we are comes from our parents.

Have you noticed that I rarely write about sports?  My father never watched any sporting events. We never watched a baseball game together or played any games.  That doesn’t mean I didn’t do things with him, but they were always cultural events, like the theater or concerts.   He always treated me as a little adult.   Because of that, I never clicked with him in the emotional way as I did with my mother.   I played board games with my mother.   I wrote silly stories for her to read.   I did magic and puppet shows for her.   As an only child, I turned to my mother for companionship.

As a teenage boy, my relationship shifted.  All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be seen with my mother.   How “gay!”

Nowadays, I laugh when I read my mom blogging friends complain about how their adorable little boys — now teenagers — don’t want to be hugged anymore!   Of course they don’t.   I still remember the horror of being in the supermarket WITH YOUR MOTHER, and being SEEN doing it!

Over the last year, I lived with my mother in Queens.  I found the whole experience somewhat embarrassing, even if the reason was related to my separation.   What type of adult man should not be living with his mother?  I joked about it online, but it did hurt my self-esteem.   But it was a positive experience.  I experienced a relationship with my mother as if we were roommates — as two adults.

Well, not all the time.

“Wear a hat!” she would yell at me as I left the house in December, in the exact same tone as when I was in third grade.

But we found common interests, and discovered that we could even watch an R-rated movie together without needing therapy.

I would not feel so comfortable with my father.

I do have some qualities of a “mama’s boy.”   At the same time, I don’t, thanks to my mother herself.    She never hovered over me, and even went back to work when I started school.  I was never her entire life.

I still think about my father, who passed away in 2005, a few months after I started my blog.   I’m still unsure how to process his death, and what it means to me. It is odd to have someone just disappear from your life — forever.

All these emotions are flying through my nerves, because talking about my parents is talking about myself.   And there is no more difficult subject to write about than yourself.

Steve Jobs, My Father, and Yom Kippur

October 7, 2011 / / 31 Comments

Steve Jobs, the legendary co-founder of Apple passed away this week, and the internet exploded with admirers reflecting on how his vision impacted their lives.

Some talked about their first Mac, iPod, or iPhone, and how it transformed the way they communicated or listened to music.

Others sought meaning in Jobs’ passing, musing on death, accomplishment, originality, and vision. I poked a little fun at this hero worship on Twitter, writing:

“There is something odd seeing so many quotes about “being original” and “not living the life of others” being re-tweeted 1000x on Twitter.”

One short post about Jobs struck a nerve with me, written by a blogging friend, “Stay at Home Babe,” and titled “Why I Would Want to Die Young.”

I’ve already heard so much talk about how sad it is that Steve Jobs died at such a young age. I won’t argue with the sentiment, but it certainly got me thinking.

I don’t necessarily want to live until I’m as old as humanly possible. I don’t think I have to hang on until my hips are both replaced and I’m on a hundred medications and my brain has turned to mush.

I want to live a life worth admiring. In whatever capacity that is, for however long that is. I don’t want to waste it. I don’t want to find myself unexpectedly on my death bed, knowing that I didn’t do what I wanted or did less than the best I could with the time I had.

++++

It is customary during the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur for Jews to visit family members at the cemetery. My mother and I took the Long Island Railroad to visit the final resting place of my father at a Jewish cemetery in Nassau County.

It was two days before the death of Steve Jobs in California.

It was nice visiting my father on a crisp fall day. I was wearing a red sweatshirt. When I first saw my father’s tombstone I laughed, because as long-time readers of this blog might remember, I “crowdsourced” the epitaph on his stone after he passed away in 2005, until we collectively convinced my mother to include his favorite saying, “Be of Good Cheer” on the stone. My father might go down in history as the first person to have the saying on his tombstone voted upon by the Internet.

Another Jewish custom is to place a stone on the top of the tombstone; it signifies that “you were there.” I picked out two shapely and clean gray stones from the gravel road, and my mother and I placed them on top of the marble slat that marked my father’s final resting place.

++++

I think about my father. I wonder about the dreams and goals that he had as a younger man. Did he do what he wanted? Did he do less than the best he did with the time he had on Earth?

I have no idea.

He worked as a physical therapist at a New York City hospital. He liked his job, but he complained about it during dinner time, especially about the internal politics of a city-run hospital. I think he might have preferred a cushier job at a private hospital, although he probably had more of an impact on the lives of the less-privileged by working at Queens General Hospital.

I assume that “Stay at Home Babe” was being honest in her views about dying young, but I suspect that she is in her late twenties, so she feels that she has plenty of time to accomplish everything in her iPhone scheduler. I think once you reach 35, you are pretty happy if you reached 1/3 of the goals you had in college.

Should we just kill ourselves if we don’t become multi-milionaires by 40?

++++

It is easy to read the obituary of Steve Jobs and see it as a referendum on individuality, focus, and a life-well lived, but I think it is a mistake to think that success in life involves having a specific goal in mind and reaching it. Under that criteria, most of us end up miserable failures. The reality is that our real impact on others is not always easily noticed, or even appreciated. Not every worthwhile life is built upon achieving personal goals. We are all interrelated in so many different ways, that you can never be sure how your actions are affecting others.

On paper, my father will never match the accomplishments of Steve Jobs. Perhaps he didn’t achieve exactly what he wanted in life. But he had an impact on me. And his family. On his patients. In the way that he treated his friends and neighbors.

In social media, we speak a lot about influence. We consider someone with many followers as “influential.” But I have heard stories of strangers talking down someone on Twitter from committing suicide that night. No one remembers the names of those people. But that is real influence!

On Yom Kippur, in temple, a special prayer is added to the Shemoneh Esrei (Amidah), in which the community confesses their sins. All the sins are confessed in the plural (we have done this, we have done that), emphasizing communal responsibility for sinning. So even if you haven’t murdered anyone this year, you still say “We have murdered.”

When I was younger, I used to think this Yom Kippur tradition was bizarre and unfair, but now I appreciate the sentiment. The point is not to diminish personal responsibility, but to remind ourselves that human sins are frequently a by-product of the social bond gone sour. We are all at fault.

But this communal responsibility also has a positive side. We can all take pride when things turn out well.

Did you read Steve Jobs’ obituary? Did you come away thinking only about Steve Jobs? Read the obituary again, this time focusing on the community who helped mold him.

Steve Jobs was adopted:

Steven Paul Jobs was born in San Francisco on Feb. 24, 1955, and surrendered for adoption by his biological parents, Joanne Carole Schieble and Abdulfattah Jandali, a graduate student from Syria who became a political science professor. He was adopted by Paul and Clara Jobs.

Steve Jobs was mentored by a nameless neighbor:

Mr. Jobs developed an early interest in electronics. He was mentored by a neighbor, an electronics hobbyist, who built Heathkit do-it-yourself electronics projects.

Steve Wozniak’s mother brings her son and Steve Jobs together as business partners.

The spark that ignited their partnership was provided by Mr. Wozniak’s mother. Mr. Wozniak had graduated from high school and enrolled at the University of California, Berkeley, when she sent him an article from the October 1971 issue of Esquire magazine. The article, “Secrets of the Little Blue Box,” by Ron Rosenbaum, detailed an underground hobbyist culture of young men known as phone phreaks who were illicitly exploring the nation’s phone system.

A mysterious hacker teaches Steve Jobs his tricks.

Captain Crunch was John Draper, a former Air Force electronic technician, and finding him took several weeks. Learning that the two young hobbyists were searching for him, Mr. Draper had arranged to come to Mr. Wozniak’s Berkeley dormitory room.

An Intel executive backs Apple with $250,000.

In early 1976, he and Mr. Wozniak, using their own money, began Apple with an initial investment of $1,300; they later gained the backing of a former Intel executive, A. C. Markkula, who lent them $250,000.

Did any of these individuals achieve their own personal goals? We don’t know. But there is reason to believe that without these people crossing the paths of Steve Jobs, that he wouldn’t have achieved HIS goals. Again, we don’t know for sure, but would you now want to tell that dorky hobbyist neighbor who mentored Steve Jobs that he would have been better off dead since he didn’t achieve his goal of building a spaceship for NASA? You never know when your action can have an earth-shattering effect on another. It is quite possible that a friendly hello in a supermarket can change the life of the other person. You just don’t know.

Not everything is about YOUR goals.

My father was a loved man. He didn’t make that much money. I’m sure he wished he did better financially. He didn’t get any obituaries written about him in the newspaper. But I know he helped many people with disabilities to walk, and perhaps they went on to do great things spurred on by the care that they received from my father.

I am super-impressed by the vision of Steve Jobs and what he achieved in his short life. But I am just as impressed with someone who lives life, perhaps NOT achieving every single one of their dreams, but loves life itself, and sees it as special. Being kind to others may not get you a mention in the New York Times, but it is a quality that is as essential to the well-being of the community as an iPad. And that it something I try to remember as I live my own life. Thanks, Dad, for teaching me that lesson.

Like “Jersey Boys”

December 7, 2010 / / 15 Comments

My mother called up from her winter rental in Century Village, Boca Raton, Florida.

“Hey, Mom.  How you doing?”

“Good.  I saw a fabulous show last night.”

“Oh yeah?  What?”

“I forgot the name.   A singing group.  There is a show about them on Broadway.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“Frankie…”

“You mean Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons?”

“Yes.”

“You saw Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons?”

“No.”

“Oh, you mean they had a production of Jersey Boys at Century Village?”

“No.  It was people doing the songs of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.”

“So, that’s Jersey Boys.”

“No, Jersey Boys is the story of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.  This had no story.  It was just the songs of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.”

“So, they were Frankie Valli and the Four Season imitators?”

“No, they were more imitators of Jersey Boys.”

“Jersey Boys ARE imitators of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.  So what you saw was an imitator of an imitator.”

“But they were very good.  Now I don’t need to pay $100 and see Jersey Boys.”

“This reminds me of when you went to Italy last year and the tour bus ran out of time, so they took you to see an imitation of the imitation of the statue of David.”

“Next week, I’m going to see Tom Jones.”

“Tom Jones is coming to Century Village?!”

“No.  Someone who sings like him.”

“Then STOP saying you’re going to see Tom Jones.  You’re not seeing Tom Jones.  You’re seeing a Tom Jones imitator.  It is confusing me when you say that.  Say that you are seeing a Tom Jones imitator.”

“It says in the brochure, “Hear the music of Tom Jones.””

“Yeah, it is the songs of Tom Jones.  But you’re not really seeing Tom Jones.”

“Eh, if he is good enough, does it really matter?”

“So, why don’t you hire someone who looks and sounds JUST like me to be your imitation son.  That would be the same thing, right?”

“Maybe my imitation son would actually send me a Hanukkah card, hmm?”

Please Come to Walgreen’s

October 6, 2010 / / 13 Comments

“Please come to Walgreen’s with me and help me carry up a 24 pack of water on sale,” said my mother.

“I’m busy,” I replied.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t lying. I was finally out of my pajama bottoms and wearing real pants, even if they were unfashionably pleated, and seated at my desk, working on my laptop. Microsoft Excel was open and I was creating complex charts about “Female Bloggers I Would Shag if I Had the Opportunity To or If They Weren’t Married.” My research was going well, and the results were quite surprising. You would be astounded to learn how many of the obvious choices had to be filed away in the “Probably Too Much Trouble and Not Worth It” category.

So what finally motivated me to leave my bed after moping around for a week and start working like a responsible adult again? Like with many of us, it is music that inspired us. I dusted off all of my old LPs and cassettes, and replayed them, reminding myself of my youthful dreams and the themes that would haunt my consciousness over and over again.

It was in the middle of the 1970’s song, “Please Come to Boston” by Dave Loggins, that I had my eureka moment. I was in the middle of sobbing to the lyrics —

Please come to Boston for the springtime
I’m stayin’ here with some friends and they’ve got lots of room
You can sell your paintings on the sidewalk
By a café where I hope to be workin’ soon
Please come to Boston
She said no, would you come home to me

{Refrain}
And she said, hey ramblin’ boy, why don’t you settle down
Boston ain’t your kind of town
There ain’t no gold and there ain’t nobody like me
I’m the number one fan of the man from Tennessee

Please come to Denver with the snowfall
We’ll move up into the mountains so far that we can’t be found
And throw “I love you” echoes down the canyon
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Denver
She said no, boy, would you come home to me

{Refrain, with Denver}

Now this drifter’s world goes ’round and ’round
And I doubt that it’s ever gonna stop
But of all the dreams I’ve lost or found
And all that I ain’t got
I still need to cling to
Somebody I can sing to

Please come to LA to live forever
California life alone is just too hard to build
I live in a house that looks out over the ocean
And there’s some stars that fell from the sky
Livin’ up on the hill
Please come to LA
She just said no, boy, won’t you come home to me

{Refrain with LA can’t be…}

I’m the number one fan of the man from Tennessee

— when suddenly it occurred to me that this ridiculous, manipulative, “emo”-song that was emo before emo existed, was not about ME. I’m not a painter selling my work on the sidewalk. The only blogger I know really well in Boston is Miguelina, and she already has three kids, and since she went to that snooty Mighty Summit this year, she’s probably never going to say “Please come to Boston to me.” I’m far from a drifter. And the biggest difference of them all — I’m not from Tennessee! OK, I was there once, to visit Graceland, but still…

I turned off my turntable and decided to look towards the future. That’s when I make the decision to take action — to create an excel sheet about “Female Bloggers I Would Shag if I Had the Opportunity To or If They Weren’t Married.” Maybe it wasn’t a major step — like leaving the house and going to say, a museum, — but it was a start. A baby step.

Of course, this was all rudely interrupted by my mother with her selfish request for me to help her carry up 24 bottles of water from Walgreen’s. Hey, Mom, it’s not my fault you’ve gotten older!

My mother and I took the elevator to the lobby. I was wheeling “the wagon,” which would later help us carry the water down the block from Walgreen’s back home. As we stepped out of the apartment building, we noticed a NYPD car speed up in front of the mailbox. Two officer in well-pressed uniforms jumped out, ready for action. The headed for the front door of our apartment building, passing my mother, me, and our wagon.

Jose, the all-knowing super, was cutting the grass. He didn’t even look up.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Eh,” he answered, shrugging. Other tenants nonchalantly walked by the cops. It was as if no one cared. I turned to my mother.

“Doesn’t anyone blink an eye when a cop car speeds up and two cops enter the building? There could be a hostage situation!”

“Nah,” she said. “These guys are here every day. The woman in apartment 3B says the people in apartment 2B are smoking cigarettes and that the smoke is flying up and slowly killing her. So she calls the cops, saying that the other tenants should be arrested for attempted murder. The cops are forced to come because she calls them, and they always tell her the same thing — that it is legal for them to smoke in their own apartment so there is nothing they can do. She curses at them, then says she’s going to write a letter to the mayor and the New York Times.”

“She sounds a little batty. Do I know her?”

“Yes. She’s lived in the building for a long time. She’s the woman who used to be the crossing guard when you went to elementary school.”

“I always wondered what happened to her.”

Call to Mom

January 14, 2010 / / 25 Comments

Sophia has been away all week on a job, so I have been here in LA, holding down the fort, like they used to say in the days when we lived in forts.  I’ve been spending a lot of time with Sophia’s step-father and mother at the hospital, which is stressful because they can only speak Russian, and my knowledge of the language is limited to food related statements like “Please pass me the blini” and exotic curses such as “Fuck you, your mother, every relative in their grave, and your two favorite horses.”

I’ve been spending a lot of time playing on my iphone, ignoring reality.  I do know what is going on in Haiti, and I am purposely keeping my head in the sand.  I just can’t deal with the news of the scope of the disaster.  Even the Leno-Conan O’Brien drama was too intense for me right now.

Speaking of iphones — did you know that the latest Facebook update transfers profile photos of your friends into your contacts, so if one of your virtual friends actually called you up, a large photo of your friend would appear on the bright screen as the Justin Timberlake ringtone played on your phone?

Why can’t real life run as smoothly as modern technology?

Playing with my iphone has helped release some tension (video apps!  Scrabble!),  but I have been quite cranky lately.  I would love to take it out on my readers, because I enjoy that, but since I am in the middle of a PR rehabilitaion, I have decided to take it out on my mother instead.  And I have good reason to.  Sophia’s parents are a little older than my mother, and I am seeing first hand how age can slow you down to the point where the child is caring for the parent.  This is when you wake up and realize that you are OLD.  My mother is in her seventies, but — knock on wood — KNOCK KNOCK — in great health.  She traveled through a million European cities last summer.   She is more energetic than I am.   But… old age comes fast.  I see it.

Usually, my mother calls me, bugging me like a stereotypical Jewish mother, reminding me to take my cholesterol medicine, or wondering why I still haven’t made a dentist appointment.   Today, I called her up to nag her.  It was MY TURN!

“How are you feeling today?” I asked, ready to pounce.

“Fine.”

“Didn’t you say your foot was bothering you?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I noticed in Queens that you sometimes had trouble standing up from the couch.”

“That’s because the stupid couch is too low.”

“It might be arthritis.”

“I have a little arthritis.”

“So, why don’t you see a doctor?”

“What is a doctor going to do?”

Normally, I would have given up with the questioning, but I felt as distrustful as an El Al security guard.

“Aren’t you taking yoga there?”

“Yes, every day.”

“But I know you.  You just do whatever the instructor tells everyone to do.  Speak to her.   Personally.  Tell her you want a special exercise suited for YOU.”

“Leave me alone.  I’m fine.  Did you make an appointment to your doctor yet while you are in LA?  And what’s going on with you and Sophia anyway?  Have you talked about it yet?  You can’t live like this forever…?”

“We’re not talking about me.  We are talking about you.”

“Me?  I’m enjoying life!  You’re the one who’s screwed up.  And besides, my cholesterol is lower than yours.”

“Do you know where I am going every day to visit Vartan?  This rehab clinic?  Do you know what it is LIKE in here?  It is awful.  You don’t FUCKING want to be in here.  I don’t want to FUCKING visit you in one of these places!”

“I know.  I’ve been there with my parents.  My mother was in a nursing home.  Half of Century Village ends up in assisted living.   Never put me in a nursing home.  I’d rather be dead.”

“Stop talking nonsense.  Go exercise your legs.”

“Right now?  I’m eating lunch.”

“You don’t want to EVER fall and break a hip.  Because that is BAD NEWS at your age.”

“I’m fine.  YOU need to exercise.”

“Stop being an idiot, Mom!  You’re getting old.”

“I am old.”

“You’re not old.”

“I am old.  So, if I fall, you’re not coming to visit me?”

“You’re acting a real jerk today.  Just don’t fall, OK?  And don’t eat too much deli food.  It’s not healthy.”

“I’m eating a chicken salad sandwich.  You’re the one who goes to McDonald’s.”

“We’re talking about YOU.  Sheesh!  You’re impossible!!”

Later that day, my mother called up, probably wanting to remind me AGAIN to make my doctor’s appointment.  At first, I didn’t know it was my mother because this Facebook photo appeared full screen in my iphone behind my mother’s name  —

Either this Facebook “contact” information app has a serious bug in it, or my mother really HAS been taking good care of herself in Florida!

I have no idea who this girl is in the photo.   Obviously technology is as fucked up as real life.

Reality Television

December 1, 2009 / / 9 Comments

After three days of searching to buy something online during Black Friday and Cyber Monday, I ended up with nothing. Everything I truly wanted, like a HD Camcorder with a built in GPS and electric shaver, was just too expensive.

If I was ever going to be a decent consumer, I needed more money. And fast. But how? Blogging was a dead end street. Writing? Only complete idiots go into writing to make money. I took a long, hard, cold look at myself in the bathroom mirror and accepted that I had no marketable skills other than being a “social media expert” (code for being on Twitter a lot, telling silly jokes)

When times are tough, and they are in America in 2009, there is only one option available for someone unskilled like myself — getting onto reality television. From faking balloon dramas to crashing White House parties, the best and brightest of our country know the route to success is not hard work, but landing a reality show on Bravo.

I sat down with my mother during breakfast this morning to discuss my options. I assumed she wanted “in” on the deal.

“We need to come up with a stunt that will get us attention.” I said. “Something that will knock any mention of health care reform off the news. We want America talking about us.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I could smash your car window with a golf club.”

“Eh. That’s old.”

“You would have better luck getting a reality show with Sophia,” said my mother. “Maybe you can get a show called “The Weirdest Marriage Ever.”

“No. I think the two of us have a better on-air dynamic. Besides, she isn’t talking to me.”

We took a few moments to brainstorm as we ate our Cheerios. I suggested that we try to come up with an idea that said “New York,” to give our gimmick some local flavor.

My mother had an idea.

“I saw on eyewitness news that they are lighting the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center on Wednesday.”

“Perfect. The cameras will already be there for our stunt.”

But what would be our stunt?

“I got it!” I shouted. “How about — right before they light the tree — we CLIMB up the tree — shocking everything with our daring ways! We would definitely get a reality show from that. Can’t you see the promotion? — “Mother and son who’ll do anything! Every week, a different stunt!”

My mother was not impressed.

“I’m too old to climb the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree anymore. And seriously, are you going to be able to climb the tree?”

“I can try.”

“Have you ever climbed a tree?”

“No, but I am sure there are branches that you can hold on to.”

My mother continued to express her doubt.

“Besides, it is too dangerous. Some NYPD cop might just shoot you off the tree, and you would fall flat on your face, like King Kong. And then, there will be no reality show at all.”

“That’s true.”

I went back into thinking mode, or “put on my thinking cap,” as they used to say.

“Eureka!” I said, knowing that people are suppose to say “Eureka” at moments like this, even though I’m not sure why. “We can both streak naked across Rockefeller Center during the tree lighting — right in front of the tree — right in front of the cameras.”

“It’s going to be freezing outside.”

“We’ll just be outside for a second. Then we’d run into 30 Rock to get dressed. I know a soup place around the corner where we can warm up with some hot chicken soup.”

Then my mother said something that completely changed the tone of the conversation.

“I just realized I can’t do this with you on Wednesday!”

“Why not?” I asked, already disappointed.

“I’m flying back to Boca Raton tomorrow. Time for me to be a snowbird again!”

“Back to Florida? Tomorrow? Already? For how long?”

“Until April. Back when the birds and flowers return.”

“So, you mean — I’m back to living on my own?”

I bowed my head, acting like a drama queen.

“Don’t look so sad. You should be happy. The place is yours now. Your own little bachelor pad. Don’t you have those BlogHer and Kirtsy parties this week? Why don’t you bring a few of those blogging babes over here for a little partying and “getting it on!” I know you have been having dreams about ****ing ***** and ****** and ******* and especially ****** in the ******!”

“Mom, that’s disgusting!” I said, in total shock. “I’ve never heard you talk like that before!”

But when I looked up at my mother, she was drinking her orange juice, looking as if she never made that outburst at all.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” she asked, confused. “I said I am going to Florida tomorrow.”

“You didn’t mention anything about having wild parties in the apartment?”

“I said I HOPE you keep the apartment clean.”

“So, who…”

“Yoo-hoo!”

I felt a tapping on my thigh. I looked down under the table.

“Penis, is that you?!” I asked. It had been ages since I had heard him talking to me. I totally gave up on this crass literary gimmick hoping to never see him again as I made my blog into something more “classy,” hoping to appeal to a more educated demographic.

“Surprised to see me pop up like this?” he joked.

“I thought we were done with the cheap sex gags on this blog.”

“Sorry about that, sucker! You can’t keep a good Penis down.”

“But why? Why this sudden reappearance?”

“Reappearance?” he chuckled. “Oh, Neil, I never left. I NEVER LEFT.”

The Free Turkey

November 24, 2009 / / 31 Comments

turkey

My mother doesn’t like to waste money, and similar to many other Jewish mothers of her generation, she can sense a sale at Loehmann’s from miles away.

Which brings me to Thanksgiving.

Recently, a new supermarket took over in the space across the street.  At first, everyone in my apartment building loved the shiny new store because it was clean, had a brightly-lit produce section, and the check-out people said “Thank You,” something previously unheard of in a Queens supermarket.  The local customers froze in shock upon hearing these words, as if they had just entered an alternative universe.

But these niceties came at a huge price. The supermarket was stingy on sales.  The previous supermarket had a cluttered appearance, like a desk covered in post-it notes.  Everywhere you looked, there were colorful, mismatched stickers and hanging banners screaming out a new promotion, such as “Canned Peas!  Buy One, Get One Free!”

These constant promotions served two purposes — they created excitement and they distracted the customers from focusing on the unorganized shelving and inept customer service.

There were few sales at this new, more upscale store, and never on anything that people really needed as a necessity.  Last week’s big promotion was for “Fresh Halibut at $8.99 a pound.”

The bomb dropped this week when rumors spread throughout the apartment building that the supermarket wasn’t even going to offer a free turkey for Thanksgiving (usually for spending $25 dollars in purchase, with one per customer, of course)!  This had been a Holiday tradition with the supermarkets in this spot for the last forty years.   It was a tradition held as sacred to Queens residents as nativity scenes are to those who live in the mid-West.

My mother was very upset at the supermarket.

Now I can hear some of you grumbling and snickering at home.

“How cheap are you people in Queens?  Why don’t you pay for your own freaking turkey?  That’s what is wrong with liberals — always looking for a hand-out!”

Before you pontificate, let me try to explain this in a language that you will understand.

Imagine that you wake up tomorrow morning and go on Twitter, and you are greeted by a smiling cartoon Twitter bird with  the message, “We have finally figured out how to make money with Twitter.  Please pay $10 a month if you want access to your account.  Thanks.”   Are you going to say, “What a clever business model?”    Or are you going to be pissed, used to getting the milk from the cow for free?!

Think about that as you snicker!

You should also understand that my mother is a dangerous woman.  She is strong-willed AND retired, which means she is stubborn AND has too much time on her hands.

“I heard the supermarket on 164th Street is giving you a free turkey if you spend $25 dollars,” she said.

“You want to go all the way to 164th Street just for a turkey?  Is someone driving there?”

“No, I thought we’d walk over with the shopping wagon.”

“That supermarket is over a mile away!”

“So?”

“Let’s just get it downstairs.  I’ll pay for the turkey.”

“No, it’s the principle of the thing.  Getting the free turkey is an essential part of Thanksgiving.  It’s like the Indians sharing their food with the Pilgrims.”

“And look what happened to the Indians.”

“If you don’t want to go, I’ll go myself and schlep the wagon up the hill, along with the heavy turkey, so everyone in the building will see me breathing heavy, walking two miles, and wondering if you’re sooooo “busy” at home writing one of your porno posts for your blog that you couldn’t help your mother carrying the turkey.”

“Nice,” complimenting her guilt shtick.

“Besides, you did say that you wanted to exercise more.”

I lost the battle.  Off we went to get our free turkey.

When we returned home, we were exhausted, and my back hurt from pushing the shopping wagon, filled with groceries and a 14 pound frozen turkey.

“So, honestly, Mom…” I asked.  “Was schlepping all this way just to get a free turkey really worth it?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, as she placed the frozen turkey in the bottom of the refrigerator to start its long thaw.

(note to Sarah Gilbert.   Next year,  I will try a Heritage turkey, which I never even heard of before until you mentioned it on Twitter!)

A Master Class

October 9, 2009 / / 44 Comments

Today is my mother’s birthday. This is her birthday card.

It was a windy and lonely October evening. I was in my bedroom, the overhead lamp flickering, as I IM-ed with Allison, a New Hampshire woman who wrote a knitting blog.

“Do you really want to do this?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go down on me. That really turns me on.”

“OK.”

I took a deep breathe. I was nervous. Although this wasn’t real sex, I felt the same sense of performance anxiety. I tried to visualize Allison in her bedroom. I wish I had bought a web-cam so I could at least see her face.

“Are you undressed already?” I inquired.

“Yes. I’m on my bed with my laptop next to me.”

I started typing, touching the keys gently, fearful of what my lustful emotion might bring forth, bursting from me like water from a broken dam.

“I’m kissing your thighs. I’m kissing you around. I’m uh…”

“Are you kissing my sweet spot?”

“Yes. I love your sweet spot. Can you feel me?”

“I can feel your tongue. It feels so good.”

Wow. Wow. Wow. This was more intense than I could ever imagine.

“I love doing this to you. I love feeling you move to my touch.” I quickly typed.

There was a long pause on the other side.

“I don’t know if I can type and take care of myself at the same time.”

“So don’t type,” I replied, always the gentleman. “Let me do all the work.”

“You’re amazing, Neil. Really.”

Just as I was about to dive back into this virtual reality, my mother knocked on my door.

“Neil, there’s a phone call for you in the kitchen.”

“Not now!” I shouted.

“It’s that producer from Los Angeles!”

“Oh, shit!”

I had been waiting all week for the call from this producer. Had he liked the first 30 pages? Is this a good sign that he is calling so late in the day? Or a bad one? I had to make a quick decision between business and pleasure. Art and commerce won out. I ran into the kitchen, where my mother was making dinner.

“Ed, how are you doing?” I said to the producer on the phone, trying to sound as confident and polished as possibly without letting on that I am in the middle of giving virtual oral sex to a blogger/knitter in New Hampshire. “Oh, you mean you DIDN’T like the first act?”

I could see frustration on the face of my eavesdropping mother.

“What didn’t he like about it?” she asked. “What does HE know?”

“SHHH…” I said to my mother. The last thing I needed was getting my mother involved in any drama. Besides, the producer didn’t know my mother was here. I had told him that I moved to New York to shack up with this hot Asian NY model I had met in a Santa Monica bar, not to live with my mother in Queens.

I continued to listen to the producer’s notes, most of them making very little sense.

“Well, I can rewrite that first act if you want?” I said, pasting on a fake smile. ” Uh, I don’t know. Do you really see Jake as a Ben Stiller-type? Oh, you do? I think it is a, uh, great idea. I love Ben Stiller!”

“I don’t like Ben Stiller at all,” said my mother, shaking her head. “Jerry Stiller, yes. But I saw Ben Stiller in that “museum” movie on HBO. That was terrible.”

“Ma!” I said, scolding my mother, before I realized I was still on the phone. “My God, Ed, I meant — that is a exceptionally good idea,” I continued on, stumbling with my tongue. “I’ll get to work on it right away. What? Notes? From Evelyn? Now?”

The producer wanted me to talk to his brainy development assistant for more notes. She was not very fond of me. Our relationship turned sour when she caught me looking down her blouse during a “story” meeting at the Polo Lounge. Now I had to endure her nasty, passive-aggressive notes. This could take another twenty minutes.

“OK, put her on. I’ll be back in a second.”

I rushed back into my bedroom. Allison was still online, texting furiously.

“Oh, Neil, I never felt like this before. You are F*CKING AMAZING! I feel so bad, so dirty, but so good. You know exactly how to reach me with your tongue, with your hands. I want to feel you inside of me.”

Apparently, I was quite a stud while I was away.

“Uh, I’m not sure I can type anymore either.” I wrote back. “I need to take care of something.”

“Yes, yes. Take care of yourself.” said Allison, the friendly knitting blogger from New Hampshire. “I know your big, hard man-thing needs care. Stop typing and take care of it. Make me feel like a woman. Oh yeah, that’s it. I feel it. Oh, I love it. I LOVE IT!!”

While this was doing wonders for my ego, I didn’t have the time. Hollywood was calling. My career was on the line, and Evelyn was on the phone. I made a mental note to myself have more virtual sex in the future, because, as evidenced by Allison’s reaction, I was much better at it than real sex.

I ran back into the kitchen. My mother was nearby, chopping up vegetables for a chicken soup.

“Do you know where I put the extra aluminum foil?” asked my mother.

I shrugged and my mother disappeared down the hallway. I picked up the phone.

“OK, Hi, Evelyn.” I said to the young Harvard grad, the type of woman who at college would walk right past me with her nose held high. “Sure, I want to hear you notes. Will it take long? I was busy uh, writing, and I don’t want to lose the momentum when the blood is flowing. Ten pages of notes? Oh, sure. Go ahead. Yes, yes, I heard. The main character. More Ben Stiller-like, right right….

I faked like I was jotting down notes.

Meanwhile, my mother discovered the aluminum foil on top of the drawer in my bedroom, where we stored various bulky and duplicate items, like the 24 rolls of toilet paper that I had recently bought at Walgreen’s.

As my mother was about to leave the room, the foil in her hand, she heard a beep from the laptop. Allison, the knitting blogger, was busy sending messages on IM. My mother walked over, as curious as Yenta the Matchmaker.

“I love the way you take me.” wrote Allison. “You are like an animal. You make me so wet and horny, Neil. I’m such a bad bad bad girl when I feel you inside me like this. Make me come like a wild beast. Do it, Neil. Do it!!!”

My mother wasn’t sure what to do. Her maternal instinct was to help her son. At least he was coming out of his shell and interacting with nice women other than Sophia.

“Perhaps I should take a message while he is out,” she thought.

She sat down and typed a message.

“Hi there, Allison. I just wanted to tell you that Neil had to take an important phone call from a movie producer in LA. He’ll be back with you in a few minutes. OK?”

After a brief pause, came her response.

“Who is this?” asked Allison.

“This is Neil’s mother. I was passing by when I saw your messages.”

“Jesus Christ! Neil’s mother! My god, this is the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me. I promise, I never did this before. This is my first time ever. Oh my god!”

“Don’t worry about it? Are you and Neil going to date? Are you Jewish?”

“No, we’re not going to date. I’m married. I have a a year old baby.”

“So, why are you fooling around with Neil on the computer? What about your husband?”

“It’s a long story.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s just after the baby, things changed. With Russell”

“Yeah, that happens. That happened with me and Artie, too, after Neil was born. Neil was such a demanding baby!”

“Maybe it was my fault. I’ve always had a bit of a problem with sex. I don’t know, it’s hard for me to have an orgasm.”

“Is Neil really exciting you THAT much?”

“Not really. He’s OK. But I was faking it a bit cause he seems so insecure on Twitter. He does seem very nice and funny, but not really my type. A little too insecure. Why are nice guys always so insecure?”

“Have you tried exploring your own sexuality with a vibrator?”

“I bought one online, but I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t know what to do with it.”

“Which one do you have.”

“The RabbitX.”

“Oh, that is a good one. I hope you didn’t pay full price for it. I know where to get them on sale.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You have your vibrator nearby?

“It’s in the drawer.”

“Get it. I’ll give you some tips on how to use it! I think this will really help you with some of your problems. Then you can show your husband what to do.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Kramer. You’re really cool!”

A half hour later, back in the kitchen, I finished my conversation with Evelyn. I had a migraine and my head was spinning. Now I was going to change the sidekick into a black woman to make the screenplay “different.”

“Thanks for the notes…” I said, but Evelyn had hung up on me before I had the chance. I love Hollywood.

My mother had just returned to the kitchen, and was back working on her chicken soup. Living for a year, as an adult, with my mother, has been a difficult experience. I frequently feel ashamed when I tell people about it, and I wonder if they are laughing behind my back. But one positive outcome about living with your mother is — her chicken soup! She may not be hip or trendy or know anything about Twitter, but you can always depend on a mother to cook her son some soup! But I need to get out of here. Once I build my confidence again, off I go — back into the real world!

I returned to my bedroom. I immediately noticed that Allison was online, waiting for me. She was in a ecstatic mood, as if she had just seen the sun shining after years of darkness.

“You just gave me the best orgasm I ever had in my life” she wrote. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“I did?” I asked, a little surprised.

“That was like a master class in having an orgasm. How did you get so good?”

I sat up a little taller in my chair. I felt like a King. Maybe I SHOULD feel more confident about myself.

“Well, I’ve always been good doing research, from school. I’ve read a lot of pornographic books. Online videos. I learned. But who knows? Maybe it just comes naturally. Maybe being a great lover is all about genetics.”

“That I believe. Genetics. From now on, every time I have an orgasm, I will thank God for the Kramer family. See you, Neil. Gotta go. My husband just got home and I want to show him something!”

Happy Birthday, Mom!

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