something old, something new

"Se vai con lo zoppo impari a zoppicare."
If you go with the cripple, you learn how to walk like a cripple.

I'm visiting Italian friends in Oslo en route to visiting Thai friends in Tuscany. It is a pleasure to have these opportunities. Even more thrilling is learning, tasting, and seeing new things. Tonight for dinner, we had a champagne-accompanied caviar tasting involving four kinds of eggs, followed by salmon in three ways: tartare, smoked, and with spaghetti in a creamy sauce. I have no idea how my body will react to the mass consumption of salty treats and piles of crème fraîche. Lord have mercy.

In the midst of dinner, my buddy reminded her beloved that she is mentally packing her bags as she has been relatively unemployable in Norway for the last 18 months. She is ready to return her focus on herself and her needs and not just be a house frau, albeit with her amor. I'm waiting for the Limoncello to be poured before I serenade her with, "I've been to paradise but I've never been to me." She has given them a deadline of September 1st. In two million years, I wouldn't leave this man of hers. To see them together is hilarious, enviable, and just right. My beautiful brilliant bombshell from Rome and her fabulous, funny, and phenomenal Venetian make each other better people.

Anyway, as a reaction to one of her more dramatic pronouncements, her other half burst out with an archaic Italian quote about absorbing the characteristics of the people you choose to be with (or, as the case may be, idolize). It might be the best expression I've heard in quite a while. Well, that and "Long too yen, cop?" which translates from Thai into, "Clean your refrigerator?" This one is best uttered in a gay bar.

keep it simple, stupid

And do not change. Do not divert your love from visible things. But go on loving what is good, simple and ordinary; animals and things and flowers, and keep the balance true.
-Rilke

My friend reminded me of this earlier. It's equally depressing and desirable.

like i needed a reminder

Yesterday, I bought some stuff at Victoria's Secret's semi-annual sale. After waiting in the check-out line for a short stretch, some tall guy in a suit with a huge bouquet of flowers asked if he could return to his place in line where he was a few minutes ago and which happened to be in front of me. It was totally lame, especially as I'd never seen the guy before, but I suggested, "Do what you have to do." The lady behind me sighed loudly, and I turned to say that I hoped it was alright as I didn't feel like getting into a fight with anyone. I proceeded to return my attention to examining all the shiny toiletries and lipsticks and doodads on the shelves within arm's reach, when the same guy asked, "Have you noticed how much I am sweating?" Without facing him, I returned, "I'm going to try not to." Fortunately, the line moved quickly.

Hours later, I was at Studio Square, the new beer garden in Queens. It's more urban looking than Bohemian Hall and offers $18 pitchers of Stella and nice bathrooms. Without suggesting that I'm in need of 12 steps or anything, I feel better when I'm tipsy. The problem is that after the initial glow wears off, I get sad. I didn't realize I looked sad as well until the sweet, young, scantily clad girl standing in front of me in the bathroom line touched my arm, offered me a tissue, and asked me if I was gong to be alright. Great. I felt like Johnny Depp in Cry Baby. I am my own buzz kill.

This morning's theme of weird things that happen to me was "birds and turds." From passing the fledgeling red-tailed hawk nesting and testing out his wings in Riverside Park, to the sheer amount of scat I had to avoid for miles like a tire challenge in a gym-class obstacle course (goose, dog, and possibly human...) Considering the accumulation of rain that has been power-washing the streets of NY for the last week, it was quite an impressive and disgusting amount of fecal matter to dodge.

When I exited the park and re-entered the bedlam of Sunday morning life on the streets of the Upper West Side, I saw half a dozen pigeons bathing and wading and splashing in a large puddle by an ineffectual sewer drain on West End Avenue. Their feathers were fluffed out in matted peaks, like eyelashes after swimming. A block later, I saw a pigeon pressed face-down in the middle of Broadway with his shiny red innards trailing behind. I think I recognized a chunk that was his tiny heart.

So now I'm getting ready to head home for Father's Day cum my parents anniversary. Tomorrow marks their 40th. This too shall pass. I saw this tweet from @jdprickett on Twitter this morning: "It is much easier to become a father than to be one." ~ Kent Nerburn

family it has happened to me

At lunch today, somehow we got onto the subject of the Special Olympics. It wasn't me; That's a consolation. I was reminded that years ago we saw some sort of exhibition of Gold Medal gymnasts at The Meadowlands, and the pre-show included a display of Special Olympians. We watched kids run up to the pummel horse and sit on it and wave their arms triumphantly. Others lurched over to the rings, were boosted up so they could latch on while we being held up from below, and swung limply for a few seconds. Apparently Jake and I were on our worst behavior. I don't remember.

Today, however, someone made my mother laugh by telling this joke:
Q. What's better than winning a gold medal at the Special Olympics?
A. Not being retarded.

It sorta reminded me of this questionable one:
Q. What's the hardest thing about learning to rollerblade?
A. Telling your parents that you're gay.

Though my new favorite conversation-opener was originally shared by an epileptic that works with someone that I know, so I convince myself that it's okay to tell. It's not, and it made for an awkward couple of minutes when I shared it with Vanessa Johansson, sister of Scarlett:
Q. What's the difference between an epileptic oyster shucker and a prostitute with diarrhea?
A. One has fits while shucking...

days like this

Nobody told me. Or if they told me, how can you ever really know what it's going to be like until you're in your own shoes. Being busy is a godsend and a pain in the arse. When I finally pause, I can't restrain the whimpers that slip out when I think about why I'm at services whenever my sister drags me to synagogue, when I listen to my dad's voice on the outgoing answering message that I hope no one will change, when I look at pictures, when I hear ambulance sirens, when I glimpse a tall man with a headful of silver hair, when I see people dining with their parents, when anyone mentions death.

I hate knowing that my mother is without her beshert. I hate that I lost one of the two people that will love me unconditionally. I hate that every gathering from now on will be tinged with varying degrees of chronic sadness. And next week is Fathers Day. And the week after is their 40th anniversary. My mother asked if I could possibly understand what it was like to be alone after four decades of living with your best friend. I told her I would never know, though Chow has been asking me to move to Thailand for the last 14 years. If only it weren't so freaking hot there.

Everyone came home for his birthday today. It ended up being a gorgeous day. We played Gin Rummy on the front steps and picked strawberries. Rachel tried to teach Hannah to ride a bike, and Mom had a catch with Max. We went to a Moroccan restaurant in his honor, as Mom loves the photo of him with the bellydancer jiggling her jugs next to his face. True. Yes, it was fun. Yes, he was sorely missed. Yes, it is sadly ever so much easier to reserve a table for 6 than a table for 7.

multisensory

Yesterday's run in Riverside Park was chock full of things to notice. Normally I don't focus much on anything besides the clouds and the river and the unfortunate teenager who emits a constant keen as he's walked between a couple of caregivers every afternoon. Like the Doppler Effect, I hear him for a while before I see him, and his wails fade quickly after I pass.

On this particular run, however, I crossed under the West Side Highway and entered the river path and immediately noticed loose pages ripped out of a male nudie magazine, fluttering in the breeze and depicting the full monty. A few paces later, there was a hand towel discarded along the edge of the grass. Blech.

I followed the river south for a few miles, and came across a gaggle of geese. One protective momma goose hissed at me to warn me not to get too close to her downy gosling. While I equally feared her bite and the avian flu, I passed by unscathed and proceeded to my turnaround point a half mile further along. The same goose hissed again on my return. I had wondered if she would.

I marveled at the multitude of available working fountains and the variety of fragrant rose bushes peppering the path. Baruch Hashem for the City of New York's Parks Department. By now, I realized that I'd used all my senses, as clearly I could feel the warm sun, the silky breeze, and the sweat gathering on different parts of my body. But, no, there was one more treat in store for me. A tiny fly flew in my left eye and died there. I had to wait until I was back on street level so that I could use a parked car's side view mirror to fish out the drowned carcass of the bug, wings and all. It was pretty gross. And if it was a sign, I'm unfortunately illiterate.

memorializing

This was a good weekend. So was last weekend. Sometimes I forget to be sad, probably because I've been busy again and because I've been selfish while my siblings have been better at supporting my mother. Legitimately, I had recent visitors come in from Sydney and Bangkok, so I let myself be immersed in social activities and good times. Now I have all night for self-flagellation. I guess I'll multi-task, as I'm already paying for the unabashed foodfest earlier today consisting of fried chicken, blue cheese potato salad, peanut/sesame/ginger pasta, fruit salad, and guacamole. This was all before some genius suggested heading to Shake Shack for milkshakes. Their B&W shake is freaking awesome. When I wasn't eating today, I was napping. It made for a banner holiday, but falling asleep tonight is going to be difficult at best.

My fellow picnickers and I had a moment of silence for former and current members of the armed forces. My dad was in the Army for a second. He was honorably discharged after hurting his knee, so he didn't go to Vietnam. We all wore his Army jacket at some point in the 80s and 90s to supplement our fleeting fashion statements. During one of my lucid moments at today's picnic, I voiced my belief that the US should reinstate the draft or make military service mandatory like in Sweden and Israel. What could be more equalizing? It is too easy to recognize the similar qualities of the recent recruits wearing fatigues in the Middle East. My friend pointed out that his three cousins are currently enlisted and deployed, and it was the most immediate and available option for employment and future college funds.

I saw the Star Trek movie this weekend and reaffirmed that I'm too low tech to survive a nuclear holocaust, unlike the youngins manning The Enterprise. From what I've gleaned from watching dozens of disaster, war, invasion, and apocalypse movies over the years, it's clear that I wouldn't be one of those whip smart survivors with McGuyver-like life-saving skills. I'd be collatoral damage.

Side note: The Vulcan Salute is based on a Jewish blessing given by the high priests.