Sunday, June 20, 2010

A Cougel's father's day


Today was my first time hosting a meal in my new apartment. And the first time I hosted my family, ever. Between both my sisters, their kids, and my parents, there’s usually an occasion to celebrate every other Sunday. In New Jersey. Since I lived away from my family for so many years, I don’t complain, and make the guilt-trip out by train every time. But this time – for father’s day and my sister’s birthday – I went out on a limb and invited the whole gang into the city. I was worried my mother would say no. She can’t bear the traffic (or my father’s agitation because of it) and whenever I suggest a dinner in the city instead of a brunch in NJ, she says, “Tell me, what can I get in NY that I can’t get in NJ?”

They all agreed to come.  They were happy to. I made a list, I checked it fifteen times, and because I don’t have a lot of space or roommates to eat leftovers, in the end I  asked Mom to bring half the things on my list. Orange juice (too heavy to carry with all the other groceries from whole foods), lox for ten Jews (Costco carries family size), a large platter for said lox, kosher bagels (from the extra freezer in mom’s basement), and all the tiny but necessary things I didn’t realize I was missing, like a grater, a vase for the flowers I bought at the farmers market, a salad bowl, and drinking glasses for 4+.  Although as Mom pointed out, I have plenty - an entire shelf! – of martini glasses, in different colors.  (“It’s because I never use them and they haven’t broken yet!”)  In my defense, I would like to add that I did not serve alcohol. Not even mimosas or sparkling wine. Not because it was early in the day, or because we’re Jews.  Nor was it because Mom was there.  But because believe it (or fine, don’t), I am making a concerted effort to cut waay back on all things that are bad for me.

A blog I posted in late February introduced the ongoing saga of my health, and how I try to maintain it, while simultaneously maintaining the illusion that I don’t need to.  http://cougel.blogspot.com/2010/02/moving-and-all-stuff-that-goes-with-it.html
This past week had me back at the same doctor because of reoccurring stomach pain that I thought was food poisoning, but I think what I’ve really contracted is mood poisoning. Maybe they go hand in hand. Bottom line, I felt like shit this week and I was sick of it, literally.  Mom, hearing how I felt, urged me to go to the doctor, who immediately sent me for an ultrasound. He told me not to eat; to wait until after the ultrasound.  When I called Mom to update her – even though there was nothing new to report since I hadn’t even had the ultrasound yet, let alone the results – she yelled at me.
“YOU HAVEN'T EATEN SINCE YESTERDAY? It’s 2 o’clock. You must eat something!”
“But Mom, I’m not supposed to. They’re examining my STOMACH. The doctor told me not to.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
She proceeded to call me when I was in the waiting room to whisper conspiratorially: “Tell the receptionist that they need to take you now, or you’re going to faint from not eating.”  I wanted to remind Mom that Jews fast, a lot, for much longer hours, while standing up in a hot synagogue, and they don’t complain about it (until after break fast anyway), or seem to suffer any long-term effects. While I was in an air-conditioned room with free filtered water, and it was only midday. But I kept my mouth shut. 

Anyway, I didn’t get a scary phone call from my doctor late Friday or over the weekend, so I’m assuming that he didn’t see anything too scary. But the episode was enough to set me straight. Sometimes I wonder if we scare ourselves on purpose. Like maybe I needed to sit in a room with twenty other people whom I suspected were there for far more serious reasons than I was, to decide enough is enough.

Brunch was wonderful. I bought tater tots for the kids, but half of them escaped from the cookie sheet only to fall to their death in the inferno below, smoking up my kitchen. My dad came to the rescue, deftly plucking the burn victims out of the oven crevices with a fork. It was quite dramatic, really.  I locked my dog in my bedroom with a rawhide (my niece is afraid of her – for good reason) and after Mom and I argued over whether everyone should eat buffet style or just pile everything on my dining room table and let everyone sit where they want, we had a blast.  

My three favorite moments:
1) I “made” yogurt parfait. Which basically means throwing vanilla yogurt, granola, and fruit into a bowl, and I had never seen Mom (or my sisters) so amazed and impressed with me in my entire life. It was as if I had cooked chulent, all by myself. Or told them I was marrying a nice Jewish guy from the upper west side and was having three kids with him immediately.
2) I have another shelf that needs hanging (it’s the last one, I promise), so Dad was happy to help. It’s his kind of father’s day.  Like the last time, he didn’t have a leveler. But never fear! My brother in-law has an I-pad.  And apparently, it has a toolbox application or some shit on it, leveler included.
3) My father is impossible to buy a gift for. He insists that he doesn’t need anything, and therefore refuses to give us any pointers. This year, it was my turn to “do” father's day.  Mom told me he needed a new belt (he had a wake up call too I guess, and started a diet. And you can tell he’s lost weight. He kinda looks like a stuffed bear whose lost some of his stuffing.). I got him a belt from Ralph Lauren, and some after-shave. A cliché father’s day gift, but my dad isn’t one for originality, just practicality. I was nervous he would say what he does every year, which is smile and say “thank you” before placing a kiss on each of our heads. This means, Mom’s got returns to make at Bloomies. But this year, his eyes actually lit up.  He stood up and put the belt on, and said to me, “It’s perfect. How did you know?”

It was the perfect day.











Monday, June 7, 2010

Sub-texting


There’s this word called "subtext" that I first heard in a writing class, although it happens constantly in life - in our day to day conversations. Subtext is meaning or intention that lies beneath the surface; when we don't say what we feel, but it's kinda obvious to the person on the receiving end. And with the advent of texting, it’s become even more flagrant, especially in the dating world.

Here are some examples of incoming texts, where the dude thinks he's keeping his true intentions - the subtext - well hidden. (P.S. the text below is always from a guy unless otherwise noted):

Text: Hi.
Subtext:  What are you doing?

Text:  You around later?
Subtext:  Wanna fuck?

Text: How things?
Subtext: I miss you.

Text:  In ur hood...grabbin beers with some buddies.
Subtext: I’m 19.

Text: Missed your call. Was in a meeting.
Subtext: I’m important and make lots of money and can take care of you so don’t worry.

Text: You hungry?
Subtext: I’m bored (Or: Wanna fuck?)

Text: oh hey! good to hear from you! how u been?
Subtext: I deleted your number from my phone and have no clue who's texting me.

Text: MAH KOREH.
Subtext: Mom got a blackberry.

Text: Last night was hot!
Subtext: Now what?

Text: What’re you wearing?
Subtext: This flirting stage is getting old.

Text:  Ugh sorry Verizon sux.
Subtext: Stop texting me bitch.

Text:  How’s your day?
Subtext: I want to see you later and am hoping you'll respond but I'm too much of a p*ssy to just come out and say it.

Text: Omw, in can.
Subtext: On my way, in cab.

Text: Cant wait to see you! Yay!!!
Subtext: I'm gay.

Text: I’m back in town.
Subtext: Wanna fuck?

I could go on and on, but I think I’ve made my point.
(Subtext: I’m trying to sound modest, but I what I really hope is that this post made you laugh.)