Himself, to his credit, is detached from all things political
and has an astonishing ability to tune out my constant CNN soundtrack. For the first time since the election, today
he demonstrates, after learning of the latest Giuliani antics, a bit of the
same hilarity/panic/sorrow that I’ve lived with since the election. I consider
this a watershed moment. For over a
year, good things happen but Trump is still in the White House. And disappointments are magnified and make it
seem like the planet is on the verge of blasting into smithereens.
I have a gel manicure every three weeks. I would forego this extravagance if I didn’t
see my hands blown up and projected on a giant screen nightly on the classroom
projector. Nicki, my manicurist is an
ambitious Vietnamese American lady with two adorable little boys. She struggles, as her husband is Cambodian
American, raised in Connecticut by a single mother and thoroughly American. Nicki’s non-English speaking parents and older
sister live with them. Nicki navigates
three generations and two profoundly different cultures. Doing nails gets her out of the house. I’ve given up on selecting my own colors as
she always vetoes my choices. Now I’m
sort of day-glo pink with a twinkly topping and she’ll reinvent me again in
about three weeks.
Nicki only works a couple of days a week and I usually go on
Tuesdays because the shop, near my office, is less crowded. On Monday, one of my nails peels and I know
it’s time for Nicki on Tuesday. I’m not
sure why but usually, except for my pinkies, a gel manicure will peel off after
about three weeks. I enjoy peeling off
the polish and do so while driving to the office on Tuesday morning. Some nails
peel off clean but there are always a few nails with splotches of polish clinging
stubbornly to the tips. Nicki texts me
that her kids are sick and she’s off until Thursday. Tuesday and Wednesday night my raggedy, half
peeled nails project on the whiteboard.
No more peeling until I’m sure that Nicki’s available.
As the manicure is an extravagance, I find myself checking
my nails a couple times a day to make sure I get my money’s worth. My mother was very concerned about her
appearance. I think about her gazing at
her fingernails while I catch myself evaluating my own splayed fingers and
aging hands. My mother was never able to
pass a mirror. This is one habit that I
haven’t inherited. I put on a little
makeup in the morning on automatic pilot, focusing only on the areas of
application. While I spring for a
manicure every three weeks ago, I am much more frugal with regard to
haircuts. I’ve gone from twice a year to
now about every eighteen months.
The new hairdresser is highly recommended and massages my
scalp before washing my hair. Facing a
huge mirror, I see how few brown hairs remain on my white head. I was always aware of how much my sister
resembled my mother, but while it was frequently noted that I look like my her,
I never really saw it. Looking at myself straight on in the giant mirror, I see
her face.
My mother’s frugality always struck me as neurotic and
dysfunctional but now it’s dawned on me that there will come a point when I am
unable, or simply don’t want to, work. I’ll
be eligible for a small social security check in a couple of years but realize
now how important it is to have something salted away. I shop at outlets and dollar stores. I stock up on sale items. We seldom eat out. I scope out free parking locations in advance
of a journey.
I often regret the harshness with which I regarded my
mother, particularly as more and more I morph into her. I repeat here again and again that the sign
of true adulthood is forgiving one’s parents and this I’ve accomplished. As I enter my seventh decade, mortality is
more and more on the forefront of my consciousness. Fortunately, fears that dogged me in early
years have abated. I attribute this
partially to sacrifices that my parents made on my behalf but also to my own
conscious decision to strive to live honestly, a luxury that eluded my
Depression surviving parents.
We continue to struggle with matters legal and
fiduciary. Having long ago abandoned the
expectation of fairness, this is easier to endure. My mother taught me, in times of strife, to
write down on paper a list of problems and stash it away for six months. But for whining here, I don’t engage in the
physical gesture these days, but accepting the truth that most obstacles will
ultimately be overcome does make it easier to cope. Even the enormous obstacle that the current
president poses.
It seems, at the beginning at the term, impossible that
Trump would actually complete it. Now, as congress seems bent on defending the
indefensible, it is a much less sure of a bet.
While James Comey, in my opinion, has made some terrible decisions, his
eloquence reminds me that the leader of our nation has the vocabulary and temperament
of a fourth grader. Comey is well aware
of how perilous these times are, but he makes the beautiful analogy of a forest
fire. After the scorched earth there is an inevitable regrowth, that is often
more lush and verdant.
No schools are named after Richard Nixon. Congressmen who allowed Joe McCarthy to rant
on and ruin lives are ill remembered by history. It is astonishing how many politicians are
willing to trash their legacies. How can
they not see this? I am wistful that I
likely won’t live long enough to see how history gives these times their due.
Jake Tapper to Wolf Blitzer to Erin Burnett to Anderson
Cooper while I work, cook, clean and vegetate. While the lie count on Trump now
exceeds 3000 in a little over a year, he’s also had some successes. Motivated
by egomania, Kim Jong Un and Trump might actually make some peace. Apparently with the retention of Emmet Flood,
despite Giuliani, Trump has some competent representation. A Virginia judge accuses the federal prosecutor
of pursuing Paul Manafort for the only purpose of bringing down Trump. Perhaps Trump will indeed complete four full
years. Perhaps he’ll even be reelected
in 2020. More crackpot judges and gutting of environmental standards. The new forest growth might be far on the
horizon.
Despite eating a sandwich every day of Passover this year,
we still light the candles every Shabbat.
I spend most Fridays working at home in the companionship of my CNN
friends, marveling at how America got to where we are. On Saturday, there are legal documents to
prepare and a major cupboard cleaning and reorganization to combat pantry
moths. Sunday we’ll attend a funeral.
The table is set for two and dinner is challah and a week’s worth of
leftovers slopped together and folded into burritos.
I receive a note from a friend who knows one of the artists
at Spud’s gallery. She reports that the
artist has praised Spuds lavishly. He
calls. He tells me that he’s spent a
weekend with the artist. She’s made
hundreds of ceramic shoes for an art fair and Spuds is charged with wrapping
and transporting them. We chat about his
future and his friends while he sits in front of the Whitney, relaxing a bit
before boarding the subway back to Brooklyn.
He’ll visit the art fair where he’s set up his gallery’s booth and the
ceramic shoes are nearly sold out. There’s
a birthday party for a friend at woodsy enclave an hour from Manhattan. In
July he has a vacation and will return home.
I count the months on my fingers.
Number One Son calls with a cooking question. He announces that he and girlfriend upgrade
are coming for a week at the end of June.
We discuss essential restaurants and activities to kill time between
meals. I realize that the only thing
that really obliterates the pall of Trump are my kids. They are kinder to me than I was to my own
parents. Knowing that I will see both of
them relatively soon makes for a peaceful Shabbat. I see the goodness of my sons and the way
kids have mobilized post Parkland and realize that indeed, the forest will someday
thrive. I’ll do the organizing and
sorting but I’m going to relegate Himself to scrubbing down the pantry. It might be hard on my nails.
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