A Unofficial Family Feud Memoir

/ By / In / 2 Comments

Family Relationships

 

Ah, family. The people you share a significant portion of your DNA with, which for some translates to a deep and abiding love. For others, well, it’s like being stuck in a crowded elevator with a toddler who keeps smearing mashed banana on the emergency stop button. Me? My family? I fall somewhere in the “avoid eye contact at all costs” category.

They say “blood is thicker than water.” Thicker, sure. But have you ever tried to clean dried blood out of a carpet? It’s a nightmare. Water, on the other hand? Water solves most problems and it helps make a wonderful cup of tea also. Perhaps that metaphor needs a rethink?

Then there’s the whole “family first” business. Look, I get it. Loyalty’s important. But my family’s idea of a good time involves bingo nights where the biggest thrill is winning a commemorative tea towel, while at the same time harshly judging my life choices thus making “family second” looking mighty appealing.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t raised by wolves (though judging by my uncle Joseph’s table manners, you could be forgiven for thinking so). There were hysterically funny times – Christmas mornings spent strategically unwrapping presents to avoid the dreaded “socks again” disappointment. Birthday parties where the entertainment was watching my aunt Martha attempt the Macarena, a sight that would make even our confused cat raise an eyebrow.

But as families do, they … evolved. Evolved into a collection of human beings who, frankly, wouldn’t be my first choice for my pub quiz team, let alone a lifetime commitment. Let’s just say our family values diverged faster than a flock of pigeons spotting a discarded french fry.

There were arguments, of course. Mostly fueled by a potent cocktail of passive aggression, lukewarm sherry, and Aunt Mary’s unwavering belief that the moon landing was a hoax. Eventually, things reached a head, a glorious, messy head, a lot like a particularly enthusiastic child at a birthday cake buffet.

Estranged? You bet. Do I miss them? Look, I’ll admit, sometimes I miss having someone to blame for my questionable taste in clothing during my teenage years as displayed in almost all of our family photos. But mostly, the silence I now experience is deafeningly beautiful. It’s like finally escaping a particularly bad case of elevator music.

So, to answer your question, dear readers, my family relationships are about as functional as a chocolate teapot. But hey, who needs family when I have friends who I can actually choose to spend time with and who do not judge my Netflix queue nor question my life decisions (too much).

Besides, there’s a whole big wide world out there full of fascinating people who might share my love of obscure 1980 sitcoms and my questionable karaoke choices. Blood may be thicker than water, but friends, well, they are the Red Bull to my existential hangover. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a full season of Magnum P. I. and a large pizza. Family-sized, naturally. Just kidding. I seldom share my pizza with anyone.

—30–

 

The Sweeter the Wine

/ By / In / 4 Comments

The Sweeter the Wine

Wine was not exactly an acquired taste of mine,  but rather a delayed one.   For years I was a teetotaler – not by choice mind you,   but on doctor’s orders.   I suffered from migraine headaches since I was a young girl,   and I had been told wine was a trigger.  (See Migraine)

Of course I’d risk a glass or two now and then,  especially when out to dinner and friends were ordering adult beverages and I felt childish asking for Coke.

And on sabbaths and holidays I’d drink a glass or two trusting that exceptions are made for ceremonial wine.  In fact I’ve grown to rather like the often maligned, very sweet taste of Manischewitz.

So if you’re one of those detractors who find Manischewitz concord grape too sweet for your palate,  I urge you to try their blackberry wine – it’s just sweet enough!   L’Chaim!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

“War? What Is It Good For? Absolutely Nothing!”

/ By / In / 5 Comments

 

Hey there you fellow homo sapiens! Gather ’round, lemme tell ya a joke. It’s a real knee-slapper, been around for millennia. It goes a little somethin’ like this: a bunch of ya all get riled up, paint yer faces funny colors, grab some pointy sticks, and see who can spill the most blood and guts! Hilarious, right? War: A sick joke we keep on telling, and telling and telling.

War. Yeah, war. That big, bad gorilla in the room, the one shrunken down by our fancy dinners in front of TVs and our twenty-four-hour news cycles. We’re bombarded with it, folks. Explosions lookin’ like fireworks shows, soldiers lookin’ like action figures – all sanitized, all pretend. But let me tell ya, war ain’t no game.

Did ya play war as a kid? Probably. We all did? I did. Sticks for swords, dirt piles for trenches, imaginary enemies lurking ’round every corner. But then we grew up, right? Learned the difference between make-believe and messy reality. But some folks, they never learn. They hold onto that childish aggression, that tribal “us vs. them” mentality. It’s passed down like a family heirloom – grandpappy fought the Kaiser, daddy went to ‘Nam, so little Timmy’s gotta go blow somethin’ up in the Middle East.

Maybe you weren’t a soldier yourself. Maybe it was your brother, your sister, your spouse. Maybe they came back different – haunted eyes, shaky hands, nightmares that leave them screamin’ in the middle of the night. War steals, man. War steals lives, steals sanity, steals hope. It leaves scars on the battlefield and scars on the soul.

And the cost, folks! The mountains of money piled high, the wasted resources, the lives that coulda been woulda been shoulda been somethin’ great. All burnt up on the altar of some idiotic war for oil, for land, for some business man’s and politician’s ego trip. Have you ever seen a good war? Didn’t think so.

Now, some of you might be sayin’, “But Kevin, what about defendin’ our freedom? What about fightin’ evil?” Fine, fine. But who defines that evil? Who decides what freedoms are worth dyin’ for? War’s a blunt instrument, man. You swing it around and it takes out the innocent just as quick as the “bad guys.”

Maybe I’m a dreamer but I’m not the only one so I gotta believe there’s another way: Diplomacy; talkin’ things out like civilized folks instead of cavemen with clubs. It’s a tough sell, I know. But think about it. Wouldn’t you rather spend your tax dollars on schools and hospitals instead of bombs and bullets? Wouldn’t you rather see your kids playin’ tag than playin’ war?

War’s a joke, folks. A sick, twisted joke that’s been around for far too long. It’s time we stopped laughin’ and started demandin’ better. Let’s build a world where war’s a relic of the past, a bad memory from childhood games, not the horrifying reality on our TV screens. Now that, folks, would be a real laugh riot

–30–

How to Raise a City Kid

/ By / In / 4 Comments

How to Raise a City Kid

Years ago when our son was a toddler many of our friends began fleeing to the suburbs.  They couldn’t imagine raising a child in Manhattan with all the dirt and crime.

“But think of  the culture!”,  I would say.

At the Met Museum five-year-old Noah,  wide-eyed at Arms & Armor,  or perched spellbound on the grand staircase watching a stonecutter etch a donor’s name on the marble wall.

And making Purim masks at the Jewish Museum,  and model dinosaurs at the Natural History,  and reading the night skies at a kids’ astronomy class at the Planetarium,  and delighting when Red Grooms took over the Whitney.

And at a Chagall exhibit at the Guggenheim when he was three or four,  Noah pointing up from his stroller to ask incredulously,  “Another cow who’s FLYING?”

And theater and concerts –  children’s shows at the Beacon,  and Dino Anagnost’s wonderful Little Orchestra,  and The Paper Bag Players and Mummenschanz at the 92nd St Y.

”But we can bring our kids into the city for all that!”,  our smug suburban friends would say.

“Ah yes,”  I would say,  “but if you needed a taxi in the rain,  and the wind was blowing your umbrella inside-out while you were trying to fold the stroller,  would your four-year-old raise his arm and yell Checker?”

Carl Schurz Park,  NYC ,  1978

– Dana Susan Lehrman

My Own Worst Critic

/ By / In / 5 Comments

 

My Own Worst Critic

Let’s be honest, folks. We all have that voice in our heads. The one that whispers (or sometimes shrieks) insecurities like a malfunctioning smoke detector. This eternal internal tormentor, for lack of a better term, is what I like to call my own personal Jiminy Cricket.

Imagine, if you will, a tiny, gremlin-like creature perched on your shoulder. It wears a sensible pantsuit and carries an umbrella while perpetually displaying a frowny face emoji. This is Jiminy, my personal brand of self-doubt. Jiminy specializes in passive-aggressive critiques delivered with the saccharine cheer of a customer service rep keeping me on hold for 45 minutes.

I just finished that presentation? “Wow, you managed not to trip over the projector cord. Baby steps!” I aced that big exam? “Well, at least you didn’t get a failing grade. Participation trophy for you!” Jiminy is the master of diminishing returns, turning victories into lukewarm consolation prizes.

But here’s the thing: Jiminy is not entirely wrong. My memory, for instance, resembles a particularly cluttered Tupperware drawer. I once spent 20 minutes searching for my phone while holding it in my hand, mid-conversation. And let’s not even get started on the time I accidentally signed up for a clown college email list because, apparently, “juggling for beginners” sounded like a good life skill. (Honestly – I still believe that could be possible.)

The problem with Jiminy isn’t his occasional valid point, it’s his relentless negativity. It’s like having a tiny Gordon Ramsay permanently stationed in my brain, critiquing my every move with withering pronouncements like, “Those mashed potatoes are a flavor catastrophe!”

The worst part? Jiminy thrives on my silence. Leave him to his own devices and he’ll happily turn a minor setback into an existential crisis. Spilled my coffee on my shirt before a date? Jiminy throws a confetti parade of “See? You ALWAYS ruin everything!”

So, how do I deal with any internal Negative Ned? Here’s my strategy, folks: externalize the gremlin. Give Jiminy a voice, a name, a small umbrella and a truly terrible pantsuit. By acknowledging his presence perhaps we can take away some of his power.

Next, let’s re-frame the narrative. Instead of Jiminy’s “you barely scraped by” monologue, let’s create a more constructive counterpoint. Did you trip over your words during that presentation? Great! Not a problem, now you know to practice more next time. Did you almost enroll in clown college? Thankfully, a near miss! Fantastic! Now you have a hilarious anecdote for your next party.

Look, I’m not suggesting I should banish Jiminy entirely. A healthy dose of self-criticism is important for growth. But the key is to change him from a nagging gremlin into a helpful – albeit slightly less judgmental personal life coach.

Remember, folks, we are all human. We are all going to mess up, stumble, or occasionally trip over projector power cords. But by acknowledging our inner critic and learning to laugh at him or her and maybe ourselves, we can turn those stumbles into stepping stones, and those spilled coffees into (hopefully) funny stories for Retrospect. Just don’t tell Jiminy I said that. He might try to trademark the phrase.

–30–