Marvin Doesn’t Eat Lox

I don’t like lox. This simple statement frequently bewilders my Jewish brethren.

You don’t like lox?

How come you don’t eat lox?

Are you sure you’re Jewish?

Yes, I’m Jewish but sorry, folks, I don’t like or eat lox.I also don’t like or eat tuna fish, whitefish, herring (in or out of cream sauce) or smoked fish of any kind.

Growing up in The Bronx those dishes were Saturday night and Sunday morning staples at our kitchen table. We used the living/dining room in our apartment only for Passover Seders and Thanksgiving dinners.

My father had a cleaning/tailoring store around the corner and when he closed on Saturday night he relished his shot of schnapps and his supper of the above-mentioned delicacies which I avoided with the help of my mother. I was very happy with her scrambled eggs.

It wasn’t until adulthood and we began socializing that my anti-establishment food tastes came into question. It usually started with the tuna fish issue. Everyone eats tuna fish, I was told over and over. Not me, I said, I don’t like the smell and I don’t like the taste.

I was urged to try it countless times and, in fairness, I sometimes did. Sorry, don’t like it. After a while enough people came to understand I really, really don’t like tuna fish and left me alone.

Full disclosure: my wife loves lox, frequently buys it and enjoys lox-and-eggs with or without a bagel. She also loves tuna fish but tolerates my aversion to it. She does not buy the smoked fishes. She tried them in the past but finds them too salty now.

I zip past the fish dishes featured regularly at most Jewish buffets and cruise the line looking for something I can eat. If there are carving stations, I’ll try one or two meats. If it’s a morning or afternoon affair, I look for the egg salad. The Saturday morning Kiddush at my shul serves a very good egg salad. The Challah also is delicious.

So, you see, friends, you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t starve.

I keep the faith my way.

Waiting For Dave

I spent several days trying to reach Continental Airlines by phone recently. It was impossible. I just don't have the patience to listen to their eager promotional messages ad nauseum while waiting for a real, live person to pick up the phone. Nice music might have kept me on longer.

My wife suggested I try calling in the middle of the night. You know, when you get up to go the bathroom. Take the phone into the spare room and try then. I thought it had possibilities.

It was 4:24 a.m. when I awoke, did my thing, and then called Continental’s 800 number. Sure enough, I got the same obnoxious voice mail that went on and on and on without a break.

But hey, it was 4:30 in the morning, how long could I have to wait. The answer was 25 minutes. But you know that was OK because I was comfortable, had the speaker phone on and volume down low and almost fell back to sleep.

Fortunately, I didn't because Dave finally came on and was very nice. He took my request for an upgrade from coach to business class on our return flight from Israel and said the best he could do was wait-list us. For this I waited 25 minutes in the middle of the night after trying fruitlessly for two days to reach someone.

Well, yes. So we're wait-listed for business first but I have no doubt we'll be coming back coach.

I went back to bed.

Spaced Out

You must know by now that seemingly simple things throw me. Like trying to double-space a document such as this.

Actually this isn't the document I'm trying to double-space. The one I'm having difficulty with is my first submission to this writing group I joined. Our instructor wants them double-spaced. I'm a single space kind of guy.

I wrote my story and I like it. But I wrote it single-spaced and that's the way it will be delivered because for the life of me I can't figure out how to double-space it on the PC, without the laborious method of doing it line by line, which I refuse to do.

As usual, the “Help” tab provided no help at all.

I hope I'm not graded on spacing.

My mother used to say...

“Wait 'til you're a parent.”

This usually followed my comment: “Ma, don't worry, I'll (we'll) be fine,” referring, of course, to a venture I was planning she was sure would be death-dealing or worse.

What she never had the chance to say was : “Wait 'til your a grand-parent, or better still, a great grand-parent.”

These are uncharted waters for those of us blessed to reach those stages of life. Doting grand-parents are a cliche, of course. But great grand-parenting is something else.

First comes the wonder at how we got to this point in the first place. This is followed by an insatiable desire for pictures of the “greats” as we now call them. I've often asked my wife how many of her friends are “clamoring” for the latest pictures of our five great grandchildren. She smiles and asks me to print some more. I do.

They are cute, I have to admit. And since they all live in Israel we have to go to them, which we will be doing in a few weeks. And, don't worry, Ma, we'll be fine.

Of course, I'll be returning with lots of new pictures to show to all those clamoring for them.

Or not.

"Office Visit"

You wonder why medical costs are out of hand? Here's one example of extreme extravagance.

I had scheduled a procedure with my gastroenterologist for mid February.

His office said he wanted to see me beforehand. Today was the day. I arrived at the appointed time and much to my surprise, within minutes I was taken to an examination room. Knowing how doctors operate (no pun intended) I always bring reading material with me to pass the waiting time.

I had the Arts and Main Section of the Times this morning. I started and finished the crossword puzzle and the rest of that section. Then I started the main section.

Frequently, I heard sounds in the hallway. I thought any minute my door would be next to open. The sounds continued and so did my reading. Just as I finished the main section the doctor finally appeared. An hour had elapsed from the time I was ushered into the exam room.

The first thing I said was that it's a good thing he showed up because I had just run out of reading material. I also said the least he could have done was send in a cup of coffee. Donuts would have been nice but I don't think Medicare covers them.

In any case, he smiled at me, patted me on the knee and mumbled an apology for the delay. Then he put me on the table, poked around my stomach, asked a few questions and said goodbye.

I didn't clock it but I'm sure this mandatory office visit could not have taken more than five minutes of his time. I can only imagine what he'll bill Medicare for this.

Maybe he rents out his exam rooms by the hour.

Coaching For Dollars

I have been fascinated for some time by this new “profession” called “Life Coach.” Apparently anyone can become a “Life Coach.” For a few hundred bucks you can get a piece of paper that “certifies” you as a life coach. This gives you the opportunity to charge money for your advice, er, excuse me, coaching.

Life, it appears, has become so complicated these days that people can't navigate across the street without someone coaching them. “Wait for 'walk,' put one foot before the other 'til you get to the other side.” See, that was easy. $75 please.

Other folks are in such a dither about how to dress or how to meet people or what to do about their body odor (I really am making this up) they need outside assistance. I'm exaggerating the symptoms but the coaching for dollars is very real.

Consumers of coaching are all ages. My guess is most of them are below the age of maturity, because, as we all know, with maturity comes wisdom. And if you are wise you don't need coaching to cope with simple things.

For complex problems you’re better off seeing a real professional such as a psychologist or psychiatrist. Meantime, this member of the over-the-hill gang advises anyone thinking of hiring a “Life Coach” to get a life first.

In other words, grow up.

Setback For Sony

Just when I thought I had made my piece with technology, our digital photo frame went on the blink. I don't know why. It operates on house power. I changed the battery in the remote but it still doesn't work.

Sony will get a call from me and I hope we can resolve the problem. It's a nice gadget but it hasn't been updated lately. We usually need help to do this from my son, who gave it to us a few years ago.

It sits in a nice place in our den and we love the clock face which shows day of week, month, year and, of course, the time. When it's working, that is.

With a successful rebirth of the digital photo frame we may add photos of our newest great grandchildren. They deserve their chance to glow.

We'll see. I hope.

A Knotty Problem

No sooner had Goldman sorted out his socks then his ties called for attention.

Goldman's ties were business-traditional and in the colors of the day, red for power, blue for conservative, darker blue for more conservative. Never yellow, pink or purple, heaven forbid.

And they were always tied conservatively as well. No extra wide Windsor knots for Goldman, just the conservative small Windsor. Ties neatly and unobtrusively displayed inside the suit jacket which was always butted just so.

But lately, Goldman felt his ties mismatched. He found himself wearing red when he should have been wearing a more neutral shade. He was uncomfortable wearing blue. He didn't feel it sufficiently dignified.

Goldman's ties were of the finest silk, loomed by hand from pedigreed silk worms cultivated with exquisite care at select farms around the world. Many other prominent people also have their ties crafted by this same firm. This coterie of customers is known as the “Colleagues of the Cravat.” It is a tight knit group.

So he called on his colleagues for advice. Unbutton your collar and loosen your knot, they said. You'll look and feel a hundred percent better.

He said he'd think about it.