Well, folks and fellow travelers, I had a premonition that our cruise was going to be difficult, one surrounded by an aura of disappointment. I’m not Cassandra. And yet——!
Dear fellow followers of the Babes: With the world in such a perilous state, why are we taking another cruise? Because we signed up for it ages ago before the crap fell from the skies.
We’re at it again. The clothes and makeup critic (of her mother) and I are setting off on another cruise adventure.
Like most seventy-nine-year-olds, I tend to feel as if I’m in my thirties, forties on a bad day. So when reality smacks me in the face, my tendency is to snarl and fight back. However, when our guide in Valencia was extolling the values of Spanish ham and I thought he was talking about Spanish hats, I know there’s a problem
Above Deck
As you know, rejection hurts. This is why the WANKER is a place of acceptance. Some might argue that we’re not discerning—enough—and yet, don’t we all need to be loved—and published?
Like successful authors—unlike me—I should have written the same book over and over and over again, with minor variations. I understand that people like to know what they’re getting when they pick up a book by a author they love. But it was just something I couldn’t force myself to do.
While we at the WANKER like concise communication, sometimes it’s best just to let the mind wander. Ergo, therefore, hence forth, and all that, following is a poem by a new, gifted wordsmith, joining the WANKER family of poets the world should hear from. Get out your Tibetan singing bowls and ruminate on this one.
Nothing succeeds like success? The WANKER poetry group is now receiving submissions from all over the country, so much so that we have become too immersed in administrative work, thus neglecting our own oeuvres.
Where is all this leading, you ask, and what does it have to do with FLOWERS OF THE DESERT? Well, I didn’t meet those flowers until July 1967. (By the way, FLOWERS OF THE DESERT was not my title for the book. In fact like most authors, I’m guessing, I went into a bookshop and asked if they carried FLOWERS OF THE DESERT. They sent me to the horticultural shelf. The whole experience of getting that book published was a nightmare with the worst editor any author could ever have. She lacked complete understanding of the culture I was trying to represent.)
Do you have the life you want? When you were a child, did you dream of commanding the space shuttle or perhaps having the perfect wedding with twenty bridesmaids, all size 4. Maybe you were good in sports and had dreams of an Olympic medal. Or played the flute and thought, if James Galway could do it, why not me?
I love bad poetry. I’ve written bad poetry. In fact, when I was in college, Donald Hall used one of my poems in class as an example of bad poetry. Thank you, Donald. I appreciated that. However, in my second semester of poetry writing, X. J. Kennedy used a poem of mine as an example of, I guess what one could call, “acceptable” poetry. So I can learn.
What do you owe a father you’ve never known? Julian Billings asks himself that question when he discovers he’s the son of an artist. Not a famous artist, a mediocre artist on the verge of discovery when the inevitable happens.
Does art imitate life? Oh, yeah, I know the question should be reversed, but I find events in my life flowing into my—“art?” Let’s just call it “writings.”
How did I come to write THE WANKER. The truth of the matter is that I never really know how I come to write anything.
Books
Last Wednesday night we went to an engineering reception at the university. Guess who was there? Yigal Allon! The university went all out and even served liquor. Along with dried out cakes and sandwiches.
The work fiasco continues. I finally told my boss in economics that I cannot deal with the stupidity on the third floor. If she can’t straighten it out, I’ll quit.
Abe and I are getting out on our own, thanks to relatives babysitting. We usually go to a French film and then out to dinner, which costs a fifth of my monthly salary. Money doesn’t go far here. Everything is expensive, except at a falafel stand. Yum!
Abe and I piled into the ambulance with Ben and were taken to the hospital. The siren was blaring, but in Israel no one gets out of the way for an ambulance. It’s always me first, especially when driving.
But something very interesting happened to us. We visited the Aaronsohn house, which was the center of the Nili spy ring.
The good thing about Israel historically is that everywhere you turn, there are ruins. This Saturday we walked only three blocks to where they were excavating a Philistine temple.
It’s sort of weird, splashing in the water, while fighter jets zoom above us. This time the action was against terrorists in Lebanon. But there’s always some terrorist incursion happening somewhere, and we live right near an air base.
Meanwhile, the food. All I can say is Oy! Since everything is kosher, what passes for beef here is inedible—for all of us except Abe. He has no trouble eating it. I stick to chicken or frozen cod. If I get the chicken, I have to have someone clean it, as the head, the feet and some of the feathers remain. You will not find this woman plucking a chicken.
I have a maid! It’s the first time in my life I’ve had a maid. Her name is Mima, and she’s Moroccan. She also works for Golda Meir. This is my only claim to fame.
Our first shock. Being in a time warp what with traveling with two small children, a canceled flight, transferring airports, we had no idea what was happening at the Munich Olympics, where the Israeli athletes were slaughtered.
I (have) discovered letters and postcards I had sent to my parents from our sabbatical year in Israel, 1972-1973. For some reason my mother saved them all.
I have just returned from the hospital, realizing how pointless and debilitating my stay there was.
What makes me happy every day is settling down at nap time and reading something engaging.
Before we move upwards, let’s start with my body. It’s basically European peasant, broad hips, chubby thighs, nice ankles and not bad on top. Shopping while young, I assumed in my old age, I’d be wearing half-sizes. Guess what, they no longer make half-sizes.
I hate thinking about politics, talking about politics, watching politics. But like most of us now I can’t look away from the trainwreck that is our political system at the moment.
Take a journey with me now to this small town halfway between Syracuse and Utica and locate on your map 210 Sconondoa Street. To find it you’d have to drive out of the quaint downtown area and onto a street leading out of town, down near the railroad tracks.
I have mentioned before that the artist in me didn’t blossom until late in life. Wait. Shouldn’t “artist” be in quotes. Oh, yeah, that’s better.
Having just attended a lecture on the “Joys of Downsizing” at the local senior center—packed, by the way—I have decided to grab the bull by the horns, meaning the crap in my house. I figure it might be about time.
It used to be easy to “steal” someone else’s package. Left on your doorstep, hey, it’s yours, baby. But now Amazon has grown smarter. It has its delivery people take a photo of exactly on which door the package has landed.
Growing up, through high school and college, girls/women never wore slacks or jeans. It was always skirts and then for fancy occasions dresses. Were we being punished for being female? At least we could wear saddle shoes or white bucks with socks and didn’t have to worry about straight seams until the weekends.
I think about July 4 lately, when this unpatriotic American will be presiding over the festival of our freedom. What a sad state of affairs we’re in.
Little things in life pile up, don’t they? I’m adverse to talking on the phone, but there are so many appointments one cannot make via email or texts. When I do connect, it seems that no one has the time or the timing is inappropriate.
Haven’t we all at one time or another been in a situation that was morally fraught, where we asked ourselves what we should do?
Whither or wither our common heritage? I often ask myself that question when listening to news shows on television or even talking to friends.
I can’t do it. As wonderful as I am, I can’t stand before people and tell them how wonderful I am. It’s just not in my nature.
I like to consider myself one with nature. Maybe not the fauna so much but definitely the flora.
Now, despite the two cancers and Covid, I’m a great believer that nothing is going to go wrong with me, that some day I shall just say, “Bye, bye, Earth,” and make a quick exit.
No longer do we just turn away, muttering, “Each to his/her own opinion.” Now someone must pay for annoying us. They have to lose their job, be shunned by the community, be sued—be shot to death.
Inside C.A. Haddad
They hadn’t written their own vows. Riley thought it was a corny thing to do. She just wanted the traditional ceremony. Vows could be so—sappy. And sappiness could be saved for the toasts at the reception.
The box that Steve gave him. The presumptuous box. Mike decided to open it. What else did he have to do but watch television and maybe fall asleep.
“Honey, I’m home!” Steve joked, as he returned from his latest trip, this time San Diego. He was supposed to have an assignment in Dubai, but he told his bosses that he definitely had to be there for his sister-in-law’s wedding. Under no condition was he going to miss it. Ergo, San Diego, clearing his calendar for this coming weekend’s drive up to Scarsdale, where he would once again meet the charming Bernice Franklin. And the rest of the crew.
Was she so bad in bed that he had to look elsewhere? And how many times had he done the looking? Was it only with the whip master? Were there others? Patients? No, he wouldn’t. They might have a heart attack. But what about the nurses or staff? She never asked. The only one she knew about was Heidi, the rejuvenator. Leaving sad sack Bernice all to herself.
“I think I’ve made a friend or at least an ally. Beth. She’s married to Barry, Steve’s younger brother. They have the sweetest little girl, Sophia.” Eden laughed. “Beth said, if I ever have children and it’s a girl, I should definitely make an extreme effort to get along with Sandy. Girl’s clothes, she assured me, were very expensive, and there’s nothing like a grandmother to fill that closet. Although I have a feeling Sandy will never be filling the closet of any child of mine. It was little digs the entire time, which I chose to ignore. Steve said afterwards that he was very proud of me.”
Beth drove while Barry, on his cell, rustling through papers. You’d think with everything online, he wouldn’t need papers, but they seemed to calm him, as he could be quite hyper. Perfect for what they did, mostly. Her method was the calm, “Let’s see where this takes us,” response to frazzled clients. Never oversell as it could come back to bite you in the ass.
Marty never liked to argue with his wife. But— “Maybe you haven’t been as welcoming to Eden as you could be. I think we should be grateful to her. Steve is happy. How many nights have we pondered what was going to happen to him? You always said middle-child-syndrome. But, let’s face it, it was more than that. His only friend was basically his computer. Arrested for hacking, you’ll recall.”
Eden was puzzling over what strategy to use with her new husband. How was she to get her own way with a perfectly appropriate request? Steve was home from that short trip to Ontario, and this was the weekend they would drive up to Pennsylvania to see Steve’s parents—and the rest of his family.
Bernice Franklin was in a flurry of excitement. Finally! One of her ungrateful brats had come through and left everything in her capable hands. She got to plan Riley’s wedding!
It seems that Mike wasn’t the only one who didn’t marry a Catholic, but every other potential spouse agreed to a church wedding to keep the Aherns happy. At least this is what Mike relayed to Riley.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” an FBI agent she knew only as Dick Trager said. He emanated such world weariness, as if everything was simply too much for him, including listening to her repeat her story again and again and again.
Was that a honeymoon or was that a honeymoon? Eden was still debating. Like, a seal identification lecture was romantic? And what about the penguin count? “This is probably something you’ll never do again,” Steve told her enthusiastically. You're damn right she wouldn’t be. Couldn’t they have just gone to an aquarium?
So the truth was she didn’t want to get married until her father was behind bars so that there was no way he could walk her down the aisle, no way he could be in her wedding albums. When he was in prison, she would write to him maybe once a month, but that was it. He wasn’t dead to her, she just didn’t want him to be part of her life.
Bernice wrinkled the edges of the newspaper in disgust. Thad Dunkirk, who had no classes that day, thus had spent the night at Bernice’s condo in Scardale, looked up, his eyes wide behind rather thick glasses. “Did you see this article?” she asked him.
Exhausted, Riley was very much looking forward to this coming weekend. Who gets married on a Wednesday, anyway? Only Eden. Her little sister.
Using his fob, he opened the outside door to the apartment complex and then the door to his apartment, calling out hopefully, “Eden?” Except it wasn’t Eden who stepped out of his bedroom, the immaculate one with no mess scattered around. Surprised, he looked around. This was his apartment. Wasn’t it?
“Look, Mom. Don’t worry about Dimitri. He’ll come back to Europe and find me here. I dated him for a while, and he didn’t take our breakup very well. You know how possessive these Russian men can be. I’m so sorry he bothered you. If he comes by again, call the cops.”
While Frank was at work in Hartford, she had time on her hands. Oh, her boring remote work in medical billing continued. But it was a drag on her psyche. She spent way too much time reading the ads, the real estate ads because she knew what she wanted to do in life. Renovate!
She had no idea who started the singing and the beer mugs slamming on the table, but they were all at it, swilling it down and vocalizing madly. No wonder people liked being professors if this is what all conferences were like.
Riley felt like a conspirator. She and Mike were going over various scenarios on how to bring up the topic of his birth with other family members. Donal’s daughter was having a confirmation party, but Mike’s revelation would really kill the moment.
Eden was already seated when they arrived at the restaurant. But Sandy noted she rose as they approached and came around to give Sandy a short hug and one for Marty too. “So glad to see you again,” Eden gushed, Steve thought with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“What have I done!” Eden was roaming the sterile abyss that was Steve’s apartment. She had heard from Riley that their mother—their mother in her sixties!—was taking off for Europe with a strange man that she hardly knew.
First Eden and now Frank. Betrayal. Where was the asp Bernice could clasp to her bosom to remove her from the misery of this world?
Eden felt very proud of herself. She had dealt with the Lily situation with outstanding finesse.
She was so lonely in Sandy Springs. Oh, people were friendly everywhere, kind and welcoming. But, it wasn’t like having Frank to look forward to on the weekends. All she had in her life was her job—remote—her daily walks, and her evening television.
She hardly saw Oleg. They were in communication via email which used a lot of misdirecting terms in case anyone investigated their business arrangement. “Did you get the perfume I sent you?” Heidi wished he would send perfume, but at least that terminology was more romantic than asking about the case of sardines. If anyone ever checked, they’d wonder what she’d be doing with a case of sardines. But let him have his fun.
It was Sunday, her do nothing day, Riley thought with a great deal of pleasure. Oh, there were things she could be doing, like vacuuming and the dreaded dusting, not to mention a load of clothes. Sometimes she considered hiring a maid, but her townhouse with only her in it, how dirty could it get? Well, she didn’t want to examine that issue too closely.
Okay, so Steve wasn’t Mr. Personality, mostly likely his high school class’s biggest nerd, but she knew him to be warm, with a sly sense of humor. And he was generous. And accommodating. Not many men are accommodating.
“It’s time for me to leave,” Lily said. They were having brunch at Eggs ‘R Us early Sunday morning before the church crowd arrived. This way they got their choice of bagels, which could run out.
Finite Fiction
As my physical ability declines, thanks in large part to a broken ankle, due to Lufthansa’s uneven steps on their buses, I reflect on a childhood full of snubs regarding my fitness as a team player.
The day for departure came. It was a month after graduation, plenty of time to prepare, also plenty of time for your love to let you know if she had changed her mind about the elopement. This you couldn’t imagine as it was true love and true love lasts forever.
Well, there was the man servant and the maid servant and the little boy down the lane, who was their little boy, and here they were all of a sudden with three bags of wool. “Let’s get busy, the maid servant said.
Twenty years ago to the day there was a free and fair election that brought to power a politician you were proud to vote for because he was for the people and you were, let’s face it, people.
The fog always brought something primal out in Misty. When it was sunny, she was sunny, all happiness and light. But it was in the darkest part of her soul that she really felt alive, so she longed for the days of the deep fog, where she could linger in that miasma of the unexpected.
If you have a grandmother, she’s probably shown you her spoon collection. You probably pretended to be fascinated. Oh, yes, Grandma, there’s your spoon from a silver mine in South Dakota. That must have been an exciting trip. Yeah, you’re faking it big time.
I have always had problems with numbers, along with a history of failure—as in: I cannot fail to mention that, despite my brilliance, my SAT math score was well below average. Can I still remember it? Does humiliation ever leave us or are we left constantly unmoored?
Prince Harry, formerly valued member of the British royal family, made the decision to step away from the limelight and live a quiet life of introspection with a wife who equally values privacy and shies away from the press and all publicity.
Wait! What was that Oprah interview all about?
“So what I’m telling you now that you’re all here,” the father continued as if no one had spoken, “this is your last chance to get to the house and see if there’s anything you’ve left behind, because I’m selling the place and moving on.”
Okay, let’s face it. Georgie has problems. There’s a duality in his nature that should be examined.
So what’s with Mary and her lamb, you might be wondering. Was she a farmer’s daughter and a 4-H member? You got it in one.
Yeah, we’ve all heard this one before. But does anyone know the true story? Here are the facts:
Join us as we travel from Umi—“sea” in Japanese—to Imaq, “sea” in Inuit. Yes, we’re cruising from Japan to Alaska, so, “From Umi to Imaq with the Babes.”