“So I ended it,” I say to Janet on the phone.
“I’ve heard that one before,” she sighs.
“No. This time he admitted he’s with the 30-year-old Russian nanny. She wears spike heels and runs in marathons.”
“Dump the shlump! Let her have him.’’
“It’s time for new things,” I agree. “This past year between the bugs and the apartment renovation and the boomer-freak commitment-phobic, I’m ready for new beginnings. He thinks because he’s a hotshot root canal dentist, he’s in demand.’’
“I hate to tell you honey, he is.”
“The man can’t commit beyond a Friday night. Then he shops for the next one. He thinks I don’t know. It’s time for someone new. Someone real.’’
‘’Oy. Just stay alive.”
“I intend to do more than that,” I reply. ‘’I intend to have it all — career, money and undying love. Just because I’m in my 70s doesn’t mean I can’t have it all new and wonderful and, you know, a Jewish Rhett Butler.’’
She sighs heavily, like an exasperated parent sighs at a willful child.
“Bunny Blumenthal met this retired dermatologist while waiting for her colonoscopy,” Janet continues, lowering her raspy voice. ‘’He’s been dating her and he can do it. Then he takes her home to meet his family and guess what? The family turned out to be his wife and her mother.’’
“Oh my God.’’
“They have an open marriage. He wanted his wife’s approval.’’
“Freak.’’
“Honey, not as freaky as that Walter tycoon I was dating. He slept in his wife’s creepy high-altitude sleeping chamber. One night with him was like sleeping in a horror film. He said the bed keeps you young. To top it, his wife died in the freak bed.’’
“Freaks.’’
“These boomer-plus oldies are meshuggenehs. Bunny Blumenthal says the best place to meet boomers is at the organic market. She said the berry aisle is packed with boomer freaks yacking about their cholesterol and bowel movements.’’
‘’The pickings are slim,” I sigh.
‘’I hear ya. Then Bunny had a blind date with a guilty giant. Poor thing is almost 7 feet.’’
“Guilty about what?”
‘’He’d told Bunny that his wife was normal size. That she died because of him. He’d rolled over her in his sleep and she died from suffocation.’’
“Freaks. All freaks.’’
‘’If they’re not midgets, they’re giants. The boomer freaks keep their dead wife’s beds. It’s a problem.’’
“Either their wives fall out of windows, die on toilet seats or are squished. These boomer men are freaks. The last one I dated gives Think Rich free seminars so he can meet women.”
Beeeep …
“Gotta go,” I say, hanging up the phone.
Every day Janet and I talk on the phone. We talk about the past, present and future. We talk about politics, movie stars and ailments. We talk about our dreams.
It’s early December in San Francisco. I love Hanukkah, time with my daughters and sons-in-law. This is a time for reflection, wisdom and positive thinking. It’s my favorite time of year, when my family comes together.
I love the tearing of packages, the sons-in-law holding up the wrong sizes, trying to smile. My daughter Bonny’s fabulous home-baked coffee cakes and candy apples. The shopping, endless hugs and promises for the new year. My cousin Richard falling asleep at the table and his wife poking him and shouting that he needs to see a doctor. Aunt Lil and Uncle Harry fighting about Obamacare and my cousin Donald banging the crystal with a spoon, shouting it’s time for his song. An ex-vaudeville star, he sings a song in Yiddish. Then there’s the sudden quiet and prayers for peace.
With each new year, there’s a new series of endings, and new dreams and goals and new beginnings.
Shalom.
Barbara Rose Brooker is an S.F. native and the author of “The Viagra Diaries.” Her new novel, “Should I Sleep in His Dead Wife’s Bed?” was released this month. www.barbararosebrooker.com