Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Story of the Day 10/ 26/ 2009

I always enjoy speaking with my niece.
That is not because she is cute, even though she is, because that is not something one can enjoy over the phone- at least, not over our non-video cell phones.
But I always learn things.

I am sure that some of that is because I am middle aged which rhymes with dense. Well, it does if you are a teenager, as are several of my nieces. A lot of the rest of it is probably due to the fact that I actually am dense, and some of it is also due to the fact that my niece leads an interesting life.

She was telling me about her English teacher.
Last year, one day, her teacher happened to be absent.
The following day she came to class and explained that she was absent because her cats told her not to go to work.
Her cats.

I didn’t’ ask how many.
Or if she had argued with them.

My niece then went on to tell me that the students also think she is odd because she lived in a tree for a year and her boyfriend is a lumber jack.
Now, they probably think this is odd because having a boyfriend as a lumber jack must be somewhat threatening to someone who lives in a tree- although, this is only conjecture. I can’t be sure , since I have never, personally lived in a tree. Perhaps, now that she is not living in a tree, she could develop a relationship with someone else. After all, the relationship she has seems a bit…sado-masochistic, or something like that.
But I look at it as normal. I mean, he must have spent a good part of that year getting her to come out of that tree , so he could chop it down. And, if you are living in a tree, what other types of men are you likely to meet?
Please don’t’ answer.

But, as I told my niece I really wasn’t bothered y any of that.
I was bothered by the cats.

I also asked her if she sat in the front row.
I didn’t’ think this was a good idea, in case the teacher had a sharp object and instructions from the cats.
But, as my niece reminded me, somewhat exasperatedly, this was last year’s English teacher.
Although, she is still this year’s English teacher to the students she has this year.

It is amazing the Deaf School hasn’t tried to hire her, yet.

Story of the Day - Addendum to 10/ 23/ 2009

On Saturday, Aaron let slip that we were really not his third choice of where to go for the weekend, we were his 4th…also on the list before us was visiting friend at Purdue, but it happened to be their family weekend.

Sorry, Aaron.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Story of the Day 10/ 23/ 3009

I was at the Art Center.
Drawing.
That is what I do on Friday mornings, if I am lucky.
If I am unlucky, the session ( open studio- figure drawing, painting- which means a model and no instructor- a place for those of us who like to drawn naked people go…) has filled. The last session didn’t, and I was left with nothing to do on Friday mornings except clean my bathrooms. That was very painful. Although, I had nice clean bathrooms.

Right now, my bathrooms are not that clean, but I am happier.

So, I was at the Art Center. Drawing. And my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Occasionally, when I am very focused I either don’t’ notice it, or I get so startled that I practically fall off my horse. Yes, my horse. That is the wooden bench that many art folks use to sit on and prop their drawing board against when they draw.

Today, I was not so very focused. Probably a combination effect of only having had 2 cups of coffee, so far, and having a somewhat boring model. At any rate, I was less focused and I both managed to notice it vibrating and managed to not fall off the horse.
So far, so good.

It was my son.

I figured that it couldn’t be equal to the emergency calls of two days ago, when he was wandering lost in the bowels of Indianapolis, but, none-the-less, I hurried out of the room to take the call.
Well, heck, I do kind of like the boy.

He had some odd remark about what time he was leaving to come home.
“Come home? You are coming home?”
I mean, it is not like I was upset or anything, but he had told me he wasn’t coming home for fall break. And fall break started today.
Not that he doesn’t’ love me or anything, but he had some video project he was working on and…..
“What about the video project?”

“Oh, that is what we did on Wednesday.”
Great. Fine, whatever. And I realize I haven’t defrosted enough food for dinner.
“Drive carefully!”

Later, when he is home, and I am home and I have hugged him a few times and tried to feed him, he admits that he was going t stay at college over the weekend, anyhow, but then he realized that everyone else was leaving.

Oh well, I will be happy with the crumbs.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Story of the Day 10/ 21/ 2009

The most wonderful little boy in the world called me today.
Okay, I am slightly biased in my judgment of his position in this world. Also, at 6’2”, he is not quite little, anymore.
But he called me.

5 times.

In 40 minutes.

Now, getting a call from him is always nice. Except when they come that fast and furious, because it means that something is wrong.
Aaron’s first call to me was, “Mom, I am headed north on Meridian, but it doesn’t look right.”
Well, I knew he was coming into Indianapolis from Muncie- where his college is located- which is to the north of Indianapolis, and , obviously, the exit from the expressway for Meridian is on the north side of town. So, I said the obvious, “Turn around. You need to go south.”
He did turn around, and called me that it still looked wrong.
I ask the obvious,"Where are you?"
It turns out he was on the south side of Indianapolis.
The south side? He must have gotten really lost and taken the expressway that loops around the city all the way around to the south side before getting off.

“Okay, you have to turn around again and go north. Pull over and turn around.”

Several minutes later comes another call, “ I don’t; know where I am!”

He names some streets which sound vaguely familiar and I enter them into MapQuest. I start to tell him where to go, but he has pulled over and someone there is giving him directions.

He calls me again, a few minutes later. The guy gave him wrong directions.

He is driving down a street- but it goes two directions. I ask him to call out the cross streets.
We get disconnected. He calls me back.
After a few minutes, I tell him where to turn.

I repeat the order for turning right and left, or left and right- why is he asking someone who is dyslexic?
Oh yeah, because I am his mother.

Poor kid.

Several hours later, I get the phone call I was really waiting for. He is safely back at college.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Stopry of the Day 10/ 11/ 2009

It is mortifying to be a teenager.
Not only is everyone in the entire world staring at you.
Critically.
But , if you are, G-d forbid, with your mother, you know that they are also staring at her, and she is bound to be doing something embarrassing.

Believe me, my children have told me, many times, of how they have suffered through this!

And the things we make our children do…

The young lady sitting behind us at services, on Saturday evening- which was the best holiday of the year- and I say that because it has lots of candy attached to it- was cringing over the very idea that her parents were expecting her to wear a BRIGHT ORANGE REFLECTIVE VEST , so that she didn’t get hit by any cars on the way home.

We live in a residential area that does not have sidewalks, and you have to walk on the not very well delineated side of the street , down unlit streets, where the cars believe they have eternal right of way, and no speed limits.

Being a parent, I vote in favor of those embarrassing orange vests, but this young lady could only see the mortifying side of it. She would much rather have no one notice her and get hit by a car.

In an effort to make light of this indignity, I told her that no matter what , she only gets stared at for short periods of time. The moment anyone in my family starts to have a conversation, we are ensured of being started at for a minimum of 30 minutes. At least, by anyone not familiar with us- so she really had nothing to complain about.
My daughter, Sarah, hates this attendant attention to us because we are using sign language. Off course, I am old, so I long ago stopped giving a hoot.

But this other Sarah’s mother, had a story that topped it.

Many years ago, when they were taking Lamaze classes, in preparation for her birth, her parents would go to the hospital for the classes, and afterwards to the cafeteria for a romantic cup of tea, or whatever.
As you can judge by their fast and fancy life style, we get along quite well . Not to mention that we also force our children to wear bright orange vests.

Now, as we all know, some people are more prone to being started at than others.
People in wheelchairs get stared at.
People over 7’ tall get stared at.
People who are walking down the street with their set of octuplets get stared at.
The Amish get stared at.

Well, here they were sitting in the cafeteria. He with his very blond beard and his Jewish frummie hat, and she in a dress and a sheitel- which is the name of those wigs married Jewish ladies wear.

And a couple of Amish boys walk past- staring at them. And pointing.

Our friends happen to turn around, and the adult Amish are also staring at them…not quite sure what to make of them.
So, they have the distinction of being the people that the Amish point and stare at.

I cannot top that story.

Story of the Day 10/ 10/ 2009

This story is kind of an addendum to the Story from 9/6/2009……

In an effort to upgrade the atmosphere of services, on the high holidays, Parisa took the initiative of bringing some shawls to synagogue and leaving them on the odd piece of furniture in the lobby that holds assorted tallit and kippot and lace head doilies for people to use.

She thought that some of the people who were not regulars and who showed up for services might feel better , when they realized that there is some vague semblance of a dress code at Etz, if they had something to cover up their cleavage from the fact they are wearing absolutely no blouse at all, or anything else, apparently, under the open suit jacket, or that they might feel a need to maybe not let us all see what color their thong undies are.

The shawls did get good use. As a matter of fact, those same worshippers found the shawls especially helpful, since the air conditioning was turned up high.

Thank you , Alan!

The only problem is that these same people decided that they really did need to do something about their wardrobes, and they took the shawls home with them.
Every single one.
Gone.

My husband and I discussed this.
We think that the next time shawls are provided, they need to have those nice little sewn in labels.
Ones that say, “Property of Etz Chaim”.
Only, maybe the labels should not be so little.
And maybe they should say, as my husband suggested, “Stolen from Etz Chaim Synagogue”.
Or, as I suggested- though no one else seemed to like my suggestion:
“Property of Etz Chaim, Keep Your Fucking Hands Off!”

Story of the Day 10/ 12/ 2009

- which is really an addendum to Friday’s (10/9/2009) second story

There was a lovely article in the newspaper about the Family Fun Day.

They had popcorn.

Story of the Day 10/ 9/ 2009 #2

At dinner, yes this is the same dinner Ethan was at, Larry mentioned a new billboard that he passes , every day , on his drive to work.

It says:

Sunday is Family Fun Day .

At the Cemetery.
Crown Hill Cemetery.
There is not much more I can say about this.

Story of teh Day 10/ 9/ 2009

We had company for dinner. This is unusual.

As a general rule, we do not like having company on Friday evenings.

This has some small thing to do with the fact that after taking our showers, before the start of Shabbat, neither Sarah nor I like to put on clothes.
So when my husband comes home from synagogue, and Aaron, if he is home, we don’t’ really want to have to wear anything more than our pajamas to the dinner table.
Of course, we also don’t’ like to have anyone for Shabbat lunch- lunch on Saturday.
This is because I am lazy.
We belong to Etz, and one of the hallmarks of Etz is that their version of a Kiddush after services on Saturday is nicer than anything I have ever served for lunch. So, why would I want to try to compete with that?
But, Ethan’s parents were going to be out of town, so what could I do? And, after all, since Ethan spent a great deal of his formative years with Aaron, either at his house or at ours, he has already seen all of us in our pajamas, so it wasn’t like Sarah and I actually had to get dressed for dinner.
The other reason that we don’t’ like to have company for Friday night dinner, is because of Sarah. You see, we have a rule that everyone has to sign at the table. But when we have company, it is rare that they can sign, and so, we all end up using Spoken English, all of us except for Sarah, that is.
But, once again, although Ethan doesn’t sign, expect for those few rude words Aaron has taught him, Sarah is used to him, and so we had company for dinner.

During dinner, I did end up doing a bit of interpreting. Some of what Ethan spoke into ASL for Sarah and some of what Sarah signed into Spoken English, for him.

At one point, I was interpreting for Sarah and I told Ethan, “It smelled like poop.”

There was an immediate outcry from Sarah.

“I said C-R-A-P, not [poop!”

Shame on her mother for trying to clean it up a little, and forgetting that she can speechread.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Story of the Day 10/ 5/ 2009

Tis the season for Jewish holidays.

At this time of year, we have one per week. Well, actually, we have them more frequently than that, but who’s counting?
They roll out one after another with carefully timed notes sent off to Sarah’s teachers to alert them that another one is coming up, and that she will either be absent or unable to do homework during the holy days, and to please give her some of the assignments in advance, so she doesn’t’ get too far behind.

And our holidays have funny names. Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret, Simchat Torah. Even if they were Hearing, her teachers would struggle to be able to say them. Actually, I am sure her Hearing teachers do…but, since they are using sign language at the Deaf School, it means that they are more likely struggling to spell them……

One of Sarah’s teachers has consistently asked her, as each of the holidays has come up, “Do you eat Maso Ball soup for this holiday?” Fortunately, Sarah figured out immediately what the teacher was trying to spell.

The first time, Sarah explained, “No, we eat it for Passover.” Using the word-sign for Passover .
Possibly, the teacher doesn’t’ know that the word sign for Passover corresponds to some thing spelled either P-A-S-S-O-V-E-R or P-E-S-A-C-H, because she has asked her the same question, each time. First for Rosh Hashanah, then for Yom Kippur, and now for Sukkot.

And each time Sarah has told her, “No, we eat that for Passover.”

Recently, Sarah's teacher asked Sarah "Anything delicious, and special food you ate for um, Y.. Wait. I remember now, Yom Kappur?"

Sarah replied "No we don't eat anything at all on Yom Kippur. We fast."

After a moment of stunned silence....
"Oh, forget Yom Kappur, what about Rosa Hannah and Sukkat? Did you eat anything very special or delicious?"

Sarah had a hard time remembering what she had eaten on Rosh Hashanah and Sukkot. She could only think of one special food she really loves that we had for both holidays… So she replied "Avocado.”

"What? That's all? That's all you ate for Rosa Hannah and Sukkat?"

Sarah said "No, my mom cooked quiche pie, gazpacho, delicious challah, and many other things . Have you ever tasted quiche pie? I love quiche pie so much. It is so delicious!"

Her teacher replied "Oh. No, I have never tasted quiche pie before. Never in my life."
She had never even heard of it.

Sarah came home and asked me if quiche was a Jewish food- a food that only Jewish people eat.

Sarah is now rather confused.
So am I.

You see, Sarah has been telling me, since school started, that this teacher is apparently in love with France and everything French.

Story of the Day 10/ 10/ 2009

My husband is preparing to take his Boards. His recertification test in Rheumatology.

Back in the “day”, you took your Boards once. Well, once for Internal Medicine and once for Rheumatology, and then you could spend the rest of your days referring to yourself as a Board Certified Rheumatologist.
Oh yes, in order to keep your Medical License current, you had to complete a certain number of Continuing Education Credits of various types, but you were , eternally, “Board Certified” in your specialty.
However, somewhere during my husband’s many years of professional training, not his 4 years of medical school, and not his year of internship and 2 years of residency, but somewhere during his next few years of fellowship training, they changed the rules.

Because he had completed his Boards in Internal Medicine, his first specialty, before the new rules, he is eternally Certified in it.
However, since he finished his Rheumatology fellowship and took his Boards in it after the new rules, he has to re-take the Boards every 10 years, again and again and again , until he either retires or no longer gives a shit about being Board Certified in it.

Oh yes, he can still practice medicine as a Rheumatologist whether or not he re-takes the test. He just cannot declare himself to be Board Certified.
So, my husband has been diligently re-taking this test at 10 year intervals. And because he is the very serious and organized person that he is, he starts studying for them about 6 years in advance, setting aside time to cover a certain amount of material every week. 6 years? Well, that is exactly what the ABIM ( American Board of Internal Medicine….I think) recommend- and my husband happens to be incredibly good at following directions.

And this is in addition to the studying he does to keep up to date with new information regarding both the practice of Rheumatology and the practice of Internal Medicine.

My husband is 51 years old. So, he took this test when he was 41, and before that, when he was 31. And he will be taking it again in 10 years, when he is 61, and possibly when he is 71, ten years after that. He has , however, assured me, that if he is still practicing medicine when he is 81, he will tell them to go screw themselves, and skip taking it. He figures that any patients who are still seeing him, at that point, will not give a shit about it.

That’s my husband. He likes to live dangerously.

The test changes. Different questions, different things to know.
And it also changes as the world changes, because time and technology have marched on.
This will be the first year that he will be taking it without paper, and without a # 2 pencil that has been carefully sharpened. Or, in my husband’s case, three #2 pencils. Because one might break, and the back up one might break……

So, my husband has done the practice of the new format for the test, which is available on-line, to get ready for it.

The test is Thursday.
It is at the Pyramids.
Not in Egypt.
North of us.
There are these three sort of pyramid shaped buildings. Well, not quite pyramid shaped and with their tops chopped off, but they are still called the Pyramids.
So, as another part of his test preparation, he drove out there , yesterday morning, to make sure he knew exactly where to go. He even parked and took the elevator up to the correct floor, to make sure there would be no problems in finding the correct place.

Then, today, he received a final list of instructions from the testing center.
It is forbidden to take watches, phones and wallets into the testing room.
Okay. All right. Fine.

Although, I can see my husband’s discomfort. He is always ready and always prepared. He always has his watch on his wrist ready to give the time.

He always has his wallet in one pocket, and two carefully folding Kleenex in the other- folded into perfect squares, in the other. Ready , as needed .

He always has his keys in his pocket, careful not to get locked out.
Oh wait, I think they let him keep the keys.

But my husband has decided he will be okay with this.
Probably because he can still have his Kleenex.

However, he did say to me, “ I really do hope I get to keep my pants.”

Story of the Day 10/ 2/ 2009

My daughter rides the bus to the Deaf School. To it each morning and home each afternoon.
Our school district has two buses that go to the Deaf School. That is not because there are too many kids to fit onto one of the big yellow buses. There are, altogether, not even enough kids to half fill one bus. It is because our township is shaped something like a cigar on it’s side. It runs all the way from the east side of town to the west side of town, but not very far from north to south.
They used to have one bus for the entire district.
But that meant that some of the kids would be riding and riding and riding- and getting home long past when their bladders were ready to get home.
So, now, there are two buses, one for the east side and one for the west, and Sarah gets home at a reasonable time.

Except that, she didn’t’, today.
Tonight starts a Jewish holy day. Not just Shabbat , but also the holiday of Sukkot- and she has to be home and showered and dressed and ready before sundown.
And the bus is late.
She finally gets home 1 hour late.
Okay, only 55 minutes late, but it felt like an hour.

And she tells me why….
There are about 10 students who ride this big yellow bus. Some are like Sarah, they get on and off the bus by themselves. A few do not. They are either very young and ride in car seats and their parents have to get them on and off the bus, or they have disabilities that mean their parents get them on and off the bus. They don’t just go racing up and down the bus steps and in and out of their front doors.
So, the bus pulls to the end of a block and stops- it’s red lights flashing.
And it waits. And it waits, and it waits.

30 minutes go by, and no parent comes out of the grey sided house to get a child.

Eventually, another bus comes by , one from the high school- a late bus with students who have most likely stayed after for athletics.
Sarah’s bus driver motions for one of the students to come over to her bus. He asks the high school student to go to the house and knock.
The student does this. And waits.
Eventually, someone opens the door.
The student comes back to the bus and tells the bus driver that this family doesn’t have a son.
Of course, all of this is occurring in English, but Sarah is getting pretty good idea of what is going on.

The bus driver pulls the lever and folds the stop sign back to the side of the bus and turns off the red flashing lights.
And drives around a bit.
Finally, he pulls up to a house- a brick house, not all that far away- as I have been exaggerating. You see, he only had to drive about one more block, because he could then see……
An anxious father waiting by the street to get his child.
And then the bus resumes its route.

I ask Sarah the one, obvious question.

“Is this a new student?”

“No.”
This child has been riding the bus every day since school started in late August.
This is also the same bus driver.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Story of teh Day 9/ 22/ 2009

A friend emailed me, yesterday, asking what I thought of Facebook.

Her son , who is far away at college, is urging her to sign up.

I admitted that my college daughter signed me up, the first time she was home on break.

Esther did not do this because she had some tremendous desire to share her life with all of its details with me, or to have me constantly send her growing gifts. She did it because I kept annoying her to send me photos.

By getting a Facebook account set up for me, I could see the photos she posted to her Facebook page, and leave her alone. Smart girl. You can see how she got into a good college!

So, I explained to my friend, Linda, that this was a big benefit of having a Facebook account. Also, it didn’t’ limit you to seeing the pictures your child posts- you also get to see any photos their friends post of them in which they are tagged, videos, what they are complaining about, what parties they have been to, who their friends are, what clubs they belong to have planned as activities, if they are in a relationship….sheesh, all of the sudden I have become a Peeping Tom into my child’s life!

I did warn her, though, that it is a tremendous time –water. If I would just stop playing Farm Town and clean my house…….but, to be honest, if it weren’t Farm Town, I would find some other activity to keep me from having to mop. Solitaire?

The other thing that I learned about Facebook, is that it is a great way to find lost people.
Well, they don’t know they are lost. As far as they are concerned, they know where they are; I just don’t know where they are.

I have people in my life who are dear friends who have vanished. I know that Isabella was in Philadelphia in 1981, but after that? And even though her name is distinctive, it has not been distinctive enough for me to locate her in searches of phone directory listings for the 48 contiguous states. But there she was on Facebook! Only 28 years later!

And people can find me. Even people I never knew existed.

Like relatives.

Of course, the fact that they would locate me and make contact with me and ask to be friends with me on Facebook is a good indicator that they have never met me. And I have even tried to warn some of them.
I have been very generous in describing myself as being a little demented. Okay, maybe I should have left off the little…..
But find me they have.

One is a cousin – 4th or 5th, and we are related through my maternal grandmother…and grandfather- since they were cousins.
And this one is a 2nd cousin once removed. Which doesn’t’ mean that anyone was disowned, just that we are separated by generations, one of us being an F3 and one of us being an F4. Sorry, but since I am the family genealogist, I get to label all this stuff- sometimes inaccurately.

Don’t have a stroke. I am only the family genealogist by default.
10 years ago, when the relatives who are much cheerier than I am – you know , the kind who join fraternities and sororites and do things like smile and say” hello” because they actually noticed you, not because someone has said “hello” loudly enough to get their usually distracted attention or because they have accidentally bumped someone with their shopping cart or their fat butt, and “hello “is the precursor to” gosh, I am very sorry!”
Those kinds of cousins.

And believe it or not, I have several of them. And, obviously, we are F3s and F4s, so the genes they have that produced this friendly demeanor are not the same genes I stood a chance of getting…..

Anyhow, those friendly, outgoing cousins who started planning this family reunion in Chicago needed volunteers. And what chore do you give the cousin who is a bookworm, somewhat obsessive, and can decipher small amounts of Hebrew from gravestones and documents? Family tree research.

I had about 15 months before the reunion, and I did what even I consider to be a good job, although, my husband really would have preferred to have had occasional use of the dining room table and a wife who made it to bed before 2 A.M., most mornings.
As a result, I have a very neurotically multi-paged diagram of the family going back to the 11th century.

And I am, grateful to God, that I didn’t’ get stuck with the “current” part of the family tree.
One thing that I learned from cousin Wendy, who did get that job, is while being off by two years on someone’s birth or death date ( I have two ancestors for whom I have a “choice” of years, probably due to the inability to tell a 5 from an 8 in someone’s very small handwritten notes), being off by even a month with a living relative means your head gets chopped off. And don’t misspell their middle name or switch the birth order for any of their grandchildren.
Interestingly enough, dead people don’t complain about any of those things.

So, I get contacted once in a while, by someone is isn’t quite sure if they are a relative, or they are fairly sure, or even certain that we are related , but just not sure HOW .

And this is really nice. You would be amazed t the really nice cousins I now have! Okay, you really would be amazed, since you know me, but , remember, we are F3s and F4s and sometimes F6s and F7s, so there really are not that many shared genes….although, I have detected a general genetic tendency amongst all of us to be chocolate addicts…..

But, even via the great anonymous public entity that is Facebook, there are awkwar
d moments when “meeting “ these relatives.

I had one of those moments, this week.

I received a message from a cousin whose name didn’t immediately ring any bells. Luckily, she explained who she was and what her maiden name was, and that she had even heard about me from another cousin.

Of course, at this point, I am wondering why she is contacting me, if she has already heard about me. But, it turns out, that she has heard about me from her aunt, who is a cousin of my father’s , who is so sweet that it would never even occur to her not to say something nice about me.
Talk about false advertising…….

And, in her message, she says, “We have never met…” Which is true.
However, it left me with a little bit of a sticky situation, because she has met one of my immediate family members .
A sibling.

And, against what most people would consider to be better judgment- except that I don’t’ have any- or, what it really is…well, is my tendency to just plunge right in and say whatever I think, I let her know this….

You see, about 38 or 39 years ago, or maybe 40 years……her mother got a phone call in the middle of the night from the police. They had just arrested some teens who were in a stolen car. One of the boys’ last names was Margolis. The officer at the small police station knew my cousin’s mother and somehow remembered that Margolis was her maiden name….did she think this might be a relative.?

My cousin’s mother, Rochelle, told the policeman to ask the boy who his grandparents were.
When he came back to her with the names, Rochelle drove down and bailed my brother out of jail. We won’t go into whether or not the boys were also drunk or stoned or any of the other lovely details, but, as far as I know, that was her and her family’s only real interaction with mine.

What can I say? My side of the family really knows how to make a lasting first impression.

I hope my brother thanked her.

Addendum- My friend- I had asked her permission to reference her in the story, sent me the following clarification :

except Barry Sr ( her husband ) wants me on it. Barry Jr (her son) is mortified & doesn't want me near it :-)