Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

Let’s talk about your Hard Limits; my safety word is “Mercy.”

The husband and I got a sitter and went to the Dublin Burlesque festival. It was AMAZEBALLS! I promised you all a photo of me in my outfit, and as soon as I pry them from my husband’s cell phone, that’s what you’ll have! I was REALLY proud of my outfit!! But anyway, we went, and while I applaud ANYONE with the courage to get up and essentially strip in front of a crowd (that includes actual, self-identified “strippers”), I must say that there were only a handful (b-cup at best. HA!!….sorry) of acts that I thought were actually good.

Ok, I should redefine that. There were several acts that were “good,” but not necessarily to my taste or style. Fair play to them, it takes all kinds. But there was ONE dude who, I think maybe he thought they were casting for Magic Mike? I’m not sure. It was bad. It was like, “$30 bachelorette party male stripper” bad. I mean, he was a good looking dude, and I don’t even mind if that’s your kink, buddy. Run with it. If you get off by being on stage and stripping: a big ol mazal tov from (probably) the only Jewish chick in that crowd. But damn… at least be GOOD at it.

HE STRIPPED DOWN TO BLACK TIGHTY-WHITIES! REALLY?! I mean… at least be creative with your undies. Or at least have a good act!! Whatever. The only boylesque act I saw, and mama was disappoint.

So… what did *I* do with the bulk of my night (other than watch many lovely ladies strip down to their pasties)? Oh, I was on the HUNT! I was supposed to meet up with one woman who was coordinating the show. I met her when I first walked in and introduced myself, but of course we could only exchange brief hellos before she had to run off and help set things up. She told me to come back and find her after the show, and we would talk about getting me into performing. So, like the crazed bloodhound I can be when there’s something I want, I looked for her periodically throughout the evening. Finally, I stood against the wall watching the show. A really nice woman in a kick-ass outfit stood next to me.

“Hey, are you enjoying the show?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am. I just really wanted to meet with D before the end, and I have to leave soon… and I can’t seem to find her.”

“Oh? What did you want to talk to her about?”

“Well, I really want to try to perform.”

“Oh, then you don’t want to talk to D…. you want to talk to me. I run all shows in Dublin.”

…………..I’m not even making this up. She literally said those words to me, and I kinda lost it. My head may or may not have exploded at this point. I AM fairly certain that I grabbed her hand, shook it furiously (I was SLIGHTLY intoxicated), and introduced myself as, “that American chick who SUPER wants to perform!”

So, I was told to email both of my contacts today or tomorrow, at which point I will be added to the women who “kitten” for a show. That means I’ll assist the performers in getting ready, and clearing the stage of *ahem* garments when the performers are through. That will, hopefully, give me more insight into how a show is done and what is expected from performers. Then, I get to audition.

But first, I have to let the club owners know what I am, and am not, willing to wear.

That’s a loaded question to a woman who openly admits to being part of the fetish scene. No gimp suits? No ball-gags? No 4″ heels, and I absolutely will NOT dress like a pony. Those are my hard limits. Otherwise, why would I be getting into burlesque if I’m overly concerned about what I’m wearing? The whole goal is to take it off by the end of the night, anyway. Hmmm…. should probably wax though, huh?

I guess we’ll see how it goes! Wish me luck, kids!!

3 Comments »

I don’t know the international sign for “Do my panties smell like rye?”

I HAD been writing a lovely post, which was then interrupted by my FB acquaintance who felt the need to post photos of her baby in pink tutus (UPDATE!: They bought her a leopard onesie, just in time for me to throw up on my laptop screen). Then, I spent a few days wondering what it was I was going to write, and sort of generally being flakey and thinking “This whole ‘WordPress’ thing; what’s THAT about?” And I got totally philosophical and started questioning my place in the world.

Then, I got writer’s block, which………. I thought you had to be a writer to have? I dunno.

But then, some friends came over tonight and we were talking about travel.

“Oh!” I said, “And I never leave the US without cream.”

“Whaaa…. what KIND of cream?” My friend asked hesitantly… because she’s my friend, and thus, knows exactly where this might go.

“Weeeeeeeeelllllllllllllll….” I started, “When my guy and I first started dating, we went on a trip to the Netherlands so that he could lecture. There was a small town where the university was, and we were staying there for a few days. And, you know, when you’re a young couple, things are all fresh and exciting, and, you know, STUFF is happening… and stuff happened a LOT for us, which was great, but then…..”

“Then WHAT?” she asked.

“Well, then I started, you know… ‘baking bread’….”

“…………………what?”

“You know… it got YEASTY all up in my Magical Lady Forrest.”

“………………………….”

Now, you have to picture it, because (in retrospect) it’s pretty funny. I’m in this small town where almost nobody speaks English. I go to the local pharmacy, and behind the counter is a lovely young woman who probably thought that the most exciting thing that would happen with her day would be the new shipment of glow in the dark band-aids.

But then: me.

So now I’m like one of those chicks in the yeast infection commercials where they’re all sad and wearing sweats (which, I don’t understand, because being able to wear sweats makes me HAPPY, and these bitches are all mopey), except I’m in a country where the people speak Flemish, AAAAAAAAAAAND I have a feminine medical condition, because the universe hates me.

Back to the pharmacy, with the pharmacist who doesn’t speak English. From her perspective, I imagine the scene went as follows:

-Oh, here’s a nice young woman. She looks foreign. Huh. Don’t get many tourists here.

-Ahh, she’s approaching me. She must need something. I will try to do honor unto my people by being helpful and polite.

-Oh goodness. There appears to be some sort of language barrier! Ahh, the young woman is valiantly trying to overcome it via what I can only assume is some sort of interpretive dance/seizures. Her people are so brave.

-Ok, a lot of these gestures seem to be centered around her vag… she must need tampons!

-Oh. No. Not tampons. No, she seems a little disappointed…

-Why is she grunting and making scratching motions toward her pants? Oh my goodness! This woman must be mentally ILL! I will try to appease her by nodding my head vigorously, but darting my eyes toward the display of Swiss Army knives, in case she makes any sudden moves.

-I think she might be trying to tell me that her pants are full of angry, rabid ants.

… that part is actually not too far from the truth, when you think about it.

Anyway, it went on that way for some time, as I tried to mime “yeast infection.” I’m not even sure I could win a round of Pictionary if I pulled the “Yeast Infection” card. It seems so easy, but for some reason that just isn’t a common phrase in most travel books. Rarely do you see, “Good morning. I may have a yeast infection. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of your local witch doctor?’ in your “Lonely Planet Guides”.

Needless to say, I left there without cream. I suppose I could have gone to another pharmacy, but after the horrors of my initial attempt, and the ever worsening look of horror on the face of that poor pharmacist (who may or may not be scarred for life), I chose to wait until we got back state-side.

 

And THAT, folks, if the  bonus post for the night. Because I haven’t written in a while, and I’m too tired to edit. So, writing without editing. How’s it working out for me? Leave your hate mail below.

25 Comments »

That Time I was Attacked by a Phantom Hand That Was Actually MINE, But It Still Scared Me, So I Totally Ran Around My Living Room Screaming

This isn’t a long post, I don’t think. I haven’t written it yet, so it might be. I don’t know. It’s my blog, and you’re on it.

Anyway, I like to think I’m many things, but sometimes, smart is not one of them. Case in point: I can no longer watch movies in the dark. It’s not that it scares me, or that I could stand up and trip on my way to the bathroom (although, yes and yes). It’s because I’m incapable of watching tv in the dark like a normal fucking human being, without spazzing out.

One time, I think I was 22 or something (old enough to know better, young enough to still be stupid and pick up Swedish drummers in bars and try to make them talk to me like the Swedish Chef from The Muppets), my mom and I were watching a scary movie in our living room. She had turned out the lights because… I don’t know… do people still do that? She turned out the lights to make it more like a real movie, or maybe to be more scary, or maybe we just hadn’t paid the electric bill. I can’t be sure. Anyway, I was lounging on the couch for probably about thirty minutes. The movie had gotten to a really intense part, and both of us were riveted. I was watching the screen. Something was happening. Maybe our hero was facing off against the evil Snakefishhead (thank you, SciFy network, for such epic gems!), when I looked down. There, just underneath me, was a long, pale arm, sticking out from behind the pillows… Suddenly, it moved!

I SCREAMED! I jumped up, screamed, and ran around our living room, BECAUSE THAT FUCKING ARM WAS FOLLOWING ME AND I COULDN’T GET AWAY! GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happenings

*Why is there a fucking arm after me? AND WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THIS BOWL?*

My mom sat on the couch laughing hysterically, waiting for me to figure out that the arm that was following me (and sometimes coming right at my face!) was, in fact, my own. I had been laying on my arm in the dark, and so distracted by the movie that I hadn’t noticed when it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, the arm had moved, and I freaked and ran around like a chicken without a head (remind me to tell you the time I was chased around a yard by a chicken without a head. It traumatized me, and now I consider every trip to KFC as my own personal act of revenge. FUCK YOU, CHICKENS OF THE ENTIRE DAMN WORLD!!).

And that, in sum, is why I don’t trust either of my arms. Because I believe that given half a chance, they will turn on me again. One night. In the dark.

…it’s just a matter of time, people.

23 Comments »

Let’s never be best friends.

I am a horribly offensive person. But at least I’m up front about that.

One of my husband’s friends, who is also a friend of mine, posted a quote onto Facebook, along the lines of:

“The Day You Were Born, Was The Day G-D Decided That The World Couldn’t Do Without You.”

…really? REALLY? Look buddy, you CAN’T leave an opening line like that out, and expect me NOT to take it. The fact that none of your other friends have made snarky comments yet, just shows me that you need better friends.

Of course I had to make a comment. Because I’m me.

“So, I guess that means that for every wasted sperm, G-D was all, “NOPE! It’s the tissue for you, SUCKAH!!!”

Fuck you, that’s some comedy GOLD PLATINUM funny shit right there.

He deleted it. It was “embarrassing.”

Seriously? NUT. UP. WHY would you even be friends with me, then? I MADE A VOODOO DOLL FOR MY UNBORN CHILD WHILE NESTING DURING MY PREGNANCY. You should be aware by now that I am not an appropriate person.

Image

*I call him “Sammy the Skeleton.” I snuggle with him every night.*

I kinda wanna screen cap that and put it up as my status on Facebook… but I’m pretty sure that would end the friendship.

meh.

11 Comments »

In which I learn that I have a hard time with boundaries.

I’m kind of like one of those Labrador Retrievers, in that I like to lick myself make new friends everywhere I go. Part of it is innate, but another big part I get from a friend of mine. I used to be her manager, and on our first day together, I took her out to lunch to get to know her better. She started off lunch by saying:

“I just want you to know: I know I have a hole in my crotch.”

INSTANT. FRIENDSHIP.

Of course, she was just referring to her pants, but I choose to ignore that, and believe that she just knew how to sweet talk me with awkwardness.

HER side of the story is that she liked me, and forced me to be her friend by telling me about her crotch, and also “inadvertently” grabbing my boob when our train stopped short one day. That happened, too.

Our friendship is built on accidental sexual harassment.

Anyway, today I went to Ikea with my husband and El Bebe. Ikea is what I do when I need pretty in my life, and Target just won’t fucking cut it anymore. Ikea makes me feel like I could be someplace foreign and exotic, but where everything is clean, in English, and they have delicious meatballs.

Interestingly enough, they don’t like when you go to sleep on one of their beds.

Ask me how I know this.

My husband walked away with Max for a couple of minutes and… ok, I’m not proud of this part, but I ran away.

HEY HEY HEY!! I DIDN’T TOTALLY LEAVE MY HUSBAND AND SON… you know, not for long. I just went to the bedding section when they weren’t looking. I also might have knocked over some KVELLERs or whatever those cabinets are called to make it harder for them to follow by accident. There, I spied a lovely bed that didn’t have a screaming baby near it, and figured I would test the firmness of the mattress.

I fell the fuck asleep in Ikea. A chick in a yellow shirt was all, “Umm… Ma’am… you can’t sleep in the display.”

Agree to disagree… because I totally am right now.

Image

*Her, too. I’mma find this woman, and make her be my friend. We’ll start a club. JOIN US.*

“Ma’am? Ma’am. Do you have any questions about the display?”

Yes… how do I turn the light off, and where do I get a fourth wall?

Eventually, I had to get up, because I’m too pretty for prison. And also because my husband found me. He says that most people don’t actually get horizontal in Ikea, but I think he’s just jealous that I thought of it first.

As we argued, I saw another exhausted looking mom walking around with a small baby. So, because I’m me, I asked her, “You have a baby; if you could take a nap in Ikea for a few hours, wouldn’t you?”

“Totally” she said without batting an eye.

I got her number. I’m going to make her be my best friend, and we’re going to have sleepovers in IKEA.

And eat meatballs in bed. Class, all the way.

16 Comments »

Poly Dismorphic Disorder

Our evening went like this:

Hubs: “So, you’re heading out with Tim tonight?”

Me: “Yeah. His group is doing a class on the Poly lifestyle, and one of the things I want to find out is how they make that work. I mean, your communication skills have to be off the chart, right?! I can barely manage ONE relationship, and some of these people have FIVE!”

Hubs: “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

Me: “Oh jeez.”

Hubs: “Well! You don’t know! Maybe I’ll find another girlfriend there! How would you like that?! Then you can nap while someone else helps with the laundry!”

At this point, my husband thought he was UNBELIEVABLY clever. As thought all your problems could be solved by adding one more person to the mix. I tried to explain that I REALLY doubted that adding more people to a crazy situation actually helped stabilize it, but to no avail. My husband was pretty sure he was gonna start his own suburban harem. So I was all, “Right. We have a sitter, so let’s just go,” because when you have a child, you mostly just want to be out of the house. With or without said child. (Holy crap, I hope he never reads this!)

Let me say this: after having taken the class, I am now pretty darn sure that I could never be polyamorous (in multiple relationships), or even polyfidelous (in multiple COMMITTED relationships). Why? If you have to ask, you have no idea how much energy it takes with the ONE INSANE relationship I already have. Not my hubs, he was off in some crazy world where he had women falling over themselves to accomplish his every whim.

Ladies Man

*That’s right, ladies. These are original Dungeons and Dragons cards! OMG, PUSSY AVALANCHE!! – My husband’s brain*

The class started, and an average looking woman walked up to the front and started talking about what it takes to be in many poly relationships. AND THEN, she started talking about the difference between being Poly, and just being slutty. Surprise surprise, my hubs is a slut. As she was describing the difference I looking over at him and said (not too quietly either), “HEY!! THAT’S YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!” That went over REALLY well with everybody but him. Still, he is kinda slutty, so, you know: the spade is a spade.

The “instructor” talked about how vital communication is, and how many people think they want to be poly so that they can substitute whatever they’re not getting in their current relationship, by adding someone new. Doesn’t work, she says, because if you never confront and deal with problems in any relationship, you can keep meeting people but nothing will last. I thought that was just generally good advice.

“Are you coming next week?” Tim whispers in my ear as my husband sits flabbergasted at all the work he would have to do if he took on a new girlfriend… not to mention the bits of his pieces that he would have to hunt down in the middle of the night once I had cut them off.

“What’s next week?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the speaker who has somehow wandered into a conversation about talking monkeys and while I don’t know how that happened, I am enjoying it. Because TALKING MONKEYS.

“The board meeting. Politics. We’re going to outline the curriculum for the year, and discuss speakers and lesson plans.”

*Sigh.*

“Tim. When does your pervy group ever do anything, you know… PERVY?!”

“This is mostly an educational group.”

Figures I would fall in with the book-reading pervs.

The class ends and little chunks of people get up; 3 here, 4 there, and everyone starts saying goodnight. I look at the hubby, and he looks back at me.

“Not what you thought it would be, huh?”

“Not even close, babe.”

“No girlfriend for you?”

“The CLASS was exhausting enough!”

Poly Dismorphic Disorder: Thinking you can go poly until you find out what it is and realize, no, you’re just slutty.

2 Comments »

Thou Art G-D.

Twenty points if you know the reference.

I’m feeling beat down and exhausted. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in that, “I could really use a week long vacation” sort of way. Some place warm. With sun. And umbrellas because I’m fucking pasty as hell and burst into flames in direct sunlight. True story.

Anyway, the hubs and I are at something of an impasse. For the past two years,we’ve had these friends who have been sliding down what I consider to be the very slippery slope of religion.

This won’t be a long post because, again, I’m completely done in, but suffice it to say that while I consider myself a relatively “religious” person (I… you know…. no, ok, maybe not), I don’t trust other “religious” people.That’s a terrible thing to say… but I’m ok with it.

These friends have begun putting more and more pressure on us to join them, and their merry cult of faithful. I have zero interest. I don’t mind Friday night dinners, and I don’t mind celebrating holidays, but when you start telling me that G-D has a vested interest in whether or not I wear a skirt, you’ve lost me.

Until now, however, the hubs and I have had a detente of sorts, where I just don’t attend the more religious services, and he goes, but just hangs out with our friends.

Enter: The Peanut.

However, now with our son, I’d like to go to services as a family. That presents a problem, because as our friends continue their descent into the abyss of graceless obedience, I’m left standing on the edge, and feeling like a party pooper.

Image

*SHUT UP, HOUSE! JUST BECAUSE IT’S TRUE, DOESN’T MEAN IT’S NICE TO SAY OUT LOUD!*

Why can’t I be ok with going to a “Women’s Section” of the synagogue, while my husband hangs out with the men? Why can’t I just wear skirts, cover my hair, keep a kosher home, and obsess over not using electrical appliances after sundown on Friday night? I think, in so many ways, my life would be easier if I could stop fighting against the river of Faithful that surrounds me, and float along, buoyed by apathy and compliance.

But then, that isn’t me. I don’t like being sidelined. And as much as my husband thinks he likes these people, let any one of them have a gay child, and we can all sit back and watch just how “welcoming” the community is then. Or a transgendered child. Or even just a kid who’s different.

And I LIKE being different. I like wearing pants, and I like cursing, and I’m going to tell my son that masturbation and sex are ok, and hanging out with non-Jews is not only perfectly ok, but he SHOULD. Because the world isn’t made up entirely of our community, and there’s a richness to different perspectives.

And it’s sad to me that some people neglect to throw themselves into the world and experience it from as many angles as possible, choosing instead to withdraw into a community of exclusively like-minded folk.

At the end of the day, and in all honesty, I believe each person really has a responsibility to themselves to learn, and do, and see as much as possible. You can’t grow every aspect of yourself if you shut down everything that doesn’t fit in with a group. And how sad is that? To not live up to your potential as a human being. To not do everything you can, when the possibility is there?

Wow. I’m pretty fucking tired.

Forget I said all that.

4 Comments »

…in which I fall in love with Wil Wheaton, and my vagina turns into the Sahara.

Two things of note happened to me this week:

1) I discovered Wil Wheaton’s tumblr page. I won’t say he’s “king” of the nerds, but he’s probably a pretty-high-up-there Duke. Or Baron. Which one is higher? He’s THAT.

ww

 

2) In MORE exciting My-Body-Just-Loves-Having-Babies news, I found out that you go into a state of quasi-Menopause when you breast feed. Did you know that? Uh huh, guess how I figured that one out….

Hubs: “Hey honey…. I love you….”

Me: “Babe, I’m ummm… I’m uhhh…. I seem to be having some trouble…”

And then a tumbleweed fell out of my vagina, and we heard the distinct sounds of a camel train. We went to the OB for my appointment on Friday.

“Oh yeah,” my doctor says, like I’ve brought up the fact that your hair continues to grow after you cut it, “Totally normal.”

Uhhh, agree to disagree on that. Things should be HAPPENING when my hubby and I get down to business. Things that are NOT happening, and I would like SOMEONE TO FIX IT! Or at least have had the decency to WARN me about this! How did I not know this would happen?! This is serious bologna right here.

“You can use an estrogen cream, or maybe some KY…” I know he kept talking, but honestly, it was hard to hear him over the nomadic tribes that had set up camp on my labia.

So to summarize: men have sex. Women then swell, bloat, get nauseous, possibly throw up, get exhausted, continue to bloat, get kicked in various internal organs by a tiny human who then BURSTS THE FUCK FREE FROM YOUR BODY LIKE A DELETED SCENE OUT OF ALIEN, THEN you have to feed it from your boobs (assuming that works out for you, and a nod to the ladies out there who have a tough time, or who never get the chance), which-btw-hurts like a mofo, then you recover from childbirth as best you can on 30 minutes of sleep at a time, THEN – the kid starts teething, and there’s THAT whole mess to deal with…

And on top of it all, it becomes near fucking impossible to have an orgasm, because your body thinks you’re 60.

HOW have we continued on as a species? I feel like, two generations in, our ancestors must have thought to themselves, “You know, this is just a whole lotta work. Ugg, you go invent the condom. Lugg, get started on the pill. This shit is bananas.”

And we would have died out.

And no civilization.

And then there never would have been Wil Wheaton.

…nicely played, Universe. Nicely played.

 

9 Comments »

I’m The Reason You Can’t Have Nice Things

The thing is, I never really feel MORE Jewish than during the Christmas season. On the one hand, I totally love the lights, the music, the evergreen trees everywhere (but not having to deal with needles in my carpet, or cleaning up after them!), and the general festivities of the winter time. On the other hand, unlike most of the country, I will not be out spending insane amount of money on family and friends right now, because the only person who could want presents from me is six months old…

…and also I’m broke as hell. I don’t know if I can emphasize that last part enough. Though, after two months without a dime, Unemployment DID finally come through. I splurged, and bought groceries. WATCH OUT! BIG SPENDAH!

Anywho, it’s nice, because I do really get a feeling of happiness and goodwill toward people. It’s pervasive. It’s in the air. Like a nerve gas.

But I’m not Christian. So, while people are decorating their homes, I’m actively reminded of the fact that we will NOT be decorating. Which, let’s be honest, kinda sucks. I mean, you get used to it, but those twinkly lights are festive as FUCK, y’all! I want to throw potential fire hazards all over my house, and have people “Ooooh” and “Ahhhh” as they drive by.

You know what my options are? I get a giant menorah to put out front, if I’m SUPER religious. Which, if you haven’t really picked up on it by now: I am not.

Menorah

*”Shmuli! Get me the EXTRA long marshmellow roaster! Dammit, these things are a bitch to make s’mores with!”*

Don’t get me wrong; I am SUPER proud to be Jewish. And I encourage everyone to be proud of what and who they are. You don’t have to resent someone else to be proud of yourself. I can be thrilled to be Jewish, without thinking there’s anything wrong with Christianity. But let’s be fair: when it comes to decorations, gifts, and a general monopoly on this upcoming month, Christians take the cake.

The delicious, delicious, possibly fruit cake.

So, getting to the point, the husbinator and I have been invited to a Hannukkah party tomorrow night at Chabad, which I guess is like the “hippy-dippy, love-everyone, come join us and sing along,” group of Jews.

To which I replied: k.no thnx.

“Why not?!” asked my ever-patient husband.

“Look, seriously, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of super religious people, eating fried latkes (potato pancakes), and socializing with ONLY women, because the men are too busy ONLY socializing with men. I always feel like it’s the 1950’s up in there.” This part is totally true. The women chat with the women, and the men chat with the men, and that’s just not me. I don’t MIND chatting with other chicks, but I don’t like being pigeonholed into one group, simply because my genitalia are internal. Honestly, it seems almost as arbitrary a line to me, as if you said “everyone with green eyes sits at this table, and everyone with brown eyes goes over there. We don’t mix.” Like, what?

“We don’t have a lot of options around here, hun.”

“There are the Chinese.”

“I…. what?!”

This is probably why my husband and I don’t have conversations about religion anymore. I feel like Hindus and Buddhists and those folks can relate. We could totally start our own group, and just hang out with a bunch of cool, non-Christian folks this time of year, and I won’t have to put on a skirt.

Not that all of this is a push-back so that I don’t have to put on a skirt.

…all of this might be a push-back so I don’t have to wear a skirt.

Jesus, I make my own life hard!!

FP

2 Comments »

Santa’s not an antisemite… probably…

When I was little, I was raised in an entirely Jewish neighborhood. So much so, that I spent several weeks as a small child looking for the large stone houses with other letters on top of them, before my mom explained to me that, no, the people with the lower case letter “t” on their buildings were called “Christians,” and that was a “cross.”

It was all very confusing.

Anyway, as a part of this education, it was explained to me that Christian kids got gifts on Christmas, because an obese geriatric man would enter their homes, and LEAVE gifts. In Brooklyn, we had gates and alarms to prevent people from breaking in, but they weren’t generally there to leave things for you.

I was excited! TOYS!!! I would be getting TOYS!! HELLS YEAH!!!!!!

In retrospect, I think my mother’s second mistake was explaining this entire situation to me in a public place. Her first might have been actually taking me to a public place. Because now she had to explain to me that *I* didn’t get toys, no Jewish kid did. Santa only brought toys to Christian children. 

From all accounts, I flew into a five year old fury, and started shouting that Santa was an anti-Semite. In the middle of Toys R Us. Because that how we rolled back in the 80’s. 

Yeah, thug life. 

My mom had to think fast and quiet down her child who was now calling attention to the fact that: A) Why does your 5 year old know words like “anti-Semite”? and 

B) Most people were big fans of Santa, and you just can’t make a scene like that in Toys R Us, or…. I don’t know… his elves get mad? I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure nothing good can come from a scene like that, though. 

To my mom’s everlasting credit, she thought fast and explained that, no, Santa was unionized with Rabbi Eleazar, and they just split up the gift-giving. Santa handled Christian kids, and R. Eleazar managed all the good little yiddishe kinder. I imagine this appeased me, because for the next five years, Rabbi Eleazar brought presents for me each night of hannukkah.

And now, as a new mom, I’m faced with this same challenge. Eventually, Max will ask why all his little Christian friends will be getting toys, and why Santa doesn’t visit our house. I’m sorely tempted to let out a muffled “Jew-hater” under my breath at the mall every time a Santa passes by, but I’m pretty sure that when you’re the only one who gets a joke, it’s not quite as funny.

Also, I’d prefer not to get smacked down by angry fat men in sweaty red suits. Gross.

7 Comments »

Humans Are Weird

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AmyReeseWrites

Stories, poems, photos and bumbles for the soul

Cinema Parrot Disco

Musings on Mainly Movies from a Table 9 Mutant

Skinny Jeans & Cupcakes

Fashionably Fit While Ballin' on a Budget

The Dirty Dame

Penny for your dirty thoughts?

Fiction Favorites

with John W. Howell

006.7 EKGO

a blogful of stories

mlewisredford

may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so ...

Bain Waves

The world is hurting; laugh more.

Sweet Mother

Where my Old writing lives!

Free Range Cow

The adventures and roamings of a silly cow

bakingnotwriting

A site by a writer who is baking...or a baker who isn't writing

Pucker Up Buttercup

Wisdom and Nonsense. Mostly Nonsense ...

I Won't Take It

Life After an Emotionally Abusive Relationship

slimegreen

By Punky Coletta

Genext13

Bits and pieces of me. (not as gross as it sounds)