Hey readers, I'm consumed with a big soon-to-be disclosed project. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy a version of an essay I wrote a while ago...
The Saddies
After you complete your morning mad-skivvies-dash to retrieve your newspaper, and while you chase your coffee with some brand of nuggety-crunch, to which section of the newspaper do you turn first? Some people like to greet their day with the funnies. Others prefer, well, The Saddies.
I come from a line of habitual obituary-reading people. It’s one thing to make sure none of your blue-haired bingo buddies bit it over the weekend, but I hesitate to call the practice normal for a vibrant young person. Someday scientists may identify a genetic predisposition for obituary perusal. A segment of the population—probably very small, and perhaps consisting entirely of Jews related to me somehow—will nod knowingly. That’s why Dad calls me up in the middle of his workday, asking me if so-and-so was in my class, because he or she died tragically…If Dad’s email contains some vaguely familiar name in the subject line, my siblings and I know to sit down before opening the message. In fact, he now prefaces any non-death communication with “Do you know so-and-so? Don’t worry they’re not dead.”
My Dad isn't the only one to participate in this macabre ritual. Upon returning from vacation, my Mom managed to give us a warm embrace before dashing over to our newspaper “to see who died.” Even my grandparents had a life-long tradition of five-o-clock Whiskey Sours and the New York Times crossword puzzle, peppered with discussion about the day’s obituaries “A needle case? Etui. Stu Wasserman? Cardiac Arrest.”
Sadly, our dead friends can no longer rest in peace. A rising trend in identity theft uses obituary details to obtain the deceased’s social security number, as a means of accessing new lines of credit... Honey, I know your Great Uncle just passed, but it looks like he purchased an Executive Costco Membership and has a strong affinity for Kirkland diapers and Grey Goose Vodka. My financial planner included in her recent newsletter precautions for identity protection in the obituaries. She suggested forgoing date of death (including month), and withholding identifying information such as address, and full name. What a challenge for the survivors:
Somewhat Recently in the year 2008ish, our beloved Grandperson died, somewhere in the Tri-State area. He/She worked very hard with some great people at Anonymous Company, and will be dearly missed by an unspecified number of loved ones. The family chose this emoticon to capture the spirit of our beloved Grandhuman
Given that I’ve skimmed The Saddies daily for several years now, I have one request for those losing their own grand human. If your family forgoes identity safety by posting an actual picture, please choose thoughtfully. Choose a photo as you would choose an outfit for a viewing. Grandma would look downright silly in her high school cap and gown, right? Forgo the class photo temptation, valedictorian or not. It’s jarring to see a dashing young swell where one expects a 93-year-old man. Of course you want to remember him as his old self, and a spry nonagenarian photo can capture that moment in time.
If I have the fortune of living well into Great-Grannydom (knock wood, throw salt, ptooey!) I hope my offspring commemorate my life not with my Bat Mitzvah photo (if you can find one—I was the third child), but instead with a photo of me high-stepping as a white-haired Reno in the Jewish Community Day Center production of Anything Goes. This photo could satisfy both the criteria of protecting my identity (fishnets and gold lame) and of celebrating my legacy in a quasi age-appropriate manner. Please go ahead and include quotes from any favorable reviews as well. Why be humble? I’m dead!
Until that final curtain call, I continue my daily coffee klatch with the dead. Be it culture, genetics, or Judaism that calls me to this leg of a health-and-youth-gratitude relay, I graciously receive The Saddies baton and join my parents as we go tsking, head-shaking, and finger-crossing our way to the ultimate finish line
Monday, March 8, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Ramona Age 36
RamonaAge36 seeking Male 30-50 and not that nogoodsonuvaHowie Senior.
Howie? If you are reading this, get your butt back down to The Whopper Burger and get your job back. Then maybe your sister Willa Jean and her wife/my sister Beezus will start speaking to you again. In the mean time I’m wet-jetting my way across every floor on Klickitat street.
So yes, I am seeking a male 30-50 that can support me and Howie Junior. Make that 30-70: Sugar Daddies welcome.
And Howie Senior? Next time your “friend” Perfect Susan calls me to straighten her hair again (just because I boi-oi-oinged it in Kindergarten), I will kindly tell her where she can put her award-winning Cream of Wheat pear syrup chicken thighs. The recipe that she STOLE from Beezus and I (if we'd had a deep fryer, ours would've been award-wining FIRST).
Are you still reading this Howie Senior? Willa Jean and Beezus have couples’ yoga tonight and cannot pick up Howie Junior again at Shop Rite. There is only so much Drop Everything and Read-ing a boy can do while watching his grandfather inventory the frozen food warehouse.
So Howie Senior, get your job back, never so much as speak to Boingy Susan again and pick up Junior. All other interested males please send picture and proof of employment to ramona36@pickypicky.com
###
Have you heard about Funny Not Slutty's Blog Book? I have a piece in it and so do bloggy friends Anna, Beej, Heidi, Lisa, JD, Jayne, Paula, Suzy and plenty of other funny females. Go download it for free and thank Jacki for her super hard work if you get the chance. I was on the selection committee (convenient I know, cough cough), but she does all the heavy lifting over at FNS (all in a silver studded weight belt I'm told...shhhh)
Thanks for the awesome shout outs from Rachel of GetRealMommy and Lucy and Jane of Four Jugs. Both of your blogs are full of funny parenting insight and cleverness in general.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Observations By A More Popular 5th Grader:
You wear that “Real People” t-shirt practically every single day.
When we sing Billy Joel that doesn’t mean you can sing too. Just because we “whoa-oh-oh-oh” does not mean you can add “for the longest” in that dumb low voice when you are not even invited. Jessica said you always start to sing when other people start singing.
Katy’s moves are way too ballet.
Just because you got to go to The Big Apple doesn’t mean your chartreuse skinny tie, belt, slinky bracelet, and dangelies are cool. You said you were going to New York.
You are totally developing.
Shtop begging fer my Gian Schewy Shweet Tarts. (sllsllslllsllsll) Get yer own Gian Schewy Shweet Tarts.
Jessica said she was so scared when she ate spaghetti at your house that you were going to throw up all over. Remember when you puked spaghetti at my house and my brother said he heard you?
Stop asking Lars to go with you. He said his mom said he can’t go with anyone until he is 15.
Jason is in love with you. His brother wants to know why you are playing with his mind.
Why do you have that hair all over your arms?
Do you want to come to gymnastics with me again? You can sit and watch. We will crack up when Fran makes that spaz-face before she does her round off back handspring back handspring.
Don’t you totally think Miss Hammer puts Snoopy And The Red Baron on the weekly top ten herself? No one else votes for that gaywad song.
You are my third-best friend. Actually, you are my-fourth best friend.
Do you want to play swim team?
***
p.s. Go read my fabulously funny friend Anna Lefler's "How To Put On a Sports Bra" over at McSweeneys. Anna of Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder was my first bloggy idol, and I now refer to the best and quirkiest humor as "Leflerian" in certain circles. Ok, so in the one specific circle that is my cerebral cortex, but it's an homage non the less. Doesn't "homage" seem like a good description for those lines cartoonist draw to indicate a bad smell emanating from a dirty sock?
Have a great week!
When we sing Billy Joel that doesn’t mean you can sing too. Just because we “whoa-oh-oh-oh” does not mean you can add “for the longest” in that dumb low voice when you are not even invited. Jessica said you always start to sing when other people start singing.
Katy’s moves are way too ballet.
Just because you got to go to The Big Apple doesn’t mean your chartreuse skinny tie, belt, slinky bracelet, and dangelies are cool. You said you were going to New York.
You are totally developing.
Shtop begging fer my Gian Schewy Shweet Tarts. (sllsllslllsllsll) Get yer own Gian Schewy Shweet Tarts.
Jessica said she was so scared when she ate spaghetti at your house that you were going to throw up all over. Remember when you puked spaghetti at my house and my brother said he heard you?
Stop asking Lars to go with you. He said his mom said he can’t go with anyone until he is 15.
Jason is in love with you. His brother wants to know why you are playing with his mind.
Why do you have that hair all over your arms?
Do you want to come to gymnastics with me again? You can sit and watch. We will crack up when Fran makes that spaz-face before she does her round off back handspring back handspring.
Don’t you totally think Miss Hammer puts Snoopy And The Red Baron on the weekly top ten herself? No one else votes for that gaywad song.
You are my third-best friend. Actually, you are my-fourth best friend.
Do you want to play swim team?
***
p.s. Go read my fabulously funny friend Anna Lefler's "How To Put On a Sports Bra" over at McSweeneys. Anna of Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder was my first bloggy idol, and I now refer to the best and quirkiest humor as "Leflerian" in certain circles. Ok, so in the one specific circle that is my cerebral cortex, but it's an homage non the less. Doesn't "homage" seem like a good description for those lines cartoonist draw to indicate a bad smell emanating from a dirty sock?
Have a great week!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Signs it is Purim and not Halloween in DiasporaExtreme, USA
No one else is wearing a costume.
No one knows it is Purim.
No one else has actually heard of Purim, but think it might be a hand-sanitizer, and wonder why you are wearing that oversized triangle on your head.
When your neighbor asks why you are wearing a triangle hat and a greasepaint goatee, and you respond "I’m Haman” she does not smile. She crooks her head and says “That’s nice dear.”
A random dude wandering by overhears and responds "Hey Mon." He holds out his hand as in a universally-recognized high five.
Instead of trick or treating you get to go to temple.
Instead of ghost stories, you are regaled with yet another tale of near-genocide from your Rabbi. He is dressed as Dolly-the-Cloned-Sheep for the occasion.
Instead of candy you get to enjoy pastries full of prunes (Surprise!) or maybe even poppyseeds (SURPRISE)!!
No one understands when you complain that Queen Esther costumes are so cliche
After your friends and neighbors receive your Annual Purim Letter, they never mention it to you ever, and seem a little more eye-twitchy in your presence than usual.
No one else seems to know the festive holiday carol ‘My Hat it Has Three Corners’ in English. They don’t even know the Hebrew version “Ha Covah Sheli Shalosh Pinot” but when you say “Pinot” the neighbor boy laughs really hard.
No one knows it is Purim.
No one else has actually heard of Purim, but think it might be a hand-sanitizer, and wonder why you are wearing that oversized triangle on your head.
When your neighbor asks why you are wearing a triangle hat and a greasepaint goatee, and you respond "I’m Haman” she does not smile. She crooks her head and says “That’s nice dear.”
A random dude wandering by overhears and responds "Hey Mon." He holds out his hand as in a universally-recognized high five.
Instead of trick or treating you get to go to temple.
Instead of ghost stories, you are regaled with yet another tale of near-genocide from your Rabbi. He is dressed as Dolly-the-Cloned-Sheep for the occasion.
Instead of candy you get to enjoy pastries full of prunes (Surprise!) or maybe even poppyseeds (SURPRISE)!!
No one understands when you complain that Queen Esther costumes are so cliche
After your friends and neighbors receive your Annual Purim Letter, they never mention it to you ever, and seem a little more eye-twitchy in your presence than usual.
No one else seems to know the festive holiday carol ‘My Hat it Has Three Corners’ in English. They don’t even know the Hebrew version “Ha Covah Sheli Shalosh Pinot” but when you say “Pinot” the neighbor boy laughs really hard.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Playmobile 911
BreakerBreaker we have a hairless acrobat trapped inside the utility storage compartment over here in the Camper Van. Someone shoved a baby guinea pig and dirtbike handlebars into her headchamber, but she’s still got a full tub of popcorn in her hand. I think she’s gonna make it. Do you read me?
Copy that. Mobile1. Requesting patience, as we’ve got a serious situation here in the circus tent involving a pterodactyl, the trapeze, and what looks to be Mother Hubbard with a rifle in her baby sling. Requesting backup.
BreakerBreaker this may be a serial situation as the stow-and-go seems to contain numerous hair scalps including two ponytails, a turban, and fortheloveof Pete-- a bowl cut. We’re not going anywhere soon. I'll call Safari/Ranger Dude and see if he can come over on the jeep. Last I saw the vehicle, Pharoah and his buddies had stripped the thing and had it up on blocks in the Pyramid. But I bet she still motors just fine. If you see any hairless patrons, send them our way. Copy?
Mobile 1! Mobile 1! We may have a hostage situation. Mother Hubbard refuses to dismount the flying trapeze, and has her site aimed at the saxophone-wielding circus monkey. She’s demanding the orange juice and sardine tin from the RV as well as the adult-sized dirt bike. Pterodactyl is losing his grip on her ankles, and noway nohow that mini rake and dustpan is gonna handle this kind of mess, should this thing blow up.
BreakerBreaker, Tell Mother Hubbard we just checked the cooler. Those tiny foodstuffs likely went straight down the heating vent by way of some chubby little fingers months ago. Tell her the ambulance is on the way containing the IV--which doubles as a Caprisun or a Pina Colada, depending on the plot line. Talk her down Mobile 1! You can do it. She’s probably just desperate for some alone time—what with only a rocker to sit in, a fussy baby in an hideous canopy-crib to entertain her, and a huge purple bonnet strapped to her head. Tell her if she puts down the rifle, we’ll give her the keys to the RV no questions asked. And for god’s sakes, tell pterodactyl to put a sock in it. We’ll bring him a handful of baby chicks from the farmhouse, just as soon as we can snap these hairdos on their rightful owners.
Thanks, Mobile 1. But we’ve got much bigger problems. It’s the last Monday of the month, and Mommy is on her “Clean up for the Cleaners” mission. Tell all your people to assume the position, as those flailing arms are about to swoop in and sweep up. The way this lunatic cleans, there are likely to be many casualties.
Breaker Breaker. Copy that old buddy, and warn all units: Beware the Dyson. BEWARE THE DYSON. 10-4.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Medicine MANIA!
Featuring lightweight and highly bendable THREE vs. Middleweight and highly obsessed ME (with appearances from Heavy Weight and highly ambivalent HUSBAND)
ROUND ONE (PING!)
Begin antibiotic dosage in car seat, immediately following doctor diagnosis of double-ear-infections-almost-rupturing. Succeed in dosing antibiotic all over car seat (and snow suit) with none passing through Three’s ziplocked lips. Tears commence.
On the ride home, console Three with ideas of chocolate ice-cream chasers. After arriving home and while preparing the second-attempt dosage, realize that you finished the chocolate ice cream two nights ago.
Break "oops no ice cream" news gently, but follow up with a magically appearing dusty chocolate ball from your wizard-cupboard full of plastic extemporaneousness. Place it side by side with the medicine.
Three will lunge for the chocolate. BUT YOU ARE NOT FOOLED THAT EASILY. Whoaaa no, YOU ARE NOT.
Breathe.
Offer the choices and for God's sake PROTECT THAT MAGICAL DUSTY CHOCOLATE BALL. Offer? Protect! Offer? Protect! Offer? Three refuses, superglues lips, hides.
ROUND TWO (PINNGG)
Tackle Three while trying to channel serious medic force-feeding skills. Struggle ensues as Three evaporates and disappears even when faced with the fullest of Nelsons. Whimper, whine, stomp RRRROOOAARRR!!! Terrify both children and Husband who tries to help but cannot get a pulse on exactly what the hell is going on around here, nor what on earth he should do. Smile. LAUGH maniacally. Wish you had a less cliché reference than Joan Crawford.
Consider immediate conversion to Christian Science, complete with a healing prayer circle Tweet-up.
Instead, accept offer of help from Almost Six. He too wants a magic dusty chocolate ball so badly and despite your request/demands/begging NOT TO TOUCH THE MEDICINE DO NOT TOUCH THE MEDICINE Almost-Six grabs the second-attempt dosage and launches a vial full of medicine kinda sorta at Three’s mouth. Three wails upon receipt of medicine face-wash [insert always effective “(sigh)NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO ME(stomp)” here].
Mop up small sticky Three and appeal to his reason. Because preschoolers are logical. “If you don’t take this medicine your ears will pop and it will hurt so bad. (Three cries harder). If you don’t take this medicine I will have to bring you back to the Doctor tomorrow and you will have to get a shot (Three cries harder still).
ROUND THREE (PINNNGGG)
Mix Third and final dose with chocolate syrup. Spill it all over Three in the process—also known as HersheyBoarding. Three is okay with HersheyBoarding. Stay calm and try to stay positive, do not let your fear of failure show. Hold your breath as he takes spoonful after interminable spoonful, and watch his pathetic little expression alternate between revulsion and chocolate deliciousness.
Follow with magic dusty chocolate ball.
Repeat twice daily FOR TEN DAYS.
ROUND ONE (PING!)
Begin antibiotic dosage in car seat, immediately following doctor diagnosis of double-ear-infections-almost-rupturing. Succeed in dosing antibiotic all over car seat (and snow suit) with none passing through Three’s ziplocked lips. Tears commence.
On the ride home, console Three with ideas of chocolate ice-cream chasers. After arriving home and while preparing the second-attempt dosage, realize that you finished the chocolate ice cream two nights ago.
Break "oops no ice cream" news gently, but follow up with a magically appearing dusty chocolate ball from your wizard-cupboard full of plastic extemporaneousness. Place it side by side with the medicine.
Three will lunge for the chocolate. BUT YOU ARE NOT FOOLED THAT EASILY. Whoaaa no, YOU ARE NOT.
Breathe.
Offer the choices and for God's sake PROTECT THAT MAGICAL DUSTY CHOCOLATE BALL. Offer? Protect! Offer? Protect! Offer? Three refuses, superglues lips, hides.
ROUND TWO (PINNGG)
Tackle Three while trying to channel serious medic force-feeding skills. Struggle ensues as Three evaporates and disappears even when faced with the fullest of Nelsons. Whimper, whine, stomp RRRROOOAARRR!!! Terrify both children and Husband who tries to help but cannot get a pulse on exactly what the hell is going on around here, nor what on earth he should do. Smile. LAUGH maniacally. Wish you had a less cliché reference than Joan Crawford.
Consider immediate conversion to Christian Science, complete with a healing prayer circle Tweet-up.
Instead, accept offer of help from Almost Six. He too wants a magic dusty chocolate ball so badly and despite your request/demands/begging NOT TO TOUCH THE MEDICINE DO NOT TOUCH THE MEDICINE Almost-Six grabs the second-attempt dosage and launches a vial full of medicine kinda sorta at Three’s mouth. Three wails upon receipt of medicine face-wash [insert always effective “(sigh)NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO ME(stomp)” here].
Mop up small sticky Three and appeal to his reason. Because preschoolers are logical. “If you don’t take this medicine your ears will pop and it will hurt so bad. (Three cries harder). If you don’t take this medicine I will have to bring you back to the Doctor tomorrow and you will have to get a shot (Three cries harder still).
ROUND THREE (PINNNGGG)
Mix Third and final dose with chocolate syrup. Spill it all over Three in the process—also known as HersheyBoarding. Three is okay with HersheyBoarding. Stay calm and try to stay positive, do not let your fear of failure show. Hold your breath as he takes spoonful after interminable spoonful, and watch his pathetic little expression alternate between revulsion and chocolate deliciousness.
Follow with magic dusty chocolate ball.
Repeat twice daily FOR TEN DAYS.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Interview with myself #4: 18-year-old Summer Camp Counselor-in-Training
The next installment in a series of stunning displays of narcissism in one act...
Camp Director: So why do you think you are ready to be on staff at Named-After-Wealthy-People Institute?
Ann: Please don’t say Institute. I’m already composing inappropriate cheers.
Camp Director: So why do you want to work at camp?
Ann: I love camp (boys). I love Jews (boys). The friends I’ve made here (dress in ROOTS) understand me in a way that none of my friends do at home (have never even heard of ROOTS)
Camp Director: What do you say to your friends when they ask why you want to spend your summer praying and studying Judaism?
Ann: They pray (not to get busted) and study (advanced beer bonging) too. They know that my camp is really special to me (boys). They won’t remember anything about their summers, but I will cherish these memories for years and know many Hebrew prayers by rote and have little idea what they mean.
Camp Director: How will you handle ten kids in one cabin?
Ann: I’m so good with kids. Yes I will try to drag that one girl from her bed, but she was thrashing back and forth so wildly she was well on her way.
Camp Director: How about the kids that are (just off meds for the month their parents send them to camp) homesick?
Ann: I will sing them The Rainbow Connection or foist them on my co-counselor and go make out with my boyfriend
Camp Director: What special skills do you have?
Ann: I love to act and sing. I can totally help out with Drama (sing louder than everyone so they can hear my mad Jewish trills and flirt with the very much older and very much too interested married drama director) I am going to do this awesome impression of you at the staff meeting actually. I wonder if you will think it is so amazing that I am so talented. I know you will not regret hiring me. Especially since my parents have paid you thousands of dollars over several years, and you really have no choice. I might as well tell you that I end up marrying a non-Jew, but that is less my fault and probably due to your no camper-staff relationship policy. Just saying, you might want to rethink that one. B’Shalom!
Camp Director: So why do you think you are ready to be on staff at Named-After-Wealthy-People Institute?
Ann: Please don’t say Institute. I’m already composing inappropriate cheers.
Camp Director: So why do you want to work at camp?
Ann: I love camp (boys). I love Jews (boys). The friends I’ve made here (dress in ROOTS) understand me in a way that none of my friends do at home (have never even heard of ROOTS)
Camp Director: What do you say to your friends when they ask why you want to spend your summer praying and studying Judaism?
Ann: They pray (not to get busted) and study (advanced beer bonging) too. They know that my camp is really special to me (boys). They won’t remember anything about their summers, but I will cherish these memories for years and know many Hebrew prayers by rote and have little idea what they mean.
Camp Director: How will you handle ten kids in one cabin?
Ann: I’m so good with kids. Yes I will try to drag that one girl from her bed, but she was thrashing back and forth so wildly she was well on her way.
Camp Director: How about the kids that are (just off meds for the month their parents send them to camp) homesick?
Ann: I will sing them The Rainbow Connection or foist them on my co-counselor and go make out with my boyfriend
Camp Director: What special skills do you have?
Ann: I love to act and sing. I can totally help out with Drama (sing louder than everyone so they can hear my mad Jewish trills and flirt with the very much older and very much too interested married drama director) I am going to do this awesome impression of you at the staff meeting actually. I wonder if you will think it is so amazing that I am so talented. I know you will not regret hiring me. Especially since my parents have paid you thousands of dollars over several years, and you really have no choice. I might as well tell you that I end up marrying a non-Jew, but that is less my fault and probably due to your no camper-staff relationship policy. Just saying, you might want to rethink that one. B’Shalom!
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