Weekends in New England
On the corner of 42nd Street and 8th Avenue, just after regaling each other with our favorite and least-appropriate Helen Keller jokes, I told Scott I was a Fanilow.
"My parents had lots of Barry Manilow records," he replied. "If there was a Jew that sang, my parents liked 'em."
How true that is. Jewish parents LOVE singing Jews. I feel this provides a reasonable rationale for the otherwise inexplicable popularity of Barbra Streisand.
Confession: A couple months ago, there was nothing on TV and I found myself watching (shudder) The Mirror Has Two Faces. I would like to preface this by saying that there is ALWAYS something else on TV and one should never resort to The Mirror Has Two Faces, but I must have had an aneurysm or something because there I was, eating peanut butter with a spoon and watching Barbra Streisand stand before a gilded mirror after Jeff Bridges kinda-proposes to her and, because she feels beautiful (which, puh-leeze), open her mouth as wide as possible and bust out her jazz hands.
Jazz hands, people.
Whatever you think of Jews — whether you think we control the banks and the media, or we embrace starchy foods or reverse the wording of statments with Yoda-like dexterity so they sound like questions — we do not use jazz hands to express our emotions. Accuse us of treachery or of being cheap, tell us our noses are ginormous and we have horns like the devil, but do NOT accuse us of using jazz hands. This I will not stand for, yes?
In other news, I spent the last month on a train, first heading to Boston where Lisa was in the hospital, and then vacationing in Providence, Rhode Island, just because. I have pictures to post (mmm, photogenic hospital food ... ), but seeing that Josh's thesis is due in two weeks, use of the home computer is not mine. I'll dazzle you with them soon.
(As a side note, if anybody can tell me why people who live in Providence haven't caught on that it's a great walking city, I'd appreciate it. Because they kept calling me cabs that wouldn't show up, and I could have walked to where I needed to go in an eighth of the time. They're called hills, people. Do not fear them.)
In conclusion, I'd like to say that my book club met last night, and we spent about 8 minutes talking about the book (The History of Love by Nicole Krause; eh) and about 43 minutes talking about porn. I love my book club. But that's not the point of this paragraph. The point of this paragraph is to tell you that just before I left, I went to the bathroom for my pre-train-ride pee. I had consumed about 97 glasses of water and was looking forward to this. However, I turned on the light, looked down at the toilet, and there was a child-safety lock on the lid (my friend who hosted has a baby, obviously). I could not figure out how to unlatch the thing. I futzed with it for, well, basically the length of time it takes to pee, could not find any kind of lever or latch or button, no picture with instructions, and I gave up, flushed the toilet and washed my hands so it wouldn't seem like I was too stupid to figure out how to lift the toilet seat, and left, humiliated and still having to pee.
This tells me many things, but mainly two:
1. I'm going to be the crappiest mother ever, and
2. I just shouldn't leave the house. That is all.
"My parents had lots of Barry Manilow records," he replied. "If there was a Jew that sang, my parents liked 'em."
How true that is. Jewish parents LOVE singing Jews. I feel this provides a reasonable rationale for the otherwise inexplicable popularity of Barbra Streisand.
Confession: A couple months ago, there was nothing on TV and I found myself watching (shudder) The Mirror Has Two Faces. I would like to preface this by saying that there is ALWAYS something else on TV and one should never resort to The Mirror Has Two Faces, but I must have had an aneurysm or something because there I was, eating peanut butter with a spoon and watching Barbra Streisand stand before a gilded mirror after Jeff Bridges kinda-proposes to her and, because she feels beautiful (which, puh-leeze), open her mouth as wide as possible and bust out her jazz hands.
Jazz hands, people.
Whatever you think of Jews — whether you think we control the banks and the media, or we embrace starchy foods or reverse the wording of statments with Yoda-like dexterity so they sound like questions — we do not use jazz hands to express our emotions. Accuse us of treachery or of being cheap, tell us our noses are ginormous and we have horns like the devil, but do NOT accuse us of using jazz hands. This I will not stand for, yes?
In other news, I spent the last month on a train, first heading to Boston where Lisa was in the hospital, and then vacationing in Providence, Rhode Island, just because. I have pictures to post (mmm, photogenic hospital food ... ), but seeing that Josh's thesis is due in two weeks, use of the home computer is not mine. I'll dazzle you with them soon.
(As a side note, if anybody can tell me why people who live in Providence haven't caught on that it's a great walking city, I'd appreciate it. Because they kept calling me cabs that wouldn't show up, and I could have walked to where I needed to go in an eighth of the time. They're called hills, people. Do not fear them.)
In conclusion, I'd like to say that my book club met last night, and we spent about 8 minutes talking about the book (The History of Love by Nicole Krause; eh) and about 43 minutes talking about porn. I love my book club. But that's not the point of this paragraph. The point of this paragraph is to tell you that just before I left, I went to the bathroom for my pre-train-ride pee. I had consumed about 97 glasses of water and was looking forward to this. However, I turned on the light, looked down at the toilet, and there was a child-safety lock on the lid (my friend who hosted has a baby, obviously). I could not figure out how to unlatch the thing. I futzed with it for, well, basically the length of time it takes to pee, could not find any kind of lever or latch or button, no picture with instructions, and I gave up, flushed the toilet and washed my hands so it wouldn't seem like I was too stupid to figure out how to lift the toilet seat, and left, humiliated and still having to pee.
This tells me many things, but mainly two:
1. I'm going to be the crappiest mother ever, and
2. I just shouldn't leave the house. That is all.
Labels: friends, pop culture, randomness, religion, sports, travel
posted by Marla at 3:21 PM
4 Comments:
I bought child locks for all my kitchen cabinets and put them on without first figuring out how to take them off. For a short time, neither Jacob nor I could get pots and pans to cook with or bang on. Fear not, even good Moms are thrown off by those child locks.
-GantzGers
Bula- you and i are the queens of jazz hands. Rockettes and the puppy gift- need I say more?
whuts this jazz hands stuff now?
Jazz hands: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jazz_hands
I don't think the photo accompanying the definition is the greatest depiction of jazz hands, but you get the gist. I feel that jazz hands are represented best when the hands are splayed more outwardly from the body in relation to the elbows, which are brought in a bit more.
GantzGers, seriously, it was mortifying. I feel slightly better now that you've shared your child-safety-lock conundrum, but even so, you're one of the most creative people I know, and you'd surely scoff at something like not being able to open your cabinets. You would just look at Jacob and say, "Never mind those pots, Jacob. Let's make some ourselves using leftover telephone wire and some garden clay." And you'd make the most delicious meal ever, and Jacob would make amazing music on them. And that's why you're awesome.
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