jewge

I don’t hate Christmas, I just hate the lead up to it. Growing up Jewish, albeit by the skin of my teeth, Christmastime was a constant reminder of what I was not. The other kids got excited about Santa Claus and talked about their Christmas trees, while annually quizzing us, the few Jewish kids, about our bizarre customs – we lit the menorah, said prayers and opened one present a night, but we might as well have been sacrificing goats and shouting at the moon. We were the others.

Every store, every commercial, every "Merry Christmas!" was a reminder that I was not part of the frosted, sparkling, eggnog-soaked majority, and this was long before there was any solace in being different. With so much of the season geared towards consumerism, I just felt like I was getting screwed out of the whole game. There was nothing Hannukah about G.I. Joe and Luke Skywalker.

When my mother explained to me that there was no such thing as Santa Claus (probably a little too early), I promptly told my even younger friend, Jonathan, who was understandably crushed. I guess I though bringing someone else down would make me feel better. It didn’t.

For my family, Christmas was a quiet, still day, marked by a couple of presents from our Christian relatives. Once I could drive, my friend Mark and I always wound up cruising around looking for open stores or restaurants and noting the empty roads.

One Christmas we went with our Jewish youth group to St. Elizabeth’s (a huge mental institution in Washington, DC) to hand out Christmas presents to the patients. Our group leader, Moishe, made a disturbingly convincing Santa and we did our best to spread the Christmas spirit to a terrified and confused group of schizophrenics and manic depressives. The gifts had been carefully chosen by the staff: slippers for the barefoot man, a tiny dress for the grown woman with a doll.

Right before we left, the group took a bunch of pictures for some sort of Jewish community newsletter. One patient, a young woman that talked in a little girl’s voice, insisted on being in all the pictures and kept excitedly asking "Santa" questions, her eyes lit up like a kid that still believed. When a member of the staff kindly suggested that she let us take one picture alone, she flipped out. "Fuck you, Santa! You ain’t shit!" she screamed at Moishe, now talking like a very angry adult. I couldn’t blame her – the pressure of the season seems to bring out the worst in everyone.

Over the years my Christmas envy has waned – now I just hate the oppressiveness of the decoration and ambiance. Take, for example, the monstrous, automated twin winter wonderland displays (pictured above) at either end of the lobby of the building I work in. Perhaps someone complained about last year’s elfapalooza, because this year’s stationary floats, while equally gaudy, are decidedly non-denominational (making them even more ridiculous). Just miniature ice skating, twirling and frolicking little people – a mini, Siberian Cirque du Soleil, complete with flashing lights and carousels. The poor security guards were blurry-eyed by day two.

And then there’s Christmas music. Every year around this time it starts simmering in the background – peculiar at first, then familiar, then frightening. Kind of like regaining consciousness after passing out on a hardwood floor. Anyone who has ever worked in a retail establishment (I spent three years in Urban Outfitters and still have flashbacks) knows what I’m talking about. You don’t know what hell is until you’re nursing a hangover staring at a line of pissed-off holiday shoppers while Bruce Springsteen tells everyone again and again (as if we could ever forget) that SAAAAAANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN at a volume that could wake the dead.

The themed Christmas albums are the worst: A Reggae Christmas, Christmas Blues, The Slightly out of Tune Children’s Choir Christmas. I’m convinced that no one actually enjoys Christmas music, they just like the memories it conjures up. Like if part of the Christmas Season involved little elves that ran up to people in the streets and pinched them – people would get excited when they saw the first elf of the season and start walking with a little extra hop in their step, instead of noticing that it hurts to be pinched.

Every year Julia gets upset with me for not "getting excited" about Christmas. And while I freely admit that, having married into a large Catholic family, there are many things I enjoy about Christmas (the incredible food, the annual poker game, receiving a year’s supply of razor blades and breath mints in a huge red sock), it is virtually impossible for me to get into the Christmas spirit. I’m just too late in the game. It’d be like living your whole life in Boston and then moving to New York in your late twenties and becoming a Yankees fan.

This has been a hot topic as of late, since Julia has openly expressed her fear that I won’t get the future child excited enough for Christmas (as if there isn’t enough hype already). I’m no scrooge (jewge?) – we can do the whole tree thing, and I’ll promise to keep my cynicism to myself, but please, god, no music.

guess what?

Julia is pregnant. She’ll be fifteen weeks tomorrow. Not being able to reference this until she made it out of her first trimester (as well avoiding blogging about the STILL ongoing negotiations for the previously mentioned job) has kind of ground things to a halt here. I like to blog about what’s on my mind and, well, when I can’t do that, I kind of shut off. (Random note: What does the fact that Word’s spell-check does not recognize blog, but recognizes eBay say about the nature of our culture?)

We are excited, nervous and currently stalled in baby name negotiation – all of my male names (Maximilian, Xavier, Ezekiel, Aquilles, Apollo) have been soundly rejected. Julia has pulled Sophia (a previous favorite for a girl), as it is supposedly the most popular girl’s name in Brooklyn. Things are on hold until we find out the sex (Jan. 5th).

NYC poses its own set of challenges for pregnancy – Julia’s heightened sense of smell has made much of life outdoors unbearable. Selected quotes from the past month:

"Is every night trash night?"
"Brooklyn smells different than Manhattan."
"Do you smell that?" (at least once a day)

Eating has become a major challenge as well. Julia can’t have coffee, sushi, soft cheeses, cold cuts, sausage and lots of other stuff I can’t remember. What she can eat, she often throws up. They call it morning sickness, but it lasts all day.

A few weeks ago, while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, Julia laughed so hard that she started crying, but not the happy kind of crying. It’s safe to say her emotions have been slightly affected by this whole thing.

We’ve spent much of the last month watching the first three seasons of The Wire (which has edged out 24, The Ultimate Fighter and pre-1997 Simpsons as my favorite show of all time – just rent it), trying to decide what to eat and speculating about our future offspring. Since Julia is exhausted, nauseous and depressed, any congratulatory email sent in her direction would be greatly appreciated.

my new favorite youtube clip

five band name ideas

the baked bads
safety school
fizz ed
parallel parker posey
the suspicious packages

ten cnn headlines that would make me giddy

"O.J. Confesses"

"ESPN to Start Covering Mixed Martial Arts"

"In n’ Out Burger to Open New York City Franchise"

"Senate Accidentally Passes Universal Healthcare Bill in Spontaneous Late Night Session after Night of Heavy Drinking"

"Sarah Jessica Parker 'Done With Acting Career'"

"Sudden, Inexplicable Demand in the Workforce for Masters in Media Studies"

"MTA to Enact 'No Talking on Subway Trains Before 11AM' Rule"

"Airline Price War Drops Round-Trip Fare to Brazil to $99"

"Quentin Tarantino and Spike Lee to Finish Careers as Art Directors and Documentary Producers, Apologize for Years of One-Dimensional, Stereotypical Characters"

"Carrot Top and Ashton Kutcher Still Missing"

ringing the ancient song

Last week I surprised Julia with Opera tickets (Carmen) via a nice employee discount I recently became aware of (and to quell the constant and justified “we never do cultural things” comments). I had never seen a real opera before (we saw a bizarre, awkward rendition of Oedipus a couple of years ago) and was actually looking forward to it.

On the way up the stairs of the State Theater in Lincoln Center I hit my head on the sculpture pictured above so hard that it rang for several seconds (the sculpture, that is – my head rang for an hour). Julia laughed hysterically while I tried to figure out if I had a concussion or not. Had someone filmed the sequence (which included me continuing up the stairs, embarrassed, acting as if nothing had happened), it would surely be making the rounds on youtube right now.

At the first intermission Julia realized that I had paint chips on my neck from having shook the thing so hard. If you’re reading, Yasuhide Kobashi, I’m sorry I damaged your sculpture (Ancient Song, 1972) with my thick skull. I wonder if I’m the only idiot to ever do that. Probably.



The other night we came across this fantastic “lost Ernie doll” flyer, which is hilarious because:

1. these people already had a picture of Ernie in a vulnerable position and
2. they actually think someone might find it and call

If I was less morally-sound (probably more of a flaw than a positive trait), I’d be tempted to record a prank/ransom call and post it here. Regardless, that thing is definitely cuddled up next to some baby rats in the sewer right now. Sorry, guys.



Yesterday someone at work left a Green Party candidate flyer propped up against the bathroom mirror. It is a testament to the sterility of my current workplace that I felt compelled to take a picture. I mean, people just do not do things like that here. I’m dying to know who it was.

Speaking of voting, I did my part last night at 8:30, with just enough time left to hit the fantastic new Vietnamese sandwich (banh mi) shop in the neighborhood that I’m currently addicted to. I almost didn’t vote, for no good reason other than a combination of apathy/bad weather/errands, but am proud to have done my little bit towards today’s good news.

bear with me

I think I’m on the verge of getting a job offer from what seems like a great company. I’m afraid to say anything other than that for fear of jinxing myself, but the extensive interview/communication/obsessive email checking process has completely taken over my life, hence the lack of action here. Apologies…