Psycho "Barking Dog Man" on the News!!! High Quality

Happy Holidays all. Will write again in the new year!

I wish you a merry Jew Christmas.

When mentioning our Xmas tree I inevitably get asked: "But aren’t you Jewish?" To which I respond with an awkward, stuttered, elaborate explanation that my kids’ grandparents are Christian so my husband and I try to give them both cultures. But the truth is I want the tree. I relish in the tinsel, cherish the cherubs and luxuriate in all the shiny, sparking ornaments. Plug it in, light it up and I glow with pure, gleeful, unadulterated pleasure.

Growing up strictly Jewish I used to get physical pangs when watching shows that featured a Xmas tree. It looked so wonderful. Happy families around a fireplace, singing songs around this gleaming tree, aglow in glitz. And what did we get? Some crappy dreidel, chocolate money and poached fish. It sucked. I felt hard done by. Surely if we were the chosen people we’d get the better holiday?

So when the opportunity came to marry a non-Jew, a true yok with bona-fide Christian parents, I jumped at the opportunity. What a win. I could keep all of my beliefs, my kids would still be Jewish but happy, joyous days I could get the tree, and the presents, and the latest old-timer, cobweb-dusted singer with a Xmas hits album. I could have it all and eat my kneidlach too.

So we have a big tree, all the songs, all the smaltz I missed out on. And yes my grandparents are probably turning in their Jewish graves. But ag, eh, you know, I do it for the kids.

Peace up.

A wise man with long, day-glo painted nails, make-up and shoulder pads once said “War ,war is stupid and people are stupid”. Well he sang it but that does not make the words any less powerful. War is, of course, stupid. There can be nothing gained from the killing of people, except for money and fuel/oil/land and then you have to kill more people to hold onto it. Now I get the “When attacked you need to fight back argument.” Or I did. But really does it solve anything? Do you not just get yourself into an infinity sign of revenge and hate. You’d think most people would know this. But really it’s just a small bunch of people who’re singing along. Basically Yoko Ono and Michael Moore. The rest of us are stupid. Idiots who vote for, pay for, don’t protest, don’t stand up and say Stop, just sit back and watch shock and awe on CNN. Or on Fox, because that’s where most stupid people go for information. George, I’m afraid you’re going to have to steal back your wardrobe from the 2009 catwalks, grab that sequined mike and sing much, much louder.

TGIF, Not.

There’s the strangest tradition in America. No, it’s not the Horn of Plenty (not what it sounds like foreign people*). It’s a day called Black Friday. A day where thousands of people line up for hours, pre dawn, did you read that, PRE dawn; there you read it now, to shop for bargains.

You would assume this is a poor thing. Street people who simply must have a Flat-screen TV for $20 because that’s the only way they’ll ever be able afford one for their trolley. (I wouldn’t usually mock street people but I got screamed at by one recently for only giving him a couple of dollars rather than the $10 he requested, so I can have a small dig.) But no it’s everyone. Black, white, old, young, Jew, Muslim, rich (well not really the rich but defiantly the middle class and ex Lehman Brothers CEOs) poor, fat, thin. All lined up in cosmic harmony, that is, until the doors open. Then people are literally willing to kill to get their hands on a small, fluffy, electronic hamster toy called a Zhu Zhu, that’ll be broken the day after Xmas.

Now perhaps I’m being cynical. Me? Really? We can after all afford to go into dept to buy our daughter an American Girl for Christmas. But waiting 5 hours in line to save $20 is utterly straightjacket, Jack Nicholson in his nest, cuckoo.

There are true bargains to be had. About 6. Beyond that you are shopping for things you don’t want, don’t need, are never going to use and are only $5 less than the original asking price. But by God you’re going to have them, because you’ve developed deep vein thrombosis from 6 hours in line and you want something to show for it.

The only way I can come to terms with Black Friday is my theory that this is not in fact “shopping” this is “sport.” The strongest, quickest, best strategies win the prize. And everyone else is obviously Darwin’s strongest proof. It’s this challenge that draws thousands, the marathon of shopping. Black Friday should be renamed World Series Shopping and ESPN should cover it with Imelda Marcus commenting. Now that would be worth tuning into. Until then I shall spend Black Friday, as I did this year, at home in my PJ’s shopping online.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horn_of_Plenty

The ol' ball and fur-lined chain.

My husband has been feeling slightly wounded dog about my last few posts. He feels a bit vilified, eunuched, the punching bag for all woman who read The Feminine Mystique, The Beauty Myth or anything by Gloria Steinem in college, marched for female rights, grew their underarm hair and examined their vaginas with a hand-held mirror. And now, as stay-at-home 50s-style housewives, have switched to Woman’s Weakly (no spelling mistake there).

Well I’m here to shout it from the blogtops that my man is actually one of the good ones. He does the dishes, vacuums, does laundry, is (mom look away, look away), great in bed, even better in position 37, is a fantastic father, has a nice, shiny, platinum credit card and all my friends think I’m lucky to have him. I’m not so sure they think the reverse. “Poor Noel.” Being married to THAT tiny, could-blow-at-any-second grenade can’t be easy. And I guess sometimes it’s not. Except that I am unbelievably dexterous at position 102 plus I’m funny.

So why do I make these snide, somewhat cruel remarks about him. Well it’s fun. And sometimes it’s just what married couples do. They get on each other nerves. They push the “Do not push that button because it’ll start nuclear holocaust” just to see if it will.

In marriage you see each other at your worst. Him, on the couch, watching sport with a beer ala Homer Simpson. Me, in my big brown gown, plucking the hairs out of my chin ala Blanche from the Golden Girls. Charming. But then we get those nights where we fancy up, spritz on some of the expensive stuff, share a bottle personally delivered from Bacchus and fall in love all over again.

We were chatting the other night about what we’d do if we were ever to split up. I vowed never to date again. Not for him, but because honestly it seems too much like drilling nails into your skull. He protested and insisted I marry again, not for me, but because he can’t be arsed to pay alimony while supporting a blonde stripper with huge tits. Oops I did it again. Sorry babe. Back to how wonderful you are.

And you are. I do love you. Where the fuck are those cute white puppies and cupids I ordered? Ah here they come. And the fields of corn just high enough for us to run toward the sunset in? There they are. So take my hand you big, gorgeous lug of a giant and let’s step into marriage Utopia. And on your way, do me a favor, take out the trash.n

Motherhood. Cheers.

There are those rare times when I get lemon bitter and jalapeno pretzel twisted about being a stay-at-home mom (usually Monday to Friday up until happy hour but including feeding and bedtime.) It’s a thankless job. You schlep, dress, play with, teach, feed and Cha Cha around the lounge for your kids and they reward you with a Oscar worthy tantrum and a threat that they’re leaving to go live with the cool mom down the corridor.

It’s this “meaner” my husband comes home to at night. A frazzled, tracksuited up, bitter Sue Ellen-like creature clutching her whiskey for dear life. “Oh I’m so sorry”, he says. But he’s not. He gets a get out of jail free card every morning when he goes to work. “Cheers love you have a good day.” Fuck you.

The truth is I did choose to stay home with my kids. I did it for several reasons but mostly because I thought it would be different. Everything I learned about mothering came from watching Family Ties. At the end of each episode the kids, no matter how akin to Satan they had been in the day, would realize their follies and profusely, remorsefully, with huge Bambi-eyes apologize, hug that woman with the mad, fizzy, yellow hair and tell her how much they appreciate her. Not my kids. They don’t get the moral of the story. Turns out life isn’t a 80s sitcom and then you die.

Oh I know, it’s not all bad. I’m not chained to a desk, I don’t have to squeeze into a pencil skirt, I get to play with invisible people. And then there are those heart-throbbingly endearing moments when my family actually acknowledge the work I do, and, head-banging drum roll please, thank me for it. Like when my youngest told me I should be on Top Chef because I make the best chicken soup from Wholefoods. Or when my eldest told me that I’m the best mom in the world because you can only have one mom. Hallmark moments. Of course sentiment is wonderful in its soap-sud rarity but nothing says “Thanks Mom” like a pair of Prada Boots.