AH-ha.

Many several years ago by now, my wife (who was, back then, my girlfriend) was babysitting for two children belonging to this family who lives nearby. She sent me a text message earlier in the night saying that she was craving a pickle, and that there were none in the refrigerator in the house occupied by the two children belonging to the family who lived nearby.

So, I procured a pickle from a local establishment which trades in such things, and I brought the chick who was, at that point, my girlfriend, a pickle.

She was elated. She invited me inside and, although we didn't have sex in these people's master bedroom as I'd been lead to believe we would by Hollywood, we did have an enjoyable conversation. At some point during my visit, my wife left me alone in these folks' living room so she could go do something babysitterly like put children to sleep or fold up the Twister mat or whatever. While she was gone, I was left to eyeball the immense, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf belonging to these people who lived nearby.

Philosophy.

Cooking.

History.

Theory.

Humor.

Literature.

Biography.

While the subjects and the heights and spines and the colors and the ages of these books all differed, one from the other, there was a common element that united all of these published, literary works, or unified most of them, at least.

Jewish.

Jewish authors.

Jewish themes.

Jewish titles.

Jewish slants and bents and perspectives.

My eyes narrowed and moved to the music collection, which I only had a brief moment to study before my then-girlfriend now-wife returned from upstairs.

Jewish composers.

Hebrew lyrics.

Jewish singer-songwriters.

Israeli orchestra.

Irritated, I abruptly cut my visit short and left the house, noticing, as I walked out, the "Evil Eye" hamsa by the front door as I passed.

I would qualify the rest of this post by saying, "I don't have a problem with being Jewish" but, clearly, that would be a lie.

I do. I do have a problem with it. In fact, I kind of can't stand it. I reek of Jewishness.

"I've got a friend who's Jewish, but he doesn't look Jewish," a coworker of mine said to me recently, "but you really LOOK Jewish."

That might sound horrible and inappropriate and offensive, but he ain't just whistlin' Hatikvah.

In Dublin, my wife and I arrived at the departure point for our tour bus on Friday, August 5th. There was an elderly lady standing in front of the steps to the hostel, her bags packed, her slicker on, her teeth-- well, I don't know where her teeth were. Probably in her suitcase. But her eyebrows were drawn on and she was ready to go. We made superficial smalltalk with her about Ireland before my wife said, "I need to go get breakfast, do you want to come with me?" I said no, because this lady was starting to get entertaining, I thought. She had just checked her watch (which read five minutes of nine) and announced, in a thick German accent,

"Ah. Zey are late."

There was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to hang around this woman, I thought, so I said to my wife, "No thanks, you go on ahead. I'll stay here in case the bus shows up."

My wife rolled her eyes at me, thinking she was trying to rescue me from this woman's clutches, and disappeared around a Dublin street corner. The woman, who I silently named "Gerta" chatted amiably for another couple minutes until a natural silence interceded between us. She broke it with,

"You are from Israel."

Notice the distinct dearth of any interrogative punctuation mark. Another silence, this one less natural, took its place before I replied with,

"Uh-- no. We're... I'm-- we're American."

"Oh," she said, "AH-ha." She peppered her conversation with "AH-ha's", making sure to really emphasize the first syllable. "But," Gerta said, "that is where your people are from. Israel."

Again-- no question mark.

"Yes," I said, suddenly wishing I'd gone for that croissant with my wife as sweat trickled into my asshole hair-forest, "my father is from Israel."

"AH! AH-ha!" she ejaculated, with a satisfied smile, indicating "Got one!" on her face. "Your nose, though, your nose," she continued mercilessly, "is Persian. You have a very Persian nose."

Yes, I thought, and you have no teeth or eyebrows. Did you lose them in the war?

Instead of saying that, I came up with, "Well, my father was born in Iraq."

"AH-ha."

I spent a good healthy portion of my 55 minutes in the chair yesterday talking about what it means to me to be Jewish, both at home and abroad, about what it's like having the map of Israel (or Persia) tattooed onto your face, about being perceived as weak, nebbishy, schmecky, cheap, stuck up, intellectual, a nerd, a schdork, a minority, with a big nose. And kinky hair. In 1993, "Frasier" first came on the air, and introduced the world to Niles Crane, the hopelessly pedantic, more hopelessly romantic brother to Frasier. He was always dressed in a suit, and had a head of beautiful, flax-colored, thin, soft, WASPish hair.

When I was thirteen, I went into the barbershop owned by the man who, many years before, had given me my first haircut.

"Bob," I asked, "can you do something to my hair to make it look like David Hyde Pierce's."

He looked at me with a mixture of sympathy, confusion, and despair.

"I don't think so," he said. "But you've got beautiful, thick hair. You'll appreciate it some day."

I'm still waiting, Bob.

Being Me

You know how, if you're quick and clever, you can catch an annyoing, narcissistic dickhead utter the phrase, "It's not easy being me"?

Well, it's Thursday morning, and it's officially your opportunity to be quick and clever because...

It's Not Easy Being Me.

At ten o'clock on Tuesday evening, Mrs. Apron and I returned from our foray into the snowy depths of hell known as Rhode Island for our decidedly non-vacation. We set sail in my wife's Honda Fit at 11:45am, stopping only briefly (about forty-five minutes) in da Bronx to see her former roommate and said former roommate's new baby.

Charming, both.

Wednesday morning, I woke up at 6:15am for my first day back at work in Ye Olde Mental Hospitalle since Christmas Eve day. I slip on the ice in the back alley and nearly fall on my ass whilst throwing out dog shit, and I think to myself what a terrible way to go it would be, had I went that way: lying there on the ice in back of my house, all mangled up like a broken, Jewish pretzel, clutching fervently onto a baggie of dog turds as if they were some kind of golden chalice or swag from a successful bank heist.

My Volvo was half-covered in snow and ice, and I started it and let it run with the ass-warmers, defogger, defroster, heater, and such work their magic for thirty-five minutes before even busting out the scraper. I had to access the trunk to get it, which truly began the It's-Not-Easy-Being-Me Adventure.

See, once I got the ice-scraper out, ya see, I set about de-icing the car. Which is a lot less exciting than icing a cake, or a stripper's nipples, I would (and have) imagine(d). When it came time to put the ice scraper back inside the trunk, I found I couldn't close the trunk. Well, it closed maybe 85% of the way, but the right side was grotesquely askew. Something was very wrong. But, at 6:45am, you kind of can't see shit, so I couldn't ascertain what the problem was. I figured it was something stuck under where the trunk hinge was supposed to fold, but, like I said, I just couldn't see, damnit. So I did what any Master's level individdle would do: I opened the trunk and slammed it down.

Repeatedly.

About, oh, I don't know, eight or nine times.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" I hissed loudly during attempt six, trying not to awaken the neighbors with a full-blown curse-attack. (Sidebar: they're considering suspending us at work for swearing-- in the chart-room, away from the patients. Isn't that fucking niggardly?) Anyway, the trunk, it would not close.

So, I immediately started having penny arcade fantasies of getting carbon monoxide poisoning while driving to work with the heater on and all the windows tightly rolled up. Surely exhaust fumes would seep through the gaping cracks in between the rear of the car and the trunk lid and kill me mid-way through my commute. This shit happens. I once read about a police officer in Maine who died in the 1960s because he had parked his car with its rear into a snowbank in a parking lot so he could write a report. The tailpipe got clogged with snow and the poor sonofabitch inadvertantly killed himself.

So, what did I do? Well, after slamming the trunk-lid down an additional four times, I resigned myself to a chilly commute, driving thirty-seven minutes to work with all of the windows down, in temperatures registering 31 degrees. At least I had the ass-warmer on.

Upon arrival at work, I got out and opened the trunk-lid again. Now that it was light out at last, I could see a huge hunk of solid ice wedged underneath the trunk hinge. I went bananas at it with the ice-scraper, beating the merciless blue fuck out of it.

"It was you all along, cunt-face!" I yelled, laughing as I went about my hacking business. Just then, one of my co-workers alighted from his vehicle and furrowed his brow at me. I waved. He waved back. No explanation needed. After all, we all just got our asses kicked by some serious-shit snow, so we're all a little bit off, and, of course, we do work at a mental hospital.

Fuckin' aye.