Innocent Until Proven Jewish

As we attempted to dig my wife's Honda Fit out from 18 inches of snow on Sunday, our neighbor, Thomas, was just arriving, sailing his Chevy Trailblazer into his pristinely-trailblazered parking spot. He exited the car with a couple of white plastic bags and made some genial, unhelpful comments about shoveling and snow and winter in general.

"How was your holiday?" he asked.

And I answered, "Fine. Thanks. It was quiet, which is just how we like it." As opposed, I guess, to a particularly loud Hanukkah, though I don't exactly know what that would sound like-- a load of tanked-up, kinky-haired frat boys shouting the dreidel song in a slurry, discordant cacophany while pounding Manichewitz wine out of red plastic cups and peeing in our bushes.

I turned away from Thomas and drove my shovel deep into the snow, sending, I hoped, the unmistakable signal that I was finished talking to him, and done being P.J.

Presumed Jewish.

Though I don't want to be perceived as a whiny Jew, being a minority isn't easy. As I looked at the Asian guy waddling down our alley, offering to share his bag of Halite with anybody who needed it, I thought, would Thomas approach him and say, "Hey, did you enjoy yourself some Chop Suey last night?" Why is it that some people think it's okay to make assumptions about a person's religious affiliation?

And, by that same token-- why does it bother me so much?

I know I've blogged about this before-- I'm too lazy to sift through the archives to be absolutely sure, though (if you want to, go right ahead) and I don't really know what it is about the fact that people who don't know me just assume that I'm Jewish. It's not as if I'm particularly ashamed of being Jewish. I'm much more ashamed of the fact that I have toenail fungus and that, when I was in middle school I used to get hard looking at the models in the Wintersilks catalogue.

I guess it's just the presumptuous, ballsy attitude one takes when making assumptions about someone else that pisses me off. I would never wish someone a Happy Ripened Ovary Day unless I was sure they were ardent tomato worshippers.

Even if you're right-- don't assume. Because it's embarrassing if you're wrong, and it's offensive if you're right. Or wrong.

A few days ago, there was a thread on http://www.20sb.net/ that asked the question, "Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays--Which Do You Say?" Well, I don't see really how you can in good faith go up to somebody you really don't know and wish them a "Merry Christmas" or a "Happy Hanukkah" for that matter, if you don't know that's what they celebrate-- that this is their faith. How are you acting in any sort of benevolent holiday spirit by making a judgment about someone else's beliefs? Maybe if they're wearing a green and red goddamn snowflake sweater with Blitzen's ass on the back and a red flickering light where his hemmhroids are, and they've got a crucifix around their neck the size of a windshield wiper and Jesus Air sneakers, fine, maybe you're safe wishing that person a "Merry Christmas." But, you know what-- maybe they just have eccentric taste in clothing and personal adornment items.

This holiday season-- play it safe. Wear a condom. And sunscreen. And shoulder pads. And don't make assumptions.

Let's Make Dear Abby Vomit In Her Grave With DEAR APRON!

I've said it once, and I'll say it again:

Boy, DEAR APRON is like a table-spoon of sulphur & molasses: it's the cure for what ails ya!

DEAR APRON:

How do you explain to a man how uncomfortable hot flashes are? I'm a perimenopausal woman who has been married for 12 years to a sweet husband who loves to "snuggle." But when I'm having a hot flash, the last thing I want is a warm body touching me. My husband thinks I'm "mean" and that I'm one of those "freaky females."

How can I make him understand that hot flashes happen, and that it should be OK for me to ask for some space until the feeling passes? -- HOT FLASH HILDA

DEAR H.F.H.:

Is your name really Hilda? I hope so.

Well, I'm in a bit of a pickle here. See, my gut instinct is to suggest sitting down with your husband (not too close, of course, in case you have a sudden equatorial meltdown) and having something called "a discussion" with him.

Now, you're obviously incapable of doing this, or you'd have already done it, instead of writing a frustrated cow letter to some random person you've never met and whom society has deemed a sage advice-giver to societal dregs who are too mentally and emotionally incompetent to handle their own problems.

Since you're such an obvious pro at letter writing, why not pen your sweet, snuggly husband a letter? Not that you need the guidance, but here's a sample of something you might deem appropriate:

"Dear Vlad or Whatever Your Name Is,

You might have noticed that I've been a real bitch to you lately. This is because I am entering a stage in my life as a woman known as perimenopausiation. I know what you're thinking-- you thought I was all done being a bitch once my periods were done.

Well, no.

See, my skin is getting all leathery and my hair is falling out and the area under my eyes looks looks like two handbags. My breasts resemble deflated whoopie-cushions and my moustache is now more prominent than Borat's. My ass looks doughy and misshapen and has more pock marks than the moon or Bill Murray's face.

It's a miracle that you still even want to cuddle with me at all, but it probably says more about your declining eyesight than it does about my physique. Perhaps you want to cuddle with me more because I more closely resemble a 20-year-old down pillow than I ever did before.

Either way, I hate you more than I ever did. If you come any closer, I will cut you so bad you'll look like a motherfucking Jackson Pollack painting.

Sincerely,
Hotflash Hildabeast"

DEAR APRON:

My husband and I are in our 80s. For many years we used to entertain during the holidays. Now we wonder where all our former guests have disappeared to.
Our annual parties grew to include more than 80 friends. Dinner was prepared by a chef; we had a bartender and a pianist. People said they looked forward to those gatherings year after year.

We never expected anyone to entertain us in the same way, yet even being asked out for hamburgers would have been such a treat. Very few reciprocated in any way except to bring a few bottles of wine. We miss them and wonder if people realize that a simple get-together is always appreciated. -- FOOD FOR THOUGHT, SPARKS, NEV.

DEAR CRUSTACEAN:

Are you kidding me? Look at these two sentences, please, and draw your own conclusion, if you can. (If not, I'll help.)

Sentence #1: "My husband and I are in our 80s."

Sentence #2: " Now we wonder where all our former guests have disappeared to."

Honey, they're fucking dead. They're groovin' it to Benny Goodman tunes in Hell waiting for Bernie Madoff to show up so they can all gang-rape him. All your old buddies are rotting away in crypts or shitting themselves in Craftmatic adjustable beds and you're miffed that they haven't been inviting you out for hamburgers?

Well, Merry fucking Christmas to you, too, Mrs. Thurston Howell, III.

DEAR APRON:

I work at a public library and live not far from where I work. A lot of people who use the library live in my apartment building and I run into them often. These people never hesitate to stop me when I'm clearly off the clock to ask me a slew of library questions.

I confess I'm a bit of a doormat, and I'm afraid to ask them to leave me alone. Is there a way to tell those people to quit harassing me when I'm not working? I'd feel so much better about myself if I learned how. -- THE ANSWER LADY

DEAR ANSWER LADY:

Of course you're a doormat, you're a public librarian. Meekness and subservience were all part of the contract you signed, don't you remember? You are also required to wear brooches on your sweaters and take up quilting, and I hope you've remembered which of your favorite patrons has given birth this year so you can send a gender-appropriate baby quilt in time for Christmas, because you signed on for that, too, you dowdy little twit.

Now you get down on the ground and spread out like the filthy, smelly doormat that you are! I will bombard you with questions about Mitch Albom books and quiz you on the Dewey Decimal System while I assault you with my muddy galoshes! BOW TO ME, FOR I AM THE PATRON OF YOUR NIGHTMARES!

And, finally, a bonus Dear Apron for that special d-bag on your gift list!

DEAR APRON:

With the holidays here, I know people are considering gifts for older friends and family members. My 83-year-old mother still lives in her own home. She doesn't want more "stuff," so every year we give her practical things we know she already uses on a daily basis, including laundry detergent, bath oil beads and soap, toothpaste -- even bird seed for her bird feeders. By the end of the year she has used up everything we have given her and is ready for new supplies.

Mom is happy with these gifts and says it saves her from having to go out and spend money on these things herself. Practical, everyday items make the best gifts for the older person on your list. -- MARY IN RICHARDSON, TEXAS

DEAR HEAVEN-SENT DAUGHTER:

And where, might I ask, are they holding the Daughter-of-the-Year Award ceremony this year? Will it be in the Netherlands, so you may follow in the esteemed footsteps of Nobel Peace Prize winners like Barack Obama? I do hope you have something oh-so-special to wear to all of the affiliated cocktail parties and social events that come with such an honor. Maybe Mom can come along as your special guest. You can just buy her something to wear-- a jumpsuit or whatever-- at Salvation Army.

I was very taken with your list of gift items for your frail, aging mother. You neglected, however, to mention a few other gifts that would no doubt be appreciated by your mother and other geriatrics. Allow me to supplement your excellent and delightful list (toothpaste and bird-seed-- who'da thunkit?!)

* A Home Healthcare Aide.

I realize that you're the perfect daughter, but even the perfect daughter can't be bothered with mom's incessant needs like water, food, and companionship all the time! Why not hire an Eldernanny from www.bigassbootyoldfucknannies.com? These highly-trained, $8.50-an-hour certified assistant nurses assistants-in-training would be the perfect addition to any old crow's filthy apartment. Choose from a wide array of home healthcare professionals funny-sounding names and professionally-maincured nails, some that are at least two-and-a-half feet long! Careful when wiping those asses, girls! And speaking of which....

* Commode Liners.

Nothing says "I love you, Ma" like a Cleanis Care Bag Commode Liner, that "holds up to 16.9 ounces of organic liquids!" These bags have special inserts that turn human waste "into a gel for easy cleanup!" You can get ol' Ma a case of 400 bags for only $369.00! That's so many bags, you can even line her Christmas stockings with them!

* A Coffin.

While you're shopping online, why not head on over to www.casketxpress.com and pick out a box for mom? Nothing wrong with a little pre-planning now, is there? Sure, she won't be inviting Mrs. Howell over for hamburgers anymore, but she can still party like a grand old dame in her "Cherub Angels Art Casket." Yes, it's exactly like what it sounds-- a casket with a fucking airbrushed painting all over it. Only $2,997.97-- reduced from $5,995.00! I think I see Santa's sleigh pulling one of those bad boys over to your neck of the woods!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM YOUR FRIEND, DEAR APRON!