Passover and out
How was your weekend, Alone … with cats?
Gosh, that’s so kind and thoughtful of you to ask, readers. Hmm, let’s see. Passover, Easter, a blowup with my mother, The Bloggess linked to me again. You know, the usual.
My mom and I wrangled as I was en route to meet my pals Alexandria and Dana for Easter brunch at West Side Lounge in Cambridge. It went as follows:
Me: I can only talk for a few minutes. Just called to say hello.
Mom: Is this how you treat your mother, Jessica? It’s Passover, by the way.
Me: I know it’s Passover. Because you mailed me a greeting card with a cat wearing a yarmulke. And because I went to lunch at Zaftigs last week, and in place of bagel chips they served us matzo. But mostly it was the card that tipped me off.
Mom: Is it too much to ask that you call me during the holidays?
Me: Hi, we’re talking right now. I called you. Remember? Oh … gotta go. My Easter brunch dates just got here.
Mom: You’re choosing to celebrate Easter instead of your own heritage?
Me: Does it make you feel better to know that one of the women is Jewish, so we’ll outnumber the shiksa two-to-one?
Then she hung up on me, which I think really captured the spirit of the holiday. Specifically, the plagues part of the holiday. Her wrath is right up there with locusts and boils. I’d choose death of a firstborn son over dealing with her mood swings any day. Because I don’t have a son. And because my cats are girls, so they’d survive the mass extinction. And because ignorant imbeciles have run amok on our overpopulated planet, which is in dire need of a do-over. I’d been pinning my hopes on swine flu, which turned out to be a bust and one giant excuse for principals to shutter schools for weeks, thus ensuring today’s youths are even less educated than their parents. Way to perpetuate the problem, principals.
At any rate, it’s been a while since I attended a seder or watched Charlton Heston in “The 10 Commandments,” so I’m a little rusty on the premise of Passover, but I’m pretty sure Moses led my enslaved ancestors out of Egypt and through the desert for 40 years with only unleavened bread for sustenance so eons later I eventually could piss off my mother by drinking a stomach-souring vanilla-vodka martini with a yellow peep floating in it on the day Jesus Christ was resurrected. With lesbians. I don’t remember the money quote, but it was something like, “Let my peeps go.” Really profound, Moses was. And wise. And totally ahead of his time. Then later he parted the Red Sea, which I’m fairly positive is just a euphemism for sex during your period. And although I’m not cool with that, I can’t really say it comes as a surprise, because, well, look at the man. Scraggly beard, dressed in a tattered bed sheet, always going on and on about his miraculous, well-endowed rod. Saw this one coming from a Nile away.
As Easter was winding down, I was sitting alone in my apartment with ice cream in my belly and a cat in my lap, procrastinating on writing my next blog post by accusing at least one of my Twitter followers of being a vampire. Then I noticed that Jenny “The Bloggess” Lawson had linked to my site again, this time choosing my remark as “comment of the day.”
If I ever meet Jenny, I’ll probably shuffle my feet, make no eye contact and nervously gush, “Hi, big ban of your flog. Fuck. I meant to say I’m a big blog of your fan. Wait. No. Why do you look so afraid? I’m harmless. Probably.” Translation: If that whole wife-mother charade with Victor and Hailey doesn’t work out, you’re the one that I want. Ooh. Ooh. Ooh.
P.S. I just had second thoughts and turned to Google to avoid the ridicule and scorn of blog-surfing Bible thumpers. Did Moses part the Red Sea or the Dead Sea? Answer: Red Sea. I was right. I should *never* doubt myself.
P.P.S. Even if Moses had parted the Dead Sea, the period joke still applies. Red and Dead. Same difference, theologians.
P.P.P.S. Great. Now I’m having doubts about posting this. (see above)
P.P.P.S. If you’re reading this, I probably posted it. Or you’ve broken into my apartment. Sorry about the mess, robbers. I wasn’t expecting company. I’m giving away a secret gift – so secret, in fact, that even I don’t know what it is – to commemorate the 100th comment on my blog. It might behoove you to leave one, unless you don’t like winning. Then you’ve come to the wrong place, because this blog is all about winning. Winning at losing. Which still counts as winning.