Dear Mom

Thank you for pointing out that I misspelled "shiksa" in the previous post. You'll note I have corrected the error.

I know my efforts aren't for naught, as at least one person, you, is reading this blog. Nevertheless, kindly refrain from emailing me your comments every time a post makes you chuckle. Kindly refrain from referring to me as "disgruntled one." I get it. You think I'm funny. You think I write well. Thank you. I appreciate the encouragement, but would prefer it from a publisher.
Yours,
K

Festival of Lights - 2012

I decorated the mantle with blue and white lights; and my spouse called me a "shiksa." I bought our 9 1/2-year-old a profanity laden Green Day CD. Who knew music came with ratings and warnings? Both kids seem chagrined about the lack of toys this year. Five more nights to go. Oy vey.

Brother can you spare a dime?

Our daughter now climbs on a stool kept near the exit at the grocery store. She likes to wait there while we check out. So we weren't surprised when she perched there on Saturday. We were surprised, however, when another patron stopped and gave her a penny. Next time we're going to set her up with a cup, and a "hard luck" sign...

Epilogue*

After 14 months on the market, our old house sold --in September. Per instructions, I disinterred Saint Joseph, and I'm working on clearing the dirt from his folds. Now I'm supposed to put him in a prominent place in our home. Two problems: not convinced he did anything on our behalf to sell the house, and my spouse isn't too thrilled about placing a Catholic statue in our home. I remind him that Joseph was Jewish. I point out the Celtic Cross we left on the doorpost of our new home, which we didn't remove. I had planned to sneak Joesph into the cabinet with the Judaica, when I learn that some friends who have their house on the market never made the pilgrimage to the Catholic book store. So Joseph will be passed on to them, where I hope he works a little harder.


*Thanks to Julie for pointing out that I hadn't closed the book on this story (and for reading this blog).

OMMMMM

Only I can turn a yoga class into a problem, or so I thought....

I've spent many a class annoyed by gunters, groaners and know-it-alls who won't stop talking and delay session, which then hastens its end, with long explanations of their personal ailments. Then a month ago, two women in the class who I'll call E and C stop me in the parking lot to ask my thoughts about M. Yes, I agree, she is loud and inappropriate. Yes, when she lost balance and fell over it did seem scripted for sympathy. Yes, yoga class has changed. E and C say M "exudes negative energy," and I have to laugh. I thought that was my job.

Spike!

Now I turn on the telly and get men's beach volleyball. I leave the room, and our four and a half year old daughter appears periodically to update me on the score. At least they don't hug after every point. No, it's the fist bump for the guys. Thank heavens they're not wearing banana hammocks.

God help the Queen

I'm completely perplexed that beach volleyball is an Olympic sport, let alone being played at Horse Guards Parade and receiving regular prime time TV coverage (about the only "coverage" attributed to the usually bikini-clad female players). (And how can land-locked countries like Austria have teams?)

What's next? Ultimate Frisbee, complete with dreadlock coiffed stoners in tie-dye uniforms being played on the grounds of Buckingham Palace? Or is it hackey sack at Westminster Abbey?

You get what your pay for, dear

Anyone who's read this blog religiously knows I've been fired before. Fact is, I should have been fired from my ongoing, full-time job --eight and a half years ago. I suck at managing our home. Routine maintenance, like unloading the clothes dryer, can be neglected for days. We regularly run out of supplies, e.g. toilet paper, cereal... The taxi service is often rushed and reaches it's destination late.

This would not do in a real workplace. Poor performance should not be rewarded with even standard of living pay raises.

My substandard performancesreplaces the efficiency of a cook, laundress, cleaning person, procurement officer and driver. But I'm cheap labor.

Meow

Our daily summer camp commute and my car is crammed with gear: a bag of extra clothes for my daughter and me, swim stuff (just in case), one bag for snacks and toys, my reading material, lunch boxes, two kids' backpacks. I look like a hoarder. Any passerby must think I'm an old lady, with lots of cats.

Didn't see my shadow

Screw the groundhog. This year, I had to shave my legs in early March. This annual ritual doesn't generally begin for the season until late April or early May. And the neocons refute global warming.

Needing more real estate karma

I planted a new St. Joseph at the old house; it's still on the market. The woman at the Catholic gift store told me the priests advise not burying the statue but putting it in a place of reverence in the home and praying to St. Joseph daily. I can do that. But I asked whether I should put him in the house I'm trying to sell or the one I'm living in. She was perplexed. Told me I had to have him with me when I said the prayer (which she sold me for an additional $.49).

I split the difference. I plopped the statue in a flower bed, and put the prayer card in my purse.

I still worry about desecrating another faith's symbol. Then again, Joseph was a member of our tribe, and the Catholic shop got $8 out of me.

As charged...

I know about guilt. Jewish guilt is directly related to Catholic guilt. The difference, recently defined at a Seder by a recovering Catholic, is that Jewish guilt is inflicted from external sources --say, your mother. Catholic guilt apparently comes from within.

Now I'm told of another version: Protestant guilt. I thought Protestants gave up guilt when Martin Luther nailed his Theses to the church door.

Welcome blog fans

In a shameless attempt to garner foot traffic --and land a lucrative book deal, I've moved the blog here to Disgruntled Diva. I figure the chances of someone typing "Fargo" or "Eferdito" in to a search engine are fairly slim. But will I be competing with a gaggle of disgruntleds or divas?

I've also come out of the shadows of anonymity, though it's given me heart palpitations and I may retract it later.
I do hope my eight followers will find me here. If not, I'll be forced to move back.

A wee dram for a wee lad?

I took our son to an Irish Rovers concert last week. Great music, lots of self-deprecating humor. I had to explain to him about confession, and that not all Irish people are drunks.

We bought their latest CD, Drunken Sailor, which we had autographed. As they were signing, one Rover said that the songs might not be appropriate for the young lad. I shrugged and smiled. They're all about drinking and women. Indoctrination?

File under "stellar role model"

The following story has been confirmed by two independent sources: The mother of a girl in our son's third grade class allowed her daughter to invite all but three* girls (out of 22) to her birthday party. Now that' a classy broad.

*I'm assuming one of the three is the girl who's Jehovah Witness, and her family doesn't participate in celebrations. That means only two girls were excluded. Unbelievable!

With a nod to Kevin Smith*

My never ending battle against the wedgie has ended with granny pants. And I don't care. I can't find regular, figure-flattering, non-pantie line-inducing bikinis that fit consistently. I don't care that I've been forced to resort to an unattractive, pantie line-producing cotton bikini. Granny pants. I don't care that my spouse laughs at me. I don't care that I look in the mirror and see...well, I could be a Sports Illustrated swim suit model, apparently. At least the granny pants don't give the model a wedgie.


*Kevin Smith coined the term "granny pants" in his movie Zach & Miri Make a Porno