Sometimes I get the old, “I’m going to die all alone” blues. Nothing dire or overly dramatic. Really.
They usually happen on Sunday. So, like….today.
I texted a female friend with this concern, and her response:
Then a male friend:
I’m not gonna lie– the male friend snapped me out of it.
Bouncing my nephew on my knee, to the tune of “La Cucaracha”
“You need a cousin!
You need a cousin!
Otherwise you’ll be so very spoiled.
But that won’t happen soon
No that won’t happen soon
Unless your Auntie Em makes a big oops!”
My sister and brother-in-law laughed.
My parents, sitting beside me, did not.
It’s so weird how appreciation for accidental pregnancy jokes skips a generation.
(part of the Emails From My Brothers series)
Jeremy was supposed to arrive at my apartment tonight between 5-6pm. He is coming from DC.
Remember that first time you saw a grown man’s penis? Remember how the sight of it caught you COMPLETELY off guard? And remember how it wasn’t just one penis, it was about 25 penises at once? Mere inches from your face? Flopping around to a catchy, upbeat musical jam? And you were 10?
Oh, ok, so your mother DIDN’T take you to see the Broadway musical Hair when you were in 5th grade.
Well. Lucky you.
Last night I had a wild night of Chinese-food-ordering with my sister and brother-in-law. We tried a new place called Pig Heaven, for no other reason than it is called Pig Heaven (ok, we heard they had good ribs. But that’s clearly secondary to the name.)
Steph was super excited (re: she sort of half-smiled) about the roast duck entrée which, of course, as any good Jew on Passover knows, can only be eaten with flour pancakes…from a place called PIG HEAVEN. (side note: is it still Passover? I rely on my non-jewish friends to tell me this, in the same way they text me “Happy Hanukkah” and I get all excited because “It’s Hanukkah?!?”)
Anyway, we put in the order, and when it arrived, we got this note, written in the most perfectly stereotypical broken English:
In case you missed that– 80 CENTS. The pancake was 80 CENTS. But Steph’s phone died so they couldn’t reach her to tell her that. Instead, they went out of their way to reject our request, all in the name of 80 cents, even though I’m fairly certain that the time/resources used to carry out said rejection (pen, ink, paper, transliteration, calling phone, googling how to spell “cuz”) came out to at least a dollar.
So if you live on the upper east side in NYC, please join us in boycotting this establishment (at least until the next time we’re craving ribs. Those were fucking delicious.)
To be clear, we did not ask for the matzah. To be clearer, every single one of us brushed it aside and ate the bread buried beneath it.
Brother-in-law (after every semi-ridiculous thing that happens, which is most things): “Em, how is this not on the blog yet?”
Mom (genuine fear in voice, while still trying to sound threatening): “No! Em, come on. NO!”
Me: “Ok, ok, I won’t. I promise.”
<Mom goes to kitchen to pour herself more wine. I do whatever I want.>
Sorry, ancestors. We know this is not what you envisioned.
With the family (minus my brothers) at Passover, discussing my baby nephew one day having a sibling:
Steph: “Not any time soon.”
Andrew: “Or maybe never. One is enough.”
Dad: “Yeah. Try FOUR.”
Andrew: “No. You guys are insane.”
Dad: “I am not the one who wanted four. (Pointing to Mom) She bullied me into it.”
Me: “Aw, come on. Zack was totally worth it!”
Dad: “Yeah….now.”
(Note: Jeremy was at no point mentioned in this conversation)
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