Our building busybody (the same lady who commented inappropriately on my ring, and assumed that because I am a tutor, I am a dog walker) is at it again.
Busybody: “So, how’s married life? Have you changed your last name yet?”
Me: “It’s great! No, I haven’t. I’m not sure it’s necessary to legally change it.”
Busybody: “Oh my god really? I couldn’t WAIT to change my name.”
Me: “Ok. Well, to each her own! I mean I’ll informally use Eric’s last name, I’m happy for people to call me Emily Taylor, and to introduce myself that way. Just don’t see the need to go through a legal process. But we’ll see, maybe one day.”
Busybody: “His last name is Taylor? What’s yours?”
Busybody: “Oh, honey. You should change it. Taylor is a great last name– then people won’t know what you are.”
Me (silent, confused pause): “You mean…a Jew?”
Me: (blank stare)
Busybody: “Sometimes it’s just better, in certain circumstances, that people don’t know, you know?”
So now I’m keeping Lerman just to spite you.
When/if I am pregnant one day, no one will be able to tell, because my daily life-long M.O. is already to be tired, nauseated, moody, and dressed in a shapeless sack.
And that’s been my plan all along.
(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
She got so close to being normal and then she blew it.
…and “Happy Chanukah?” No? Too much effort? K cool.
I’ll take the “I apologize” Christmas miracle and run with it.
I’m in the elevator and an elderly lady walks in…
Lady (after staring at me for 10 seconds): “Are you pregnant?”
Me: “No. I am not. And honestly, this is the second time this has happened to me in an elevator and I don’t understand why.”
Lady: “It’s the way you’re holding your stomach. Makes it seem like something’s in there.”
Me: “Yeah, there is. Dairy. I’m Jewish.”
Lady: “Ah. Enough said.”
There was a shooting at Montgomery Mall, which is less than 5 minutes from my parents’ house. Nobody had heard from Mom.
What ensued was the world’s jewiest game of Clue.
Then, hours later, Mom, unable to figure out the tricky mechanics of group texting (she has an iPhone), sent this to just Jeremy:
Not only is Mom alive, she lives a way better life than the rest of us.
I saw this in my bathroom the day Eric moved in and thought, with an eyeroll, “Well, it’s official. A boy lives here now.”
Then I realized it’s mine.
I left it at his place a while ago.
Guess he brought it back for me.
Every time I get a haircut I think about chopping it all off and donating it to Locks Of Love, but it hardly seems like a good deed to give someone Jewish hair.
When I was 15 years old, I got a nose job.
Why, you ask, would I purposely subject myself to surgery and extreme pain simply to look better?
Because my insecure, self-conscious teenage self hated my oversized nose, and I truly believed that most people in this world judge by appearances. Now that I’m older, wiser, and have had a myriad of experiences with all kinds of people, I obviously see the major flaw in that kind of naive thinking.
Most people do NOT judge by appearances.
ALL people do.
Thank god I got that shit fixed.
(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
Nope. That’s not a thing.