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.
Me: “With everything going on in our country right now, I’m honestly just so horrified and saddened as a human in general– but as a Jew in particular, as I know you can relate–”
Therapist: “Oh I’m actually not Jewish.”
Me: “You’re NOT?! But your last name–”
Therapist: “I know. A common Jewish last name. People often assume I am Jewish.”
Me: “But I feel like I’ve had all these insider only-jews-would-get-this kind of exchanges with you.”
Therapist: “Hmm. I didn’t interpret them that way.”
Therapist: “What are you thinking?”
Me: “Oh, oh nothing. This obviously doesn’t change anything.”
I just have to re-think every piece of advice you’ve ever given me.
That moment when your rabbi Venmo’s you a wedding gift.
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.
(related to My Judaism is Rusty )
Making dinner plans…
I didn’t even know it was still Passover.
This year we had two lovely, very inquisitive non-Jews at our Seder.
I did my best.
Guest: “And what does the maror symbolize?”
Me: “The bitterness of slavery.”
Guest: “And the charoset?”
Me: “The mortar the slaves used between the bricks when they were building for the Eygptian pharohs.”
Guest: “And how about the shank bone?”
Me: “That represents how the slaves passed the time all those years in the desert.”
Me: “They boned.”
Is it weird that when I booked this urologist appointment on ZocDoc, in the “notes for the doctor” section I put a link to this blog post?
On a side note, everyone in this waiting room is approximately 106 years old. And male.
Pretty sure we’re all Jewish, though.