Shalom

Years ago I begged Mike to buy me an enormous Christmas tree that makes the one in Rockefeller Center look like a mere sapling.  He reluctantly conceded.  I was elated.  Now every single year I laugh hysterically when he brings my big baby up from the basement grunting and spewing forth a stream of un-holy expletives until he reaches his titillating crescendo of “Next year we are becoming Jewish God**&^it!”  I am totally going to buy the world’s biggest Menorah just to be funny if we ever do convert.      

Anywho, a few weeks ago my friend Traci invited us to her daughter’s Bat Mitzvah.  This was the first time anyone in my family had ever attended a religious service and IT.WAS.FUN.  When the rabbi was chanting during the service my daughter pretended to mouth the words and throw her arms up like a conductor until I slapped her leg which made her start laughing.  I whispered “SHUT UP or you are grounded for a long time.”  Then my other daughter conveniently developed an atrocious case of gas and I informed her that she was “only allowed to fart when the chanting was going on”.  I sat there in disbelief as she then proceeded to crop dust our entire row.  I threatened to ground her too and she was like “Mom you can’t ground a kid for farting that’s illegal.”  I told her “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do.  I am your mother and I command you to not fart”.  Then all three of us started laughing.  Annnnnnd because the men and women are separated during the service: while I was attempting to maintain control of our ill-mannered, heathen progenies, Mike was leisurely chilling in his yamulke across the room.

So you could imagine my surprise when I was invited to yet another Bar Mitzvah for another friend’s son the following weekend.  Flattered, I said I would be there.  She casually rattled off the name of the synagogue and I nodded like I totally knew what she was referring to.  Seriously, how many of these places could there be, right?  Annnnnnnd besides, I am really good at following directions (except for the time I accidentally drove to the middle of New Mexico with my mom when we were trying to get to Durango and I missed the exit because I was reaching for a cheetoh.  She was absolutely HYSTERICAL and I thought it was hilarious.  Granted, I wanted to roofie her ass for the next 6 hours so I could just backtrack in peace but whatever, we totally lived).  

Anyway, I woke up early that morning, slapped on some make-up, got dressed, hopped in the car and drove to the same joint I went to the weekend prior.  I walked up to the door and was greeted by the CUTEST little boy wearing a little black top hat and suit.  He was soooooooo precious, I just wanted to squeeze his fat little cheeks!  I strode in and confidently made my way over to the “ladies” side of the room and sat down.  Hot damn, I was really becoming somewhat of a pro with this whole Jewish thing.  Cover shoulders: check, no Santa Claus: check, never attend a Bris without taking a valium first: check.  OMG WAIT, THIS WAS IT!  I had finally found my true calling.  Maybe there was nothing wrong with me after all and God had just been waiting for the right time to turn me Jewish.  I let out an ethereal sigh and smiled peacefully, knowing my soul was finally going to be cleansed.  I sat there for a good 10 minutes, picking at my nail polish, pretending I was Jewish and watching people file in.    

A couple of darling elderly women sat down next to me.  They asked me if today “was my first time attending service here?”  I told them “Oh no, I was here last weekend!  It was so fun!” They nodded and turned away.  More people came in.  Where in the HELL were my friends?  Shouldn’t they be here by now?  This was sort of a big day for the kid.  I turned to the lady next to me who was deeply engaged in conversation about her non-Jewish, harlot of a daughter-in-law and asked “Um, is this a Bar Mitzvah?”  She stared at me and said “No, this is service Honey.”  I looked at my watch and said “Oh SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! I have to go!  It was so nice meeting you!  I hope to see you next week!”  I stood up and ran out.  Christ. I was in the wrong synagogue.

I went home defeated.  When I explained what happened to Traci afterwards she thought it was hysterical and told me I should have stayed, that it would have been “good for me”.  OH MY GAWD.  XO

My precious friend Traci.  Jewish people are seriously fun and yes, Traci was wearing underwear.