Top Secret Mission By Way of Jersey

On our way to see "Crazy Rich Asians," so much fun, buy yourself a ticket, or don't, it's really up to you, we popped into Jersey Mike's on a top secret mission.
"We'll have a turkey wrap," I whispered, "cut in half."
Longtime hubby looked over his shoulder, making sure the coast was clear. "It's got to fit in her handbag."
"Headed to the ArcLight?" the Jersey Mike's sub-maker asked.
Already our cover was blown. "Not so loud, you," I scolded. "We don't want to get thrown in movie jail for sneaking in outside merch."
"Honey mustard?"
"Fine. And throw in some provolone."
"And avocado."
"That's extra."
"We're good for it," longtime hubby said.
Here the nicer of the two, the Jersey Mike's cashier, weighed in, reassuringly. "No one ever gets caught smuggling in a sandwich."
"Can we have that in writing," my first husband asked.
The cash guy grinned. "So, what are you seeing?"
"Crazy Rich Asians."
"Is this a big day for you?"
"Yes! How can you tell?"
"Just a vibe I'm getting."
"It's our anniversary."
"Sweet."
"Wanna guess which one?" I asked.
"He'll never guess right."
The cash guy studied us, looking at me, looking at hubby, then me, then hubby and gave it his best shot. "45th?"
"What?!"
He tried again. "40th?"
The man I said I do to put him out of his misery. "It's our 38th."
"We're not that old, for @#$%'s sake," I added.
"High school lovers, huh?"
Here I blushed. "Maybe."
"Cool. Enjoy the movie. And the turkey wrap."
"Thanks," I said, slipping the goods in my handbag.

Mission accomplished

I took a step, then looked back at the cashier. "45th?!"
"In seven more years," hubby said.
"Kina hora, poo poo poo."

An Arranged Marriage

Once upon a time in a little town called Westwood, a boy and a girl met in math class. Neither one of them was good in math, but that's not part of this fairytale. If you want a fairytale about people who fall in love doing statistics, you've got the wrong fairytale. May I continue? Thank you. So... the boy and the girl met, and the fact that it was math class was neither here nor there. They met and they became acquaintances. They never talked to each other outside of 8th grade math because why would they? They didn't know each other. But someone up there must've known that one day on a hot August night in 1980, they'd marry. Who this someone was, I can't say for sure. But I suspect it was the Wedding Planner who dwells in a faraway realm of table settings and floral arrangements. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

And then one day, the boy and the girl went to the same pool party at a fancy house down the street from where the boy lived. So he could walk there, which was nice. The girl arrived by car. Someone said, "Hey, gang, let's play Keep Away." Those may not have been the exact words, but it was a long time ago, a simpler time when splashing in a pool and throwing a ball around was big fun. The boy had the ball. The girl couldn't keep away. The chlorine set something off, a chemical reaction that never went away.

That summer, they dated. Then they didn't. For a few years there, it was plenty of didn't. But then, the summer before high school graduation, they dated and something magical, something pre-arranged by the Wedding Planner happened. The boy and the girl fell in love. Eventually, they parted. They were young and stupid. Then they got back together. Then parted. Then the girl said, "Enough already with the parting. What's the deal?" So they got back together and stayed together and lived happily ever after. Today they celebrate 38 years of marriage. They're thinking they might go see a movie, a love story, of course. 

Closure

"Honey, I have something to tell you."
"Worse than the expired cream cheese?"
"Much worse."
"Okay, lay it on me."
"Should I break it to you, gently?"
"No. Just rip off the bandaid."
"Your favorite store in the universe is closing."
"BevMo?"
"No."
"Costco?"
"No."
"Pep Boys?"
"No."
"So it's not really my favorite store in the universe."
"Trust me, you love this place. You're there every weekend."
"Oh no...."
"Yes."
"You mean -- "
"Afraid so."
"OSH!?"
"Gone too soon."
"That's horrible."
"I wanted to be the one to tell you before you heard it on the news."
"Thank you. That was very thoughtful."
"Hang on, where are you going?"
"OSH."
"Why now?"
"I better get over there and pay my respects."
"And take advantage of the huge sale?"
"That, too."
"Can I come? I've always loved their plants."
"Sure."
"We'll pick up a nice coffee cake on the way."
"A coffee cake?"
"You can't make a condolence call without a coffee cake."
"I'll back up the car."

The Magic Show

Sunday Brunch at my brother John's, 

featuring my mishpocha and some very nice Brits 

who suddenly appeared, as if by magic. 

Post-brunch, John performs his famous magic show, 

full of laughter, shtick and plenty prestidigitation.

The Houdini Ash Trick: John reveals Evie's name,

and the crowd goes wild. 

Chloé and John pose with an important prop

that will play an integral part of his upcoming

Haunted Hillbilly House of Horrors. 

The Beatles Secret Jewish Album

Can't Buy Me Guilt

Roll Over Maimonides

We Can Kvetch it Out

I Am the Bubbe

Eleanor Rigby-Cohen

Lucy In The Shul With Dermatitis

Obla Oy, Obla Vey, Life Goes On

We All Live in a Yellow Matzoball

You Say It's Your Bar-Mitzvah, It's My Bar Mitzvah Too

Can't Buy Me Kishka

This Goy

Sgt. Pipik's Lonely Klezmer Band

All You Need Is Lev

The Shul on the Hill

Your Mother Should Only Know

If I Kvell

www.awordinyoureye.com

I Don't Know How To Tell You This, But...

On Thursday, longtime hubby and I will celebrate our 38th anniversary. That's 38 years of uninterrupted bliss. Can you even imagine the mazel of such a situation? I mean, the man just knows me. He tolerates adores the quirkiness that defines this kvetchy lil Jewiss, a gal who was a good inch and a half taller when we wed back in 1980.

I don't know these people.

Here's yet another example of how much he gets me: This morning, I remove the cream cheese from the fridge, as one does on a Sunday. As the nice bagel toasts, I prepare for the ritual schmearing of the afore-mentioned cream cheese. Something deep inside me whispers, "Not so fast, sistah." I turn the container over and reality hits me like a frozen babka.
"Honey, I don't know how to tell you this, but..."
"Should I sit down?"
"No, you can stand, but maybe hold onto the counter for support."
"I'm holding."
"This cream cheese... has expired."
"Oh @#$%."
"I will not serve my husband bad cream cheese."
"That's not how you roll."
"I'm love that you get that."
"You want me to run out and get new cream cheese?"
"Not necessary. Would you like to know why?"
"Why?"
"I'll tell you why. Because your wife is always prepared for the worst. Yesterday, I bought new cream cheese."
"Just in case."
"New is always better than old. Except when it comes to you, my love."
"And vice versa."

Slightly Damaged

At dance class the other night, the conversation turns to food, as it often does. We'd rather swap recipes than analyze why we can't manage a simple turn without the room spinning on its own axis long after we've stopped moving. Doug Rivera, the kindest dance teacher on the planet, is about to take us through a sassy, shake it, don't break it, routine, when he pauses to share something important. "I bought avocados today." We snap to attention. Avocados? Keep talking. "They were slightly damaged. Like me." The man's had both hips replaced. He's an expert on damage control. We do five minutes on how we're all slightly damaged, and if you just cut away the brown spots, guacamole tastes delicious anyway.