And We'll Have Fun, Fun, Fun

So it’s once again been a while since I posted something. There is a reason for that. Absolutely nothing is going on. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Weekend: totally dull.

Okay, there were two highlights. One, was watching Shlomo with his plate of beef ribs. By “plate” I mean a platter the size of my torso. Note to my faithful readers (okay, reader): if something is actually called the “Big Daddy” on the menu, you should not order it. It is going to be way too much food. I’ll put it this way, I ordered half of a chicken. I looked like a dainty eater by comparison.

The other highlight is really more of a lowlight. One of our finches—Elliot Gouldian—had a near-death experience. Here’s how it went down: we were cleaning the birdcage. It’s a necessary, but odious chore. We usually procrastinate doing it way longer than we should. Well, finches are not social animals. So, they get a little frightened when we mess with their habitat.

Elliot Gouldian managed to get his foot hung in one of the nests. Stuck foot resulted in hanging upside down. I had to free him. In the process, his toenail tore off…below the quick. Gushing blood followed. For us, that would not be such a big thing. However, finches are so small that this can result in them bleeding to death. I have read numerous articles on the subject. I am not really proud of that fact, but I am not making this up.

I caught him. Put some flour on the toenail to help coagulation (wow…maybe I learned more in 10th grade biology than I thought) and stop the bleeding. Then, I held him upside down and applied a gentle pressure. It is now the following day and he seems to be doing fine. He is in the sick cage, but I think will return to frolick with the others by the end of the week.

However, I discovered something about myself in this process. Evidently, I could totally be in Emergency Vets on Animal Planet. I did not get queasy. I was totally there to care for my injured pet. Who knew I had that in me? If only, I could see through a microscope, I could have totally been a doctor. And, not just a tree surgeon. Tree surgeons: not really doctors. Although, pretty much as expensive.

So that was my exciting weekend: Shlomo’s gigundo platter of ribs and an injured bird. Don’t everyone form a line to trade places with me at once. You, too, can achieve this level of excitement in your life if you try really hard.

Wild Wednesday Night

It’s official. Shlomo and I are the two most boring people I know. It’s just Wednesday, but it has been a hectic week. He had a dinner on Monday night for work. I met a friend for dinner and then proceeded to try on every pair of jeans in Saks Fifth Avenue. And by the way, when did it become okay to charge so much for a pair of jeans? And, when did I decide it was okay to pay it? Oh yeah, I think it was the minute that my friend and the salesguy were agreeing how good they made my butt look.

Then, last night we were at the Temple as a couple of our friends were honored as Congregants of the Year. It was a great honor for them, but a very long evening. Here’s the deal. By the time you have done enough to be Congregant of the Year, it takes way too much time to tell about all you have done. They both have amazing accomplishments. I am glad we were there. I was thrilled to be part of the evening. I would have been more thrilled had I been able to eat more of the meal than just potatoes and vegetables. I don’t eat beef so the brisket was out. And, I am allergic to cranberries which were added to the salad. But, Whataburger did provide a nice Whatachicken on the way home.

So tonight…our first free night…what did we do? We went to our local shopping horror…I mean mall…to see the tailor to have my jeans and some of Shlomo’s pants hemmed. Then, we stuffed our face with some of the best seafood (crab cocktail and fried shrimp) I have ever had. Now, I am pounding away on my laptop and Shlomo is continuing his obsession with Spider Solitaire. I guess it does beat the fights we used to have over Rummy or Uno each night. It is calmer since we gave that up.

So, anyway, I guess I am going to have to find something for us to mix it up. I think our matching laptops might be the end of conversation. I guess I could pick a fight, but I usually leave that to Shlomo. Go ahead, Shlomo. Post your comment. I know you think nothing is ever your fault. You are wrong. Love you.

What's Your Sign?

I learned something very important about Shlomo last night. When having a book signed by its author, it is important that I include his name. Here’s the deal. Last night, Cissy Davis (aka Debra Winger) was interviewed and had a book signing here. Shlomo and I attended.

I will just take a moment to say how great Debra Winger was. She was entertaining, forthright, and pretty much took no prisoners. And, I have to say, she looks great!

So, we sit through her interview. She takes a few questions from the audience. I laughed. I cried. It became woven into the fabric of my life. We proceed to the lobby for refreshments and book signage. I had bought two books prior to the event…one for me…one for my cousin who is also a big fan.

Some lady is passing out post-its for you to write the name that you would like for Debra to make her inscription to. I did one that said, “To Anshel” and one that said, “To Cousin.” Shlomo saw this. He started in…how could I do that…he always includes me…blah…blah…blah…remember how great the Peter Max book is where he did “To Anshel and Shlomo” and then drew hearts containing “A + S.”

I did not think it was that big of a deal. So, I added “and Shlomo” to the post-it.

So, we wait in line. I finally get up to Debra. She looks up and smiles. I say, “For the record, I am not the high-maintenance individual who insisted on both names.” I point to Shlomo.

Debra laughs and says, “Oh, instead of buying two books.”

Anshel: “Oh no, I bought two books, but the other is for my cousin who cannot make it.”

She smiled and said, “In that case, I will definitely do it.”

Then, the woman who was her escort who happened to know Shlomo said, “I cannot believe you would say that about him.”

I looked at her and said, “Honey, you don’t have to live with him.”

We all laughed. The escort said, “Good point.” Debra was signing away.

She signed the book and turned it for me to see. “To Anshel and Shlomo…Love, Debra Winger.” I cracked up. Literally…I laughed out loud. I showed it to Shlomo. He could barely make out his tiny name. She smiled. Shlomo feigned anger at me.

I looked at that three-time Academy Award nominated actress and said, “You just made my whole week!” She laughed with a mischievous glint in her eyes and we went on our way.

So, if you see a Debra Winger movie at your local cinema, I urge you to go. I love her. And, she said that after her hiatus, she wants to act more. May we all be so lucky!

Bitching, Moaning, Whining, and Complaining

It’s time I tell you about something that has proven to be the bane of my existence. It seems to wreak havoc with my life on a daily basis. I have tried everything to rid myself of this problem. I have even turned (reluctantly) to booze and pills. Okay, mostly just pills prescribed by a doctor…but still…. However, there is no escape. I have to admit the control it has over my life. That’s right. I admit it. It controls me. I am talking about my stomach.

I am not talking about its size. Although, on any given day its girth could deserve its own zip code. I am talking about its continual state of upheaval…constant churning…incessant rolling…unending gurgling. Frankly, it has reached the point that I do not know what to do.

Those who know me remember the three years where I could not eat anything with enriched, bleached flower without throwing up. Yeah. That was back before I was a Jew. Communion on Christmas Eve…that was fun. One little wafer cause regurgitation in the church parking lot. I am not saying that my digestive system’s physical rejection of the symbolic body of Christ had anything to do with my conversion. But, looking back it was a symbolic gesture that could not be ignored. And, did you know that Twizzlers contain flour. I learned that after I ate a package from the vending machine. Good times…

You might think that a simple trip to the doctor would cure my ills. Dr. Feelgood has not been a great help. I have consulted with two different gastroenterologists. I am on a prescription that helps to a degree. I can now eat flour. But, I still have to be careful. I cannot overload my body with flour, fried foods, fruit, vegetables, chocolate, peppermints, spicy foods, or pretty much anything that I actually like to eat.

And that is part of the problem. I love to eat. Yesterday was a prime example. I spent the entire day (when not arguing with Shlomo) yearning for some good fried chicken. I got it and it was delicious. This morning, however, I woke up in severe pain in my abdominal region.

I pointed out to Shlomo that my friend Rhea (first name Di) would be visiting soon. I am sure Tally can relate. I went about my business of getting ready. Then, I had to make a mad dash to the powder room. I don’t get it. It’s not like I had been drinking water in an under-developed country.

So there you have it. The next time you are happily going through life eating whatever you want, just think of me. How do I spell relief? R-O-L-A-I-D-S. Always have. Always will. In fact, always have them nearby.

Sorry Shlomo...

Sometimes Shlomo feels that I use this blog as a way to personally attack him. I don’t think he understands that I can both laugh at and with him at the same time. He should not worry. Personally, I find many of the things that I post about him endearing. It is especially endearing to know that my Phi Beta Kappa from Georgetown can be an idiot.

For example, yesterday, he had a sudden headache develop that he convinced himself was a stroke. All I am saying is this: if it had been a stroke he would probably exhibit more signs than just a headache. He took Advil and it got better for a while. He did say about thirty minutes later that his arm and leg felt numb for about 15 seconds, but he was pretty sure it was psychosomatic. Personally, I find his hypochondria to be cute…annoying on occasion, but mostly cute. And, I must admit...I was concerned, but skeptical.

However, my favorite thing he said this weekend went something like this. I might not have the words exactly right, but they are close.

Shlomo: “You know your blog.”

Anshel: “Yes, I am familiar.”

Shlomo: “What does ‘PC’ stand for? Politically incorrect?”

Anshel: “Are you serious?”

Shlomo: “Yes. What does it stand for?”

Anshel: “What is the name of the blog?”

Shlomo: “PC is for Pop Culture.”

Anshel: “There is your answer.”

Shlomo: “What?”

Anshel: “It’s pop culture. Dumbass.”

I should also report that for a long time, my calling Shlomo “Dumbass” was not well-received. I explained to him that in my family, it was a term of affection. He never really bought that until the first time we were at my parents’ house. We had been there about five minutes. My mom did something. My dad looked at her and said, “Way to go, Dumbass.” Shlomo laughed out loud. He later begged me to explain to my mother why he laughed and that he did not think she was a dumbass. I still don’t think it is his favorite thing when I call him that, but now I do think he knows it comes from a place of love.