HAPPY NEW YEAR readers of Peaches & Coconuts!! I hope wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, you’re feeling effervescently ebullient or ebulliently effervescent or just plain happy.
We here in the dazzling metropolis of Essex County New Jersey will be kicking 2009 to the curb and shouting, “Good riddance, you Sod!” Our arms are open to 2010 as wide as a fully dilated cervix pushing out an 11 pound baby with the head the size of a disco ball. “Come to Mama, 2010! We’ve been waiting for you for a bloody long year!”
I don’t feel the need to review the year for you here and now. What a downer that would be on this festive eve. We’ve had it up to here with unemployment and uncertainty (hand in salute position at the top of my freshly plucked eyebrow). Tonight is the night we look into the eyes of the 10s with hope and a killer thirst for champers. Do we really have to wait until midnight to pop open the bubbly? It’s 2010 in Blighty, innit? And given that I am a dual citizen, I believe I should start drinking for England right about now. Not to worry my dear, cherished readers. We have enough booze to get us through the evening and well into the day tomorrow when we’ll be drinking bloody marys for a hair of the dog brunch.
The boys are in bed. We’ve got a fire going and music playing and we’re waiting on a couple of friends to pop over to share in a toast. We already had some primo champagne chilling in the fridge in honour of Gabriella’s new job at a company we’ll refer to as Shmoomberg. Of course I am thrilled for Gabriella that this job will be challenging and inspiring. I haven’t seen her so jazzed about a job in a very long time. I, however, will be raising my glass to the cash that her new job brings which will allow us to once again purchase the expensive, soft and quilted toilet tissue whose every square brings joy to my lady bits. I can’t wait to get through that last roll of scratchy, cheap onion skin that reminds me of our financial ruin with every wipe. My bits deserve better!
And after our bloody mary brunch, we’ll savour the last days our little family can enjoy being altogether without the disruption of work. We will be creating as many postcard moments as we can with the boys. And one day when they are old enough to blame us for all of their insecurities and failures caused by the neglect of two working parents, we’ll be able to point to these photos as proof that we spent time with them once...so they should quit kvetching and go tell someone who cares.
Asher believes in Santa Claus, and whenever he talks about Santa or his goddam sleigh, I feel the tinny acid of water brash swell at the back of my throat. I’m not a hater. Really. I have nothing against Santa or Christmas. Why, some of my best friends are of the Gentile persuasion. I’ve even carolled once in my youth. I would have carolled more often if not for my categorical opposition to spending so much time in the cold that my nostrils stick together when I breathe in frozen air. No cookie is worth losing the feeling in my toes to sing about King Wenceslas no matter how catchy the tune.
It’s stuck in my head now. Good King Wen-ces-las looked out....
Gabriella: What are you singing?!?
Deborah: Good King Wenceslas.
G: What?
D: You know. The Christmas song.
G: No.
D: Yes, you do. I’m a Jew, and I know that song. Good King Wen-ces-las looked out, on the Feast of Stephen. Where the snow lay round a-bout, deep and crisp and...
G: Don’t know it.
D: What? Didn’t you sing Christmas songs as a kid?
G: I’m Italian. We didn’t sing those songs.
D: You may be Italian, but you grew up in Queens.
I listed all the songs that have been burned into my brain from my childhood-all the songs we had to learn in school and that played relentlessly in shops and on the radio and on Christmas television specials for as long as I can remember. Silent Night, Little Drummer Boy, Jingle Bells, O Come All Ye Faithful, Little Town of Bethlehem...she knew them all. She knew them all except for Good King Wenceslas. Go figure. Leave it to the Jew to find the Christmas song that the Italian who attended Christ the King Regional High School didn’t know.
No Jew can escape Christmas unless you pack it up and get a round trip ticket to Indonesia on Garuda Airlines leaving the day after Halloween and returning Presidents Day. That’s why I always had the Tree Talk with everyone I ever dated. There are certain things girls talk about on a first or second date because these topics are possible deal breakers. Answers tip the scale when there’s a question as to whether or not we have met our ideal match. Having children, politics and acceptable levels of alcohol consumption rank high on the deal-breaker list. On my first date, I talk tree. There has never been nor will there ever be a spruce, pine or fir tree of any kind in my house-real or artificial, adorned or not, in December or around Jesus’s actual birthday-whenever that might have been. Yes, I am aware that the tree is a pagan symbol of Winter Solstice. I'm not pagan, and that tree is not called a Winter Solstice Tree. It's a Christmas tree, and I don't celebrate Christmas. I get enough Christmas the minute I leave my house, thank you very much. The walls of my house are packed solid with Jew-sulation to keep Christmas out all year round.
Movies are the exception to the rule. What? I’m allowed a loophole for the sake of art. Miracle on 34th Street (the original), It’s a Wonderful Life and of course The Year without a Santa Claus-love that Heat Miser!
Asher has yet to see a single one of them, but we’ll watch them together one of these years. In the meantime, he’s learning all about Santa Claus in public school. He’s convinced that bearded pervert knows when he is sleeping and when he’s awake. I’d like to knee that oversized elf in the Jingle Bells, for goodness sake.
And now that we’re living in New Jersey, we’ve got to celebrate Christmas with Gabriella’s family. Our first 5 years together, we were Jew-sulated in Chicago. The next 7 years, we avoided Christmas in London. But...now, that there’s no place to hide-since you pushed this Jew aside... What? Isn’t that what Sandy is singing? No? The point is that as long as we’re in the tri-state area, our Jewish kids will celebrate Christmas, and I’m trying not to have a conniption about it.
The good news is that Gabriella’s family’s version of Christmas is eating, drinking and being merry without ever once talking about Jesus. There are plenty of “OH MY GWAAAWD!”s in Queens, but little of it has anything to do with the Lord. I do have to deal with Santa talk, however. Zia Lina told Asher that Santa left some gifts for him at her house this year, and he was most pleased. sigh.
I know many of you are yelling at your monitor, “Get over it, Deborah!!” Well, I hear you, and I agree. Mommy’s family celebrates Christmas, and the boys should celebrate with them. Asher and Levi are Jewish, and no Christmas dinner will change that. They might choose to convert one day (and metaphorically drive a rusty saw through my heart), but they’ll have to test their unborn children for Tay-Sachs just the same. No, I meant to say that I’ll always love them and respect their choices or something politically correct and insincere like that.
Truth be told, we had a fantastic night in Queens on the 24th. You can call it Christmas dinner, but I’ll leave Christ out of it. I sleep better that way. I was in such a good mood that I decided to wait until next year to teach Asher all about Saint Nicholas, Christian martyrdom and the fabrication of Santa Claus by mass media in the United States. Bah humbug yourself!
The boys were up until all hours, and they got to open some presents before we loaded up the car to enjoy a traffic-free drive through the Mid-town and Lincoln tunnels. Before we buckled Asher into his booster seat, he yelled back to La Famiglia, “Happy Christmas!!” I'm proud of my son for the unsolicited well wishes. He’s a good boy-a real mensch.
I thought hell on earth would be going back to work full time after staying at home for the past 6 years. I imagined all the injustices of work life like having to wear clean clothes and being pleasant all day [shudder]. Actually, hell on earth is going back to work and NOT being able to blog about it. How do bloggers stand keeping shtum about life at the office? It’s true I’ve managed to keep most of my personal life out of my blog, but I haven’t found that to be much of a challenge. I adore my community and my friends. I chose these people to join my circle because they are somewhat like-minded or vaguely interesting or they keep their liquor cabinet stocked. Some of them are even easy on the eye which is an added bonus. If you think I’m referring to you, Friend, well, you’re absolutely right.
When I signed on to work outside my home, I opted in to an established community of workers joined by the common need to earn money. Beyond that, the similarities are mostly random and oft times invisible to the naked eye. I squint a lot. Clearly, I have not been on the blog in recent days, but it has nothing to do with lack of material. I’m literarily constipated, and it’s very uncomfortable. So I must carry on as if my work life is something that exists in a parallel universe and keep the door to my work life closed.
I thought I’d keep work out of it, that is, until I came into work this morning with my health care forms completed only to learn that this company does not extend health care benefits to Domestic Partners. Really? Where AM I? Did someone transplant me to Florida without my knowledge? If so, why is it so cold outside? I'm going to face discrimination, my face should at least sport a sun kissed glow.
When I first accepted this job, I planned to waive health care benefits because Gabriella's company would cover us all...because that's the norm out here in post-medieval New Jersey. Since then, and as of today, Gabriella accepted an offer for a different job that she is pleased as punch to have. It's a great gig for her, and every part of it excites her. The stress and uncertainty of the past year became a distant, unrecognizable memory virtually overnight when she accepted this new job, and all was right in the world-except that her position is contractual. I am responsible for the health care benefits for our family.
I’ve lived in Chicago, New York and London, and I have never worked for a company that does not recognize Domestic Partnerships. Sadly, I would expect a company to spit on Domestic Partners in most other parts of the world, but I don’t live in most other parts of the world--on purpose! I thought I lived in that sliver of the free world where we could at least provide health care to our family.
I have successfully avoided all the mishigas of inequality in my work life until now. The HR rep at this company we’ll refer to as WTF.com explained to me that they could not offer health care for Domestic Partners here in New Jersey because WTF.com has offices in 7 other states. It is not mandatory in 2 out of the 8 states to offer Domestic Partnership benefits. Therefore, in the interest of equality, WTF.com chose the lowest common denominator in an effort to maintain a level of benefits “equal for all their companies”. Equal? Don’t you dare use that word with me unless you know WTF it means, WTF! Who knew I had signed on to work for a company whose policies are dictated by the backwards view of equality in Alabama?
I write this knowing that I've been outed as a blogger and that anyone from WTF.com might read this post. If you're reading this entry, know that Gabriella has sanctioned it in spite of the heat I might get at work. So be it. I'm pissed off. And we all know that it's better to be pissed off than pissed on...unless you're into that sort of thing, and that is really none of my business. At least we know that if your husband or wife should break out in some sort of burning rash as a result of your bedroom activities, your insurance would cover you like a warm stream of wee.
I meant to write a Thanksgiving post in which I itemize all my blessings and heartfelt thanks. Thing is, I’ve spent this entire year giving thanks, and I needed to edit the list. Nothing like a little unemployment to kick start Thanksgiving in December. There hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t taken stock of all that is good in my life since Gabriella lost her job. In a peculiar way, unemployment has been a blessing in itself. I certainly would have preferred a big, whopping income instead of the day to day fear of losing everything we have. But this past year, I have had the chance to put our situation in perspective and be truly grateful for the things big whopping incomes just can’t buy.
“Such as?” you ask. Why, I’m so glad you inquired.
I am thankful for amazing family and friends and supportive readers (and especially those friends and family who are also readers because you’re my favourites). Your words have fortified and inspired me. Your good will has touched me beyond measure and allowed me to see how incredibly generous and thoughtful and loving you are, and I treasure you.
I am thankful for good health which enabled me to pass the physical examination required to start my new job on Monday. I am thankful for my personal doctor who does NOT, in fact, work at the medical center where my employer sent me for the physical examination. It was not a pleasant experience to say the least. I watched Access Hollywood with the rest of the infirmed and debilitated. The volume was so loud, I couldn't avoid listening to mindless gossip about talentless celebrities while I inhaled all the sick germs buzzing around me.
There were 2 enormous vending machines in the holding pen, I mean waiting room: one offered a variety of flavoured chips, candy bars and what some poor souls might call pastries and the other offered carbonated sodas representing all the colours of the rainbow in the most artificial of ways. I assumed that the doctors fed the machines quarters as much as they fed themselves as they were just about as enormous as the vending machines. Unhealthy doctors do not inspire confidence, and I hoped that no one would fall on me during my exam.
There was a brief moment when I thought I might not pass the drug test. Not what you're thinking! While it's true that Asher's homework assignments require an inordinate amount of gluing, I didn't think I'd test positive for glue-sniffing. I was concerned because the technician dipped his stick in my cup...steady....and asked me, “Are you in the middle of your menses?” Ew. What a bad word. “No.” “Hmm. Trace of blood in your urine.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that it was probably the result of a girlie-grooming mishap suffered earlier that morning during my shower. Did I just hear you suck in air through your teeth? Yes, well, allow me to take this moment to provide a public service announcement and encourage my readers to resist grooming when in a hurry.
The technician shrugged his shoulders and disregarded the results. I didn’t want to delay this procedure any longer than necessary, but shouldn’t he have been a little concerned? Never mind. I am thankful that my own doctor would have cared. She was the one who encouraged me to get the x-rays taken when Asher launched his head into my face. Turns out, he actually broke my nose! Well, he chipped the bridge of it to be specific. Nothing to be done about it, but I do feel justified for having complained for days about the excruciating pain whenever I moved my head or adjusted my glasses.
I am thankful for Gabriella and Asher and Levi who remind me how lucky I am every day-even when they break parts of my face. I’m even thankful to my brother Benjamin who bought Asher an accordion for his birthday. I realized how much I value my family’s happiness when I willingly sat through hours of Asher’s accordion “music” and never once asked him to stop. That’s not to say that I didn’t fantasize about finishing our basement while he was playing, however.
Last, but definitely not least, I am thankful for my sister Rachel, the anti-blogger, whose response to my recent employment was, “What will become of the blog?” She might think blogging is bizarre, but she loves my blog because it’s a part of me. She knows that if I don’t have time to blog, I’ll be cranky. She doesn’t like when I’m cranky. I guess ultimately, it’s all about Rachel. I must find time to write so that I can be nice to her. I will find the time. I will find the time for me, for you and most importantly for my sister.
