The Art of Negotiation or "Hey, I'm Jewish too."

It happened at work.

He came to the fresh bread area, along with his sidekick. We recognized each other immediately. He was older than me. Grey and mostly bald. He nodded at the sale bread (a kind of mild sourdough boule. Price: $2.00) and asked, "How is it?"

"It's good." I replied.

Then he started to make a series of slight head nods, shrugs, eyebrow raises, and hand movements which among my tribe translates roughly as, " So, whadderwe gonna do here, huh? Can we do something here? Hm, huh, whaddya think? What can you do for me."

I responded in kind. My delicate dance of body english replying, "I don't know? We'll see. Let's talk."

His sidekick chuckled.

He motioned with the brown bagged loaf of bread he was already holding in his left hand. It was a fresh loaf of olive bread. Good choice. "I love this bread," he said,  "but it costs six bucks."

I indicated the sale breads and said, "Well, you can buy this one, get a jar of olives for 3 bucks, jam the olives into the loaf of bread (I making short, quick jabbing motions with my thumb as I talk, so as to indicate how one should jam olives) and save yourself a dollar."

"I'll take it," he replied.

And that's how we do it in the old country.

Qf course, it wasn't about the price or my moronic idea. It was about the love of the chase. The thrill of the sarcasm blowing through your hair and the attitude pounding through your veins. That's what people misunderstand about the Jews.  We're not cheap, we just like to argue.

Justice is subjective

Is there balance in the Universe? Well . . .

We went out to dinner the other night. A big deal around here. My new job affords us an occasional luxury, the kids had their first swim class of the recent session, and I had cleverly set our refrigerator's thermometer to "Mold." So it was in the cards.

We had seen a glowing review for this new nearby fusion joint on our favorite local tv news magazine, and my wife suggested we try it. The place is located in Chelsea, MA which is the sort of place that would be so charming and urbane and convenient and vibrant if not for all the fires and rapes. But in the daylight it's safe and the new restaurant is part of a valiant attempt at revival being made by the city. We support that kind of shit. 

We arrived and had to climb a set of blond wooden stairs to get to the smallish dining room. The dining room was outfitted in dark, armless, cushioned chairs, tables of black wood, and other touches that implored, "We're just as stylish as Boston. Please Believe me!"

We were the only ones there as we were early for your typical dinner service because we have two small kids. For us "midnight" means "10:30."

The woman who turned out to be both our server and the hostess greeted us with a shocked look. Her face quickly followed that up with annoyance, anger, disappointment, and finally reluctant acceptance. The Five Stages of Grief for assholes. Clearly, this was not a family friendly establishment. They obviously have aspirations of catapulting themselves into the "hip eatery" category of restaurant. Which will happen never.  But, as I stated, we were the only ones there, we were hungry, and our Family Motto is, "Go fuck yourself." We sat. She waited on us. 

The food was good. The prices were very good compared to across the river in Boston. I'm not sure it's deserving of the title fusion as the food was all either Vietnamese or Thai and very little of it was both. That's like fusing Greek and Italian food or Beyonce' with a cyborg set to "achieve Fame."  Not much of a leap.

The service continued to be straight bitchy. Clipped sentences, no "thank yous" or "you're welcomes," and a look on her face like we'd pooped in the Pad Thai. But we persevered and managed to enjoy our food. And the kids, as they usually do when we eat out, behaved better than average. They love to eat out and seem to respect it as a privilege. 

Through this, she continued to pour on the "get the fuck out of my stylish new restaurant you unhip cunts" charm.  But still we persevered. We were hell bent on showing this woman that we were not only good enough to eat in her establishment, we were better than her. Where she grimaced, we smiled. Where she was rude, we offered polite pleases and thank yous. Where she was visibly pissed, we were visibly enjoying ourselves. 

As we finished, she never warmed up. With out a word, she brought us a check.  She never once blinked or warmed or anything else remotely associated with the service industry or humanity in general. I was internally planning our next visit when the Pman declared himself done, got up from his chair, and went over to sit with his mommy. They sat for a moment and my wife told the Pman it was time for a potty break. She came back to the table and said quietly, "he's soaked." He had had an accident. "No biggee," I replied. "At least he tried to make it to the potty first."

"No," she said, "he was soaked when he climbed into my lap." 

I looked over at his chair, and there, on the dark fabric, was an even darker wet spot. Oh yes. 

After all of this though, I was determined that this sad, confused (the restaurant will never be the chic, hip eatery she envisions. It'll always be just "a nice place in Chelsea.") woman would see that we were the better people. That we were the takers of the high road, the purveyors of decency, a family of true class and sophistication and depth. 

So I looked at my wife and I mouthed, "Let's get the fuck out of here." 

And we did.

Next time, I'm pretty sure we'll order take out.

HM

Vegetarianism makes a Cameo

The Peanut is a vegetarian now. There was an episode of Man/Woman Wild ( it's a husband wife wilderness survival team which at it's most difficult, is a pretty apt metaphor for marriage)  on and she saw the man catch a chicken, grab it by the head, and break its neck to kill it and that was it, instant vegetarian. Which is fine. 


I was raised vegetarian. had a chicken nugget when I was 12 and that was it until I was about 28. Then I decided I couldn't go through my whole life without trying bacon. 


My parents were less than concientious about my diet too, so vegetarian often equaled grilled cheese and tomato, chips, and Suzy Qs. Which is not a bad way to grow up I guess. Possessed of a body sculpted by Drake's Cakes and Hostess and a mind made facile by infusions of melted cheese. Which should be in the bio on Kevin James' wikipedia page.

So the Peanut decides she is going to carry on my family tradition. Teary-eyed, stiff upper-lip trembling, she informed she would no longer eat any animals. I made fried haddock that night. It's her favorite. Dirty trick by me, I know.  When I asked her if she was going to eat it she replied, face scrunched, bottom lip puffed in a pout, "only if its really, really delicious."  And that's how we teach prioritizing. 


She lasted about one more day or so as a vegetarian before she stopped talking about it. The Pumpkin man could be tougher. He cried when I told him what happens to the lobsters at the supermarket. You know, how from an early aged they receive poor education, bad nutrition, little supervision, and have almost no chance of achieving the American Dream they are constantly assured is within their reach. Wait, no, that's poor kids. Lobsters just get boiled alive. Which is also pretty crappy. Crappy enough to make the Pumpkin Man cry, at least. Sensitive boy. Which I love love love, as long as he doesn't start listening to the Cure. This is a Robert Smith free zone. 


*************************


On another subject, I know I've been a horrible' (the apostrophe makes it French. Or maybe Spanish. Or Esperanto?) blogger. My new Job at Foods That Are not Broken is kicking my ass. Trying to find that groove between working and barely keeping the house from spinning off into a vortex of chaos. Almost there. Job is ok. Providing hope in terms of paying down debt and getting a Pop up Camper. We'll be just like Travels With Charley except non-fictional. And with kids. And not probably dying. And not Steinbeck And our dog's name is Ruby. But otherwise, Just like it. 


Love


HM

To The Salt Mines!

I approach 2012 not trembling from the weight of Mayan prophesies. Nor do I bow to the inevitability of the slow descent into an American Dark Age brought on by Baby Boomers and their parents living past a hundred, a culture of corporatism, an education system that teaches only how to fill in little oblong bubbles with a number 2 pencil, politicians who give roughly the same amount of a fuck about their constituents as alligators do about toads,  and a mainstream media made up mostly of JC Penny underwear models and "pundits" who get their info from rain sticks and the bones of a crow cast upon the ground just so.

Why do I not fear? Why do I not bow? Mostly because I'm filled with hubris and stiff joints. But also because I have procured a job. My first such in 2 plus years. And for this one I had to go on not one, but two interviews. I can't say the name because while PIPA and SOPA seem to have been defeated, there by saving the internet from censorship, a person can still lose their job by blogging about how the lunch room in their building always smells like bad fish.

If you really want to know, the establishment at which I will be gainfully employed is a purveyor of Foods that are not broken. Wink.

It's a part time job. Nights. 2 interviews for the thing. Still waiting for the 2nd background check to be completed.  But I was offered the job at a slightly higher rate of pay than they usually offer newbies. And I accepted. And I believe the background check will come out clean. There are a couple of blackouts in my past so I'm not 100% on that, but I'm pretty close.

We decided to do it so that we could dig out of a little of our debt while still being able to provide stuff for the kids like ballet class and gymnastics class and swim classes--a mostly potty trained* Pman started his first swim class two weeks ago--and a pop up camper and an Iphone. For the Children.

We'll see how this goes. The last job I had--driving the zamboni--went ok, but it was less of a commitment. Very close to home, less hours, and my family could come in and hang around sometimes. Sure, they got checked against the fucking boards if they even thought about chasing the puck, but hey, that's family time.

So please, any readers that might be left out there, wish me luck as I ride back out into the fluorescent lit darkness of the work-a-day world. I'm nervous. It's been a while and I can't wear my sweatpants.

HM

*I'm pretty content with "mostly potty trained" at the moment. That's all any of us truly become, after all.

Also, being from the Boston area, I just have to mention: Fahckin Marky-Mark! What the Fahk dude? Just the thought of him trying to whip out some hollywood movie star martial arts moves on trained, desperate, terrorists makes me grin like a loon. "Oh Yah? You wanna fuck with America? Well c'mon you Bahstads. lets see what you got?" And then dead.

Zumbastic

First of all, the Peanut and The Pumpkin Man were in the playroom at the Y and the pman had to go to the bathroom. He wouldn't go with the woman there. Only mommy or daddy. Or, his sister. Despite her diminutive stature, she lifted him up--they weigh about the same--onto the toilet seat, and then helped him get down and get dressed.  I am so proud of both of them. This show of sibling love and independence can only mean one thing: it's a matter of time now until my wife and I can leave them alone long enough for a date night. Tomorrow maybe? Next week? We'll see.

Second, I tried Zumba tonight. Me and My wife. The Latin based dancercise craze that has swept all of America except for the fat parts.  I won't say I was great at it, I will only say that if you can picture a short, bewhiskered, uncoordinated Jew, still pudgy with holiday overindulgence, trying his damndest to mimic merengue flavored exercise moves while shvitzing like Brett Ratner at a Pflag meeting well, you're picturing Heaven.

I was the only guy in the entire class. So I was obviously able to keep a low profile. With the fluidity of a stone golem and the audible grunting of a young Jerry Lewis, I embodied the term "smooth."

For her part, my wife did much better that she thinks she did. as is usually the way. We're going to try it again this week. It was fun, if only because we got the chance to say "Zumba." I'm confident going forward. I'm sure if I keep at it, in no time I'll be moving like Fred Astaire. The current version. But still.

HM

Spectacular Spectacular

We took the kids to the Radio City Music Hall Spectacular starring the World famous Rockettes. I wasn't sure about it at first. That's a lot of sparkly, conformist feminine sexuality. Felt like it might be inappropriate for the kids with the unnecessary revealing holiday themed outfits.  "Kids look! Christmas Tits!"

But it was really much tamer than that. There was a lot of sparkly, conformist, femininity about, but the Peanut didn't seem that interested.

The show was pretty enjoyable. It was sort of like MGM musical porn. Like an old fashioned MGM movie musical, but with all the bothersome plot and talking mostly removed.  The dancing was very good and the Rockettes were so in sync I asked my wife if she thought they used an electric cattle prod on'em during rehearsal. She replied, "they probably make them digest their food." Love my wife.

The kids' favorite part was a kind of cartoonish snippet of The Nutcracker done with one young ballerina and then a bunch of dancers in cartoon bear costumes. They must have been sweating off whatever genitalia they possessed under those costumes. The Peanut was very taken with the ballet. As some of you night know, we take that stuff pretty seriously around here.

There was this odd scene where everyone in the show dressed up in silver sparkly stuff and walked up and down a lighted glass staircase toward a shimmering computer animated background. We think it was supposed to be like heaven. Which makes sense because everyone knows heaven is a filled with Christmas and white people and sparkles and leggy 1950's sex symbols. 

There was a large number of old people at the show. People who remembered what it was like when the Rockettes counted as serious masturbation material. It kind of creeps me out, now that I think about it.

The big finale was the Nativity scene, with real animals. Two sheep, a donkey, and a camel who managed to communicate gravitas. Not what you get from a camel up close. If you've met one you know they exude disdain and stench. Maybe the stench is heavy with gravitas, but that's about it.

There were real animals and a disembodied voice reading bible passages and a manger and Inn and all the wise men and everything. These people were serious about it being a Christmas show. No "happy holidays" here. I got pretty swept up in it. Never felt more gentile. Odd, considering that myself and the baby Jesus were most likely the only two Jews in the entire theatre. Not including the agents.

Anyway, bible passages, animals, wise men, manger, Inn, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, a searingly bright projection of the Star of Wonder, and then the big finish.  You can't have a finale at a Rockettes show without showing off those famous moves.  This was my favorite part. The last big number: The dancing virgin Marys. Naked legged, pregnant, virgins dancing in perfect time. Robes coming a couple inches short of their knees so we could all get a glimpse of that oh so immaculate thigh. Kicks high, heels pointed toward the Lord. Merry Christmas Everyone!

That last part didn't happen, but I truly wish--prayed even--it had. Would've been the best show ever.

As it was, it was pretty enjoyable. Especially considering the tickets were free through a friend. I'll never forget those smiling, white-toothed, long legged dancing wonders. Made me want to sing Christmas carols while rushing right out to buy a box of Crest white strips. Psshh. Gentiles

HM

Also, I've got a new piece up over at Insert Eyeroll wherein I reveal the dream every modern father has for his daughter.

Polar Excess

So this friday, at the Peanut's school, everyone gets to show up at school in their PJ's, drink hot chocolate, and watch Polar Express. What a pant load.

This is such a creepy, lousy movie. Cold, soulless, and commercial. Tom Hanks should get kicked right in his Forrest Gumps for making that piece of shit. And the Peanut is about to watch it. Again. See, they do this every year. Show this sneakily cynical mall Christmas suckfest. Which incidentally is the title of my new Christmas album. Look for it on Spotify.

There are so many other Christmas movies I'd rather the Peanut watch. I'd rather she watch Bad Santa than watch this movie. I'd rather she watch Ernest Saves Christmas. Jingle All The Way. Die Hard. The Bad Lieutenant. Which technically isn't a Christmas movie but does include a scene with a nun and and a crucifix that is particularly of the Christmas spirit.

This is her school though. They try to something nice for the kids, but in the worst way possible. They have school spirit days where in they send notes home encouraging the kids to dress in the colors of either the Bruins, Patriots, or Red Sox.

I've got nothing (or at least very little) against sports or sports fandom, but what does that have to do with school spirit? This is why I don't follow those teams as much as I might. The cult-like level of sports indoctrination in this region kind of turns me off to the whole thing. Then again, it might just be because I'm a Celtics fan.

It's a microcosm of our city. This is the kind of place that'll start a revolutionary new recycling program, concurrently purchase a bunch of those solar powered trash compacting trash cans, then place those cans two to a corner, leaving chunks of the city a half mile long with no trash cans. Jesus, I sound fucking old.

It's the kind of place that advertises a big tree lighting ceremony and has carolers that can't sing, runs out of the promised--Promised!-- hot chocolate a twenty minutes in, and is generally run with all the organization and professionalism of a cheap bachelor party strip show.

They mean well. the citizens of my city, but they're morons. Big, well-meaning, puddin'-headed, Lennys  cuddling the city to jelly while losing their credibility. Which incidentally is why they should vote for me I as I make my run for city council. That's my campaign slogan. "Big, well-meaning, puddin-headed Lennys cuddling the city to jelly: Vote Homemaker Man! There'll be cake! And puppies! Easy on those puppies." Look for it, Nov. 2012.


HM

P.S. I don't actually think anyone under the age of 25 should see the Bad Lieutenant. I feel the same way about Polar Express. Also, a blurb written about Polar Express by inter-friend and Babble top 50 Dadblogger, TwoBusy, you can find here.