Saturday, April 15, 2017

April 15, 2017

Dear Diary,

Although Easter is tomorrow, I have to admit that I am not looking forward to it this year.  I feel terrible about it and it is something that I'd only tell to you in the strictest confidence:  What the hell am I supposed to do on Easter with Jewish grandchildren?  Don't get me wrong, I've always tolerated liked Jews and I've had my arm twisted felt it important to support Israel.  But I was raised Methodist, and to us, Easter is a very important occasion to which yids the Jews don't subscribe.

This has caused me a considerable amount angst ever since last year, during the you-know-what.  It was while I was ignoring one of the important states -- I forget which one -- and decided to fly home to celebrate Easter with Chel and her Jew husband and their kids.  I was all set to enjoy an Easter egg hunt and have a nice Honey Baked ham at the Easter dinner table.  I bought special children's books about the whole resurrection, thing, too. I had the whole thing planned.

Well, you can imagine my shock when I greeted them at the front door.  At least Marc had on a blue suit and tie, this time without the yarmulke or whatever they call those hockey pucks they wear on their heads. I could never understand how they can wear those little hats without them always sliding off.  Especially the bald Jews.  I mean, there's nothing for the beanie to grab on to.  Someone should design a chin strap or something.  Chel looked, well, as good as she can.  Poor thing dresses as if she's trying out for the circus, but what can I do?  I gave it 30 years and you simply have to know when to throw in the towel.

However, my real shock came when I knelt down to give her kids some big Easter holiday hugs.  Aidan wouldn't touch me, insisting I was "unclean."  He just raced right past me, straight to the coffee table where Bessie had laid out appetizers, wheeled around and yelled, "What -- no chopped liver?"  I don't know what they're teaching that little boy at home, but in my house, we were always taught that you remove your long black coat and furry black hat when you enter someone's home as a guest.  Also, I didn't think his little toy beard looked cute at all.

Charlotte wasn't much better.  I had to rush her into the house before the neighbors saw her, because she was wearing a fur coat -- in 80 degree weather. She's lucky the PETA nut case next door didn't see her and use her for target practice. The child is barely old enough to be in girl scouts and shows up a the door with a lynx stole that Chel insisted they bought at a resale vintage store.  Right in the middle of the story, Charlotte leans in, removes her Jackie O sunglasses and whispers to me under her breath, "What, you think I'd pay retail for a shmata like this?"

Honestly, diary, after all that, I bailed on the Easter egg roll idea.  It had pretty much lost its luster.

The dinner itself went alright, I suppose, if you forget that both kids brought their own silverware and refused to touch anything.  "It's alright," they both sighed.  "We'll just have a little coffee.  With Splenda, if you have it."  Ugh.  I wanted to die right then and there.

I have no idea how it's going to go tomorrow and I am very nervous.  Even doubling the Xanax hasn't prevented me from shvitzing like crazy.

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