Humor

One year ago I bought truck meat.

You heard me.

Not one but two cute dudes drove into my driveway offering me steaks, chicken breasts and shellfish. Initially, I was skeptical. But then I saw the meat had come from a reputable company, a name I recognized. I considered 36 pieces of filet mignon and 12 marinated chicken breasts. The guys wanted $400.

I looked at the guys again.

I wanted that meat.

“It’s guaranteed for freshness for 24 months,” they insisted all cute and muscle-y.

I hesitated.

They offered to drop the price by $50.

I hesitated some more and batted my eyelashes a little.

They added an extra carton of filet thus confirming I still had my magical powers at 40-something.

The meat dudes did not accept credit cards, so I gladly wrote one guy a check as the other more muscle-y guy concentrated on stacking the bags of meat into our garage freezer.

I was elated.

The two men screeched backed carefully out of my driveway and zoomed off down the street.

Eventually Hubby saw the charge in our checkbook and asked about it.

“I got 48 pieces of fillet and 24 chicken breasts for $318!” I exclaimed.

“Have we had any yet?” he asked.

“No!” I said, “I’m saving it for something special. Maybe New Year’s Eve or something.”

“Open it up!” Hubby practically shouted.

I didn’t know what he was so worked up about. I mean the guys were so honest and I had a 24-month guarantee for freshness. Sheesh.

The meat defrosted on our kitchen countertop and, eventually, we cut open its clear plastic wrapper.

I’m not sure if it was the color or the smell that tipped us off first.

“I don’t think that’s from a cow,” Hubby declared as he plugged his nose and plopped the meat into a trash-bag.

I pictured cats, dogs, gerbils, nutria — and I knew I had done a bad thing.

An organized person, I quickly found the 24-month freshness warranty and dialed the 1-800 number.

Doo doo doo. We’re sorry, the number you have reached is no longer in service.

I called the local distributor.

Doo doo doo. We’re sorry the number you have reached is no longer in service.

I knew I had been scammed.

Few things set me off more than being lied to.

Furious, I called the Better Business Bureau where I learned the company I had done business with had over 300 complaints filed against it. I didn’t care. I would not be a number.

Long story short: It took a few months, but I got our money back.

All of it.

Why?

Because I am relentless.

Were you not paying attention the first time around?

Cross me and this twit will make you wish you had Harry Potter on speed dial so you could ask to borrow his invisibility cloak.

If this were a fable by Aesop, the lesson might be something like this: If your stuff is good, you don’t have to brag about it. Or sell it door to door. So if some guys come around bragging about their meat, just say no because — chances are — their junk is already spoiled.

 Have you ever been scammed? What happened? What weird lessons has life been teaching you lately?

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From the second the movie came out, people have told me that I look Jennifer Grey from Dirty Dancing. You know, “Baby.” It happens all the time. In reality, my cousin Michelle is the one who really looks like Jennifer Grey. Like exactly.

But I can see why people think I look like this incarnation of Jennifer Grey. We’ve both got the mouse blonde-brown hair and the curls that were hot in the 1980s — and if mousse hadn’t been invented, I would still be stuck with all that frizz. Mousse has been very, very good to me. When it gets humid enough, I probably do look like the 1980s Jennifer Grey, but I don’t want to have to keep doing this.

The other person people tell me I look like is Sarah Jessica Parker (after her mole was removed). I don’t mind having people tell me I look like SJP because I think she is stunning. In fact, most women I know think SJP is stunning. It’s men who complain that SJP is decidedly un-hot. I once heard someone say SJP’s face looks like a horse’s. Well, I love horses, and if my features are equine, I’m good with it.

To be true, I don’t really think I look so much like SJP in real life as I behave like her character, Carrie Bradshaw, in Sex in the City. You know, I dress really funky; I collect fabulously expensive shoes, and let’s not forget, I live alone in my tiny, expensive New York apartment without a husband or son.

Except that I live in the suburbs in Western, New York. You know, with my husband and son. Oh, and I hate to shop and I have maybe seven pairs of shoes.

Still, I get the SJP thing a lot.

I recently saw Ironic Mom (aka: Leanne Shirtliffe) was playing around with a fun app that shows you your celebrity doppelgangers, and I decided to try it.

Here are the results:

Astoundingly, SJP did come up. Along with a lot of other very attractive women, so I am not complaining. But apparently, I look much more like The United States Secretary of State, Hilary Rodham Clinton than anyone else (74% match) — a woman who is 20 years older than I am.

That said, I think Hil looks smokin’ in that picture.

I was surprised, however, to see that I also came up looking like Howard Dean and composer Phillip Glass (look at that man’s nose, people!).

Wow.

Those kind of hurt a little.

So, like Leanne, I decided to try the experiment again using a different picture. This time, I selected a photo of my curly haired self, since I am usually a curly girly and because I am that vain.

Here are the results:

I would call this my “I wish” list. Omigosh! I wish I looked like Penelope Cruz. If I did, I’m thinking I would be much more famous. And Nicky Hilton? I don’t think I have one character trait in common with Nicky Hilton, so that one leaves me with a big question mark over my head.

Holly Hunter is probably a pretty good doppelganger on the day-to-day. In this picture anyway. She looks like she just finished walking with a friend on a really humid morning or, perhaps, went swimming and let her hair air dry. Yeah, that sounds like me.

And, I suppose, if I have to be a guy, Howie Dorough (eldest singer of the Backstreet Boys) or pop singer Zac Hanson aren’t the worst boys to look like. I mean, at least they’re kinda pretty.

I wanted to run this app all day long using different pictures of myself, but I had other stuff to do. And, of course, what is the point? No one will ever tell me I look like Katie Couric, and I don’t think anyone under 35 even knows the name Samantha Fox! Oh and as far as Amy Weber goes, yeah right!

My identity was confirmed at the grocery store last night, when a stranger stopped me in the frozen food section and said, “Wow, you look just like the girl from Dirty Dancing! You know, Jennifer Grey. Before she got her nose job!”

And — as Homer Simpson might say — that brings us back to doh!

What celebrity do people claim you look like? Do you think they are right? Or do you think they are crazy?

It only takes once.

If your child says, “I’m bored,” this summer, here’s what you do.

First get all worked up into a thrilled frenzy. Then, in the most madly excited voice you can muster say:

“You are! Because I have the best thing for you to do, and I was just waiting for you to say you wanted to do something new.”

Take your bored child gently by the hand and guide him to the bathroom.

(Ed. note: *The brush needs to be there already or else he will try to escape.*)

Have your child stand before the toilet and hand him the brush.

(Ed. Note: *You must gush here. Very important to ooze gush.*)

Start swirling.

At first, your child might like this activity, especially after you add all the bubbly cleaning supplies and let him swish them around – but after a short while, as we all know, this task loses its magic.

He will want to stop.

When he moans or complains or asks to stop, look positively bewildered.

(*Seriously, you must appear profoundly confused. Furrow your brow, but only briefly. We don’t want to leave wrinkles.*)

“But you said you were bored…”

Don’t forget to remind your child that you have X more toilets to clean if you hear him say he is bored again.

Ever.

Monkey has not said “I’m bored” since he was 4-years old.

On a down note, for the last 7 years, I have been the Chief Cleaner of all Things Porcelain.

What tactics do you employ when your child complains that he or she is bored in the summer?

• • •

Today marks my 200th post. To show how much I love the folks who comment and to make sure you are not bored, I have a fun little exercise: If you leave a comment on today’s post, I will create a fabulously fun post which will share how we met. Of course, all the content will be a lie. That’s right, I will create a piece of fabulous fiction to include each one of you. If you have a blog, I will even show you some linky-love. So let’s have a little fun! If you’ve never left a comment before, this is the day to do it!

It’s summer. We’ve had a lot of 11 to 12-year-old boys hanging around the house. When it’s raining, they become basement dwellers playing ping-pong or Legos and K’Nex or Wii. I hear their mutterings.

Not long ago, one of Monkey’s friends was over. Let’s call him Steve-o. (Note, Monkey’s friend’s name is not Steve-o, but he was trying really hard to be cool, and I find that when you add an “o” to anyone’s name, it sometimes achieves that affect. Not always, but sometimes. Try it.)

So Steve-o’s talking about movies he’d recently seen. He announces that he’d just seen Dude, Where’s My Car?

Monkey had never heard of it.

Dude, Where’s My Car? is about two dudes who get totally wasted and forget where they parked their car.

That’s pretty much it. That’s the basic premise.

How do I know this? Because hubby and I once rented it.

(Let the judgment begin. I can take it.)

I feel compelled to tell you a little more about this flick, so if you had big plans to rent it, this is your chance to skip the rest of this post and just answer the question in blue at the bottom.

Monkey’s friend forgot to mention that during the course of the movie, things get a little sci-fi. Not my favorite genre. So, it’s kind of hard for me to recall all the details of the movie because I got up a few times to wash dishes and organize the condiments in the refrigerator, but the stoners meet these gorgeous, large-breasted, female aliens. And honestly, I have no problem with that. Especially when they are wearing really tight, black jumpsuits. Because seriously, that’s hot and what else would gorgeous aliens wear?

That said, I’d imagine this part of the film is probably a lot steamier if one has experienced puberty.

Anyway, the stoners also run into these weirdos who have some kind of Continuum Transfiguration machine cleverly disguised as a Rubik’s cube that accidentally gets activated and, of course, can potentially destroy the universe.

Ninety-six percent of women reading this are rolling their eyes.

This is when I started folding laundry.

Hubby was digging the flick.

At the end the movie, the stoners (of course) save the universe, and they even find their car. Oh, and the aliens erase everyone’s memories (of course) but leave gifts for the stoners’  girlfriends which are actually for our young slackers’ enjoyment: breast enhancement necklaces.

Okay, fine. Whatever.

As we ate our respective salads, I asked Monkey’s pal, “So Steve-o, do you think that movie is appropriate for people your age?”

Steve-o hesitated. “I’m not really sure. I mean my parents didn’t know my little brother and I were watching it. We just downloaded it from Netflix to the Wii.”

I didn’t even know that was possible.

(Note to self: Figure out how to not make that happen.)

Steve-o continued, “It did have a transsexual stripper in it so maybe it’s not for really little kids. But it sure was funny.” He smiled to himself. Then he looked up at me in all earnestness and said, “At least it was funny until my dad caught us. I’ll probably never know how that movie ends.”

Realizing he’d never know the planet was saved, I felt kinda bad for Steve-o.

I wondered should I tell him about the Breast Enhancement Necklaces.

Instead, I stuck a big forkful of salad in my mouth. You know, to silence myself.

What is the most inappropriate movie you have ever caught your children watching? Or you watched (or tried to watch) as a kid?

Last month, a friend was talking about how she feels like she is losing control of so many things in her children’s lives. Her eldest son will be heading for high school in September, and she had just learned he had watched The Hangover and Wedding Crashers while at a friend’s house: two movies she didn’t think were appropriate for someone his age.

“But what can I do?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders. “He was at someone else’s house? I can’t control everything all the time, can I?”

Then she began to fret over how her younger son’s bus driver allowed his middle school-aged riders to listen to all kinds of music, much of which she considered to have inappropriate lyrics.

“Did your son’s bus driver let the kids listen to music?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. I mean, the topic had never come up. “Let’s ask him.”

We called Monkey over from where he was doing something Monkey-ish to ask him our mommy-questions.

“Were you allowed to listen to music on the bus this year?” I asked.

Monkey thought for about .3 seconds and then answered with absolute certainty.

“No.”

And then something happened inside my brain: a little click: that proverbial light-bulb warming to slow glow.

“Dude,” I smiled, “You don’t know what happens on the bus…” I paused for effect.

Monkey looked confused.

“You’re a walker!” I laughed.

Monkey smacked his forehead with his hand and wandered away laughing.

Our house is located about 200 feet from the back of my son’s school. Each morning at 7:13 AM, Monkey put his dishes in the sink, opened the sliding glass doors, and slid out back where he disappeared behind a bunch of pine trees and evergreens. We both know this. It was his routine for 180 days.

Our simultaneous forgetting was a peculiar mother-and-son moment.

We used to do so much together. Everything. For years, he was like an extra appendage, wrapped around my leg or lying across my lap. Many times, I have answered a question that he had not yet even asked.

“Yes,” I would say.

“I didn’t even ask you anything yet?” Monkey would say.

“Yes, you can have dessert. Go ahead.” And then we would cozy up on separate ends of the couch with only our toes touching, eating small bowls filled with vanilla ice cream and rainbow sprinkles.

Back then, he thought I was magic.

For a period there, I was sure I would remember everything, each detail. The curve of his pinky as it curled around his blue blanket while he napped.

But you don’t; you forget things.

And it’s okay, I guess.

I love that he is growing older, growing into the person he will one day become more fully.

But there are some things I miss: like those Vulcan mind-meld moments.

So I guess I’m mourning something, too.

Who knew?

What things have you forgotten lately that you know you should absolutely know?

My friend Carl D’Agostino and I often have Vulcan mind-melds. This week while I was tapping away about how much my Monkey loves his Ticonderogas, Carl simultaneously posted a pencil related comic on his blog, “I Know I Made You Smile.”

Check out Carl’s funny here, then come back and tell me about a mistake that could not be erased.

I’ll start: Congressman Anthony Weiner’s decision to send photos of himself in his grey underwear via Twitter. Whooopsie! Good luck with that one, dude.

Related articles

• In Praise of the Pencil (rasjacobson.wordpress.com)

In 5th grade, Mr. Zych lectured all of his students about how to properly sharpen a pencil. He wasn’t messing around. His speech was not short, and he covered everything from how to properly grip the pencil to the cranking motion – how it should be smooth and continuous, not jerky. He even discussed the perils of over-sharpening, which could lead to premature tip-breakage. Mr. Zych turned pencil sharpening into a science.

Personally, I have had a love-hate relationship with pencils. I first learned how to print my alphabet in pencil and then I learned how to write in cursive in pencil. That was Paradise. Finally, a way to write all the stories stored in my head. Later, I preferred to write with pens – preferably ones filled with purple or green ink. But ever since my son started school, he has been forever in need of pencils; they seem to always be around, and so I returned to the yellow pencils of my youth. I had learned to appreciate the feel of a pencil in my hand again. I even started to like the scratchy-scratchy sound of the graphite as it dragged across the page. After I recently stepped on a pencil, I became suspicious of them again and switched back to pens.

Meanwhile, my son is still on a steady diet of pencils. In middle school, the kids seem to devour them: literally and figuratively. I know my son nibbles on his; I’ve seen the teeth marks. I’ve watched him crunch while he contemplates before committing to writing an answer on paper. But sometimes I wonder if he actually eats them, too. I mean, where do they go? How many pencils does one kid need in a school year?

A few weeks back, Monkey came home in a tizzy.

“I’m out of pencils again,” he announced.

Nonplussed, I told him there were under three weeks of school left and that I was pretty sure he could make-do with his nubs until June 20.

He started at me with contempt.

“Are you serious?” he questioned. “I have exams! I need pencils! Ticonderogas. Now!”

He was not messing around.

The next day while in the grocery store – to my horror – I found plenty of office supplies, but they were only generic pencils. And even I know that those erasers don’t do the job. You need another eraser to get rid of the smears those lame pencils leave behind.

So I made an extra trek, this time to Staples – home of the Ticonderoga pencil – and invested in the Bulk pack. (Because that was all they had.) Let’s be clear. Ticonderoga pencils are like platinum. They cost a fortune. The only way a pencil could be more fabulous would be if you printed your name on pencils. A Ticonderoga is the Hum-V in the wonderful world of pencils. Teachers definitely prefer them. Definitely.

I rationalized that I could spend $15.77 + nearly 9% tax on pencils because they are non-perishable, so it is not like they will ever rot or mold. And I figured whatever is left at the end of the school year, Monkey can use in 7th grade, thus saving me some back-to-school shopping hassle.

A few days later, a good friend of mine called me and reported that her son – also a 6th grader – had run out of pencils. While requesting to buy more, she said my name was invoked. Apparently her son said:

“Can you just be like Mrs. J. and get the Giant Pack of 72 Ticonderoga pencils?”

Apparently Monkey had been bragging about his new stash.

I laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Bragging about pencils?

And then I thought about how I had come full circle. Just one week before, I was cursing pencils as my husband dug around my heel with a needle in an attempt to get the lead out. (I know, I know. Pencils are made of graphite. I was going for the funny.) But now I found myself saying a silent prayer on behalf of all pencil-loving children everywhere. Uncharacteristically, I clasped my hands together and thought to myself:

Lord, may this be the worst thing my child ever desires. May this be his worst addiction. May he never see cocaine. May he never use LSD or heroin. May he avoid cigarettes and alcohol. May he avoid the ‘shrooms, the X, the meth. May he never huff. May he find the strength to avoid the Oxycontin and Adderall.

May he always be addicted to Ticonderoga pencils.

Because, honestly, I’ll happily help Monkey score his Ticonderoga pencils forever. I’ll even help him sharpen them. Mr. Zych schooled me on that a long time ago, and I feel confident I can help my son with his #2 pencil fix without any need for an Intervention.

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• Lessons From Splinters (rasjacobson.wordpress.com)

To inspire my viewers and have some fun this summer, I am kicking off a contest.

We all work hard during the week, but it is important to relax whenever we can grab a moment. Every Saturday from now until September 3, 2011, I will post – videos of YOU, my beloved readers, doing the things you love to do! G-rated things. This is a family show, people! 😉 Think ziplines, epic water fights dressed as cyborgs, alligator wrestling.

Send me the link to your You Tube video at rasjacobsonNY@gmail.com anytime between now and September 3, 2011. Videos must be under 2 minutes and they should feature you doing something relaxing… that’s a little bit off-beat.

Between September 12-16, 2011, I will create a poll and ask people to vote for their favorite “Saturday Summer Screwball” video. If you mention this contest on your blog and link back here, you will receive an extra vote. If you Tweet an #SSS of your choice, you will also receive an extra vote. Just be sure to come back and let me know that you did!

To usher in the fall, one winner will be announced on September 21, 2011.

An uber-cool prize will be awarded.

You all know that I love to dance, so I’m kicking it off.

And, if you’ll notice, I’m kind of off-beat.

So here you are: for inspiration.

Seriously, it is a pity that you could not see my fabulous green wig in this video. I will have to spank Monkey talk to my tech guy.

Tweet this Twit @RASJacobson

The other day I saw a sign that read: “Free Babies Clinic.”

Which I thought was weird.

It was a warm day, and I imagined folks handing out babies like ice cream cones.

What exactly is going on? I wondered.

But as I got closer, I saw that the sign was actually advertising a “Free Rabies Clinic,” which made me wonder: Are we giving people rabies these days? And who would want that? Even for free?

I kind of remember A “very special” Little House on The Prairie episode where Mary or Half-Pint or Carrie (or maybe it was the Jack, the dog?) got bitten by something – a raccoon or a bat – and Ma and Pa and Doc were pretty freaked out, and Pa had to saddle up the horses and ride all the way to Mancato to get… um, I don’t know. Special shots? Pills? Now that I think about it, maybe Pa just had to shoot the dog.

I also might have completely fabricated that whole thing.

I’m not sure.

Anyway, I guess I really do need to wear my reading glasses all the time now.

A few days later, as the stars aligned in the universe, I stumbled across the following video which features a child fondling a freshly killed squirrel, and I wondered: Have we stopped completely worrying about rabies to the point that we are now allowing our children to carry glorified rats wild animals around and snuggle them?

Don’t get me wrong. The video is fabulously, adorably morbid.

And I’m guessing this dad just got caught up in the moment the way his daughter did.

It is also probably why the aforementioned father repeatedly stresses the need for his wee dead animal lover to come in and take a bath.

I’m thinking little Thea might grow up to be a fabulous doctor. Look how caring she is.

Other options include taxidermist or mortician.

It’s good to have options.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. It’s Friday. See where poor eyesight and bad signage leads me? Tell me something you saw this week. Or thought you saw.

This year, Spring Break fell on the same week as Passover – the Jewish holiday which commemorates the story of the Exodus, in which the ancient Israelites were freed from slavery in Egypt. (Think Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments.) This year there seemed to be so many similarities between Monkey’s heinous April “staycation” in Western, New York and the oft-repeated, seemingly never-ending Passover story that I simply could not ignore it.

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, People Got Creative: When Pharaoh, the King of Egypt, made a law that every male, infant Israelite be killed, Moses’ mother got busy. She wove a little  basket, put her son into it, and floated him down the river, hoping he would be found among the reeds.

The first few days of April vacation were fine, but by Sunday evening, Monkey and I were done with our Game-a-Thon. We had played dozens of games, but after thirty-two arguments about his iPod Touch usage, Hubby and I decided to confiscate Monkey’s Touch for the remainder of the week. From that moment forward, we had conversations so similar in content, I was ready to stick Monkey in a basket and float him down the River Nile. They went something like this:

Monkey: Can I go on the computer?
Me: No.
Monkey: Can I Skype someone?
Me: No.
Monkey: Can I use my iPod Touch?
Me: No.
Monkey: Can I watch TV?
Me: No.
Monkey: Were you born this mean?
Me: No, I minored in mean in college.

In an effort to keep Monkey away from screens, on Monday, I took him to the library. We brought home Gregor and the Prophecy of Bane. I figured he would read while I rolled matzah balls for the chicken soup. After 40 minutes, Monkey set down his book and wandered over to me.

Monkey: Colin’s really good at Super Smash Brothers Brawl.
Me: Cool. Wanna help me cut some carrots for the soup?
Monkey: If I cut carrots, can I get my iPod Touch back?

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, People Were Tested: On Monday night, we had the first seder. There were only nine of us this year. We got to the part about how God spoke to Moses in the form of a burning bush.

Monkey: If someone came down from a mountain today saying he had talked to a burning bush, that person would be considered insane.
Me: There has always been a fine line between mystical experience and mental illness.
Monkey: There’s this cool computer game called Portal. Can I get it?
Me: Not in the middle of the Seder.
Monkey: Well, can I show it to you on the computer after the Seder?

Two cups of wine later, Moses and his brother, Aaron, go to Pharaoh to explain to him that the Lord has commanded that he let the Israelites go. Pharaoh becomes furious, sends the dynamic duo away, and proceeds to treat the Israelites worse than before. At this point, Monkey announced to everyone: “Mom’s kind of like the Pharaoh. She won’t let me have my iPod Touch.”

Nice.

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, There Were Bizarre Events: In the Passover story, after the Pharaoh refused to let the Israelites go, God inflicted ten horrible plagues on the Egyptian people, most of which involved weird supernatural weather. I mean, The Lord turned the water into blood; He made skillions of frogs hop all over the place; He brought on boils and swarms of locusts and – gasp – lice. He even caused the Egyptian’s animals to get sick and die.

Well, weird shizz happened here over the vacation, too. First of all, it was mid-April. Normally, by mid-April it is usually kind of warm. And by warm I mean, it is not ridiculously cold. But it was cold. Ridiculously cold. Over Spring Break, it snowed twice, hailed once, and – not for nothing – but it actually rained so hard that people’s basements flooded. The creek in our backyard (which never overflows) overflowed and nearly took out one of our trees, dragging a bunch of soil and mulch into our neighbors’ yard.

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, There Was a lot of Hurrying: When the Pharaoh finally decided to let the slaves go, the Jews did not wait around. They grabbed what they could carry and got out of Dodge, guided by a cloud (provided courtesy of The Lord). When the Israelites reached the Red Sea, they saw that Pharaoh was pursuing them with a large army. The Jews were afraid, but God commanded Moses to raise his rod and the waters parted so the Jews could reach the other side in safety.

When the Israelites saw that they were safe, they sang a song of praise to God.

Monkey: Wanna hear a song that will get stuck in your head?

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, People Complained: After the Jews escaped and had traveled for some time, they started complaining to Moses because he brought them to a land where they did not have enough to eat. (I imagine it was a little like Survivor without the camera crew. They probably formed alliances and wore buffs made out dust and rocks.) But God was good and sent the Jews quails and manna. And when the people were thirsty, God commanded Moses to touch a rock with his rod and water poured out of the rock, so the people would stop their bitching.

In our house, after several days of matzah consumption, everyone began to complain of gastrointestinal unrest. Such moaning, you would not believe.

Monkey: Do we have any raisins?
Me: I think we are out.
Monkey (moaning): Prunes?
Me: We can put them on the grocery list.
Monkey: How about my iPod Touch? Can we put that on the list?

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, People Got Frustrated: Just as the Jews wandered the desert – in the heat, without showers, without a GPS to guide them – Monkey wandered the neighborhood looking for something to do and someone to do it with. It ain’t easy being Jewish during Spring Break. Especially when Spring Break falls the same week as Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Monkey was frustrated to learn that most of his friends had gone to visit relatives or jetted down to warmer climes. I got to hear about it.

Monkey (pleading): Can I please use my iPod Touch?

Please note, Monkey never once said that he was “bored.” He made this mistake once when he was in 3rd grade and he quickly learned that – if a person announces he is bored – well, there is always a toilet that needs a good scrubbing.

Anyway, the Jews wandered for forty years in the desert. Having sand in your underpants for four decades is enough to make anyone cranky.

During Spring Break, I tried to take care of Monkey’s needs just as God (via Moses) took care of the needs of His people. One day a friend called, and we discussed taking a road trip with our sons. (Read: My friend was going insane with the “staycation” crap, too.) On that day, we packed up our three boys and took them to the Corning Museum of Glass where they proceeded to act like the proverbial bulls in a china shop. During a short glass blowing demonstration, our children so pestered the artist, he actually dropped the delicate, glass elephant he had been crafting for fifteen minutes, and the little pachyderm broke into three pieces. Most people left the demo at that point.

Not us.

Monkey: Schnarf!
Monkey’s Friend : Can we wander around now?
Monkey’s Friend’s Brother: Can I have that elephant’s legs?

After being constant companions for nine days, Monkey and I maxed out on each other. We glared at each other from across rooms. K’Nex creations began to look like viable weapons.

During Both The Exodus and Spring Break, There Were Miraculous Moments: Spring break wasn’t all bad. There was one particularly endearing moment when Monkey and I were wrestling – something we like to do during commercials (especially during long vacations from school). Anyway, he’s getting stronger now that he is almost 12 years old. It wasn’t as easy to take him down as usual. But I got him. I managed a completely ridiculous totally smooth backward roll, and I pinned him to the floor. We laughed hysterically until our show came back on the air, and we returned to our couch-sitting silence. As my son adjusted his hair (good hair is very important at almost age 12), Monkey said, “Mom, you are a really good wrestler.”

It was a tender moment.

Kind of.

Both The Exodus and Spring Break Ended. And then suddenly, magically, it happened. Just as God said: The Israelites arrived at the Promised Land.

And Monday morning, the middle school in my backyard lit up like… well… like a school. And I thought to myself: Huzzah! The Promised Land. And as Monkey set off, I watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the brick building, then I took his iPod Touch from out of the cupboard, plugged it in, and thought to myself: Amen.