1.) I've been procrastinating writing this blog entry by watching military documentaries for the past four hours (don't ask) (don't tell) (HAHA!) (but not really, that's a sad policy) (but god I'm clever) and OOF. If I decide to join the Marines, it's your responsibility to remind me that I find socializing in humid weather taxing and recently quit a Jillian Michaels On Demand home workout after three minutes to order Greek and watch shit on Hulu. Thank you.
2.) I hate doing this, but I need you to do me a favor and vote for us for Express Night Out's Best Blog. To do so, just click here, scroll down almost to the very bottom, click 2birds1blog for "best blog (non food)" and hit vote. Done. Then perhaps ask a friend to do the same. Promise them sexual favors and delicious spiced meats for doing so. Then when they're done voting and want to cash-in on your promises, simply say "PSYCH!", pat them on the back once and walk away. What will I give you for doing this? Sexual favors and delicious spiced meats. PSYCH! And now I'm walking away. See how easy that was?
Actually, we'll do a giveaway next week, but I need you to tell me what you want first. 2b1b shit? Jäger shit? Some random shit I find laying around my apartment? A comical picture of me from middle school? I'm open, so vote, come back, leave a comment telling me what you'd like and we'll do it next week. (Another reason I probably shouldn't join the Marines: I'm too lazy to think of my own blog giveaways.) Oh, and since I know there's nothing the 2b1b Army loves more than helping me only to fuck someone else over (bless your hearts), we're up against our blog nemesis, The Prince of Petworth. BOOM. Revenge and a giveaway; what more could you want? XOXOXOXO.
3.) I got an email earlier tonight from a reader asking if I was ever going to write about my issue with Rosh Hashanah. And YEP. Sure will. Right now. That's all it takes; one single person asking for it. Because I will rant about Rosh Hashanah to literally anyone who will listen. And frankly, actually listening is a non-issue. Sometimes I line up my Larry Hagman action figures and walk around my apartment just bitching and moaning and making points with animated hand gestures. And now, despite it actually not being that funny or interesting, you fine people will get that pleasure too. So, here we go.
Diane McBlogger: God I love that woman. My mom is one of my all-time favorite people and I love her very dearly. HOWEVER, she is the reason why Rosh Hashanah season gets my modest, ankle-length skirt in a twist.
As I've discussed, we McBloggers are an interfaith family. My mom is Jewish, my dad is Catholic and my sister and I lost interest at the beginning of this sentence. My entire life, our family has only celebrated four religious holidays: Easter, Passover, Hanukkah and Christmas. That's it. That's the ballgame. And I use the term "celebrate" loosely because I really mean we get drunk, watch "Mystery Science Theater 3000" and eat a brisket.
Now, my mom's interest in Judaism comes and goes. And you know what? That's fine. Mozel tov to you and yours. If one day you feel like being a Super Jew and the next you want to host a pig roast with Jesus and Rush Limbaugh—good for you. I pray to Kelly Cutrone, who am I to judge? What I don't appreciate, however, is when her feigning interest in religion affects my life and my schedule. Because if you're going to make the conscious decision to raise your kids all, "Ohhhh, here's a pupu platter of religions! Take want you want and leave what you don't! There is no right and wrong! Come as you are and leave as you were; we're not trying to change you, just educate you," and all that hippie bruhaha, I think it's hypocritical to force me to participate years later just because all of a sudden it's important to you. And yet that's exactly what happened in September of 2006.
I was a Senior in college in September of '06 and much to my chagrin, I was forced to take web design. If you couldn't already tell from how primitive this blog is despite my background in graphic design, I loathe web design. I think it's boring, confusing, and involves wayyyy too much thinking for my liking. Which is exactly why I chose to be a print design major. But our department head, in all of his infinite wisdom and glory, decided to make my graduating print design class take web design so we would be more "marketable" after graduation. Asshole.
strike outs and my pièce de résistance:
Pretty much all of us outsourced our websites, which looking back made sense at the time, but now that I'm paying off my student loans in one-liners and handjobs, I kind of want to set myself on fire.)
Flash forward to a phone call I got from my mom the first week of September:
D: Meg, I need you to come home for Rosh Hashanah dinner next Tuesday night.
D: Rosh Hashanah.
M: Oh. No offense, but...why?
D: Because Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year and it's important that you're here for it.
Let's time out right there: no it's not. I mean, yes, Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, but it really didn't matter if I was home for it or not. The Jews managed to survive 5,771 Rosh Hashanahs with out me up until that point, I'm sure one more wouldn't have brought on any plagues or frog showers. That being said, who was I to turn down free brisket and facetime with Evie? So, I agreed to go.
Unfortunately, part of my web design project was to create a photo gallery of our band with original photography from live shows. And when was my band's next show before our photo galleries were due? You guessed it: Rosh Hashanah. I figured my mom would be cool about it though because, you know, we had been to Disney Land more times than we'd even discussed Rosh Hashanah and school comes first, right? Wrong.
[Ring, ring!] D: Hello?
M: Hey, it's Meg.
D: Hi honey, what's up?
M: Listen, I've got some bad news—I can't come home for Rosh Hashanah dinner anymore. The photo gallery for my band's website is due soon and I need to go to their show at the Black Cat that night to take pictures. Sorry!
D: Well, I'm sorry too. Because you have to come home for dinner.
M: What? Wait, seriously?
D: Yes. Seriously.
M: But, why?
D: Because it's Rosh Hashanah.
M: So?? I don't even know what that is! This is like you telling me I have to come home for Fluggityfark.
D: Meghan, you know what Rosh Hashanah is. We celebrate it every year.
M: WHAT?! We have never celebrated Rosh Hashanah in my entire 22 years of my being on this Earth. EVER.
D: Meghan, we always celebrate Rosh Hashanah. You're just not remembering and I'm not having this conversation with you anymore. It's important to me that you be there and that's final.
Now, time the fuck out right there. This still boggles my mind. We had seriously never celebrated Rosh Hashanah before and I can't believe she told me otherwise to try to get me to come. Because had my mom just been like, "Hey-o feelin' kind of Jewy, it's important to me that you come home so we can celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a family," that would have been one thing. But to try to implant these false memories in my mind of Rosh Hashanahs past to guilt me into coming is just so manipulative and ultimately, well, Jewish.
And then the truth came out:
M: This is absurd. We have never celebrated Rosh Hashanah before and I can't go because I have something to do for school. They're not going to have another show until after my gallery is due and if I don't get those pictures, I'm going to be totally fucked.
D: Well, I'm sorry, but I already told your sister she didn't have to go because she got tickets to see Mos Def that night and at least one of you has to be there.
...Allow me repeat that: I had to go because Rebecca was going to a MOS. DEF. CONCERT. My already shitty project in the class that I was struggling the most in was now in serious jeopardy because Rebecca felt it necessary to go to a fucking MOS. DEF. CONCERT. I'm aware that older siblings sometimes get preferential treatment, but at that point I was 22 and she was 27; we were grown-ass adults. To let her go to a god damn Mos Def concert and not let me do something for school was just lunacy and borderline reckless. Plus, who gave a shit if neither of us were there?? Who was going to judge?? The only people at that dinner were my parents, my aunt, the cat and a bottle of red. Which part of that cast would have been like, "Ohhhh, the McBlogger girls didn't show up for Rosh Hashanah dinner. What values, these kids!" (Evie, obviously, but still.)
I brought this up to Becca when she was over for dinner the other week and her only response was, "Oh. Hah. Yeah. That was a good show," then went right back to chopping something.
WHAT?!!?!?!? For all the trouble it caused me, that had better have been the best god damn show she's seen in her entire life. Mos Def himself should have showered her in Cristal and performed a one-man rendition of his guest episode of "House" in Latin before sexing up her and everyone else in the audience. "That was a good show." Christ.
In the end, I obviously went to dinner, I'm sure it was delicious, my website sucked, I got a C in the class, and according to Mos Def's Twitter, he just saw Salt and has to say that that ending was the worst he's seen yet, which is saying something because he watched The Last Airbender. SO, GOOD. We're all comedians and we're all winners.
And you know what the most infuriating part of this entire situation is? OUR FAMILY NEVER CELEBRATED ROSH HASHANAH AGAIN!!!1 After all of that! I didn't even know it was Rosh Hashanah season until Chris proposed we do a post about our Rosh Hashanah New Year's resolutions the other week and I freaked out. I was like, "WAIT, IS IT ROSH HASHANAH?" "...Yes." "AND MY MOM ISN'T HAVING A DINNER?!" "Uh...I guess not?" [Drops phone, falls to knees, raises fists in the air] "GOD DAMN YOU, MOS DEF!!!!!!"
So, I've decided that from now on, I am forcing my family to observe Rosh Hashanah, whether we're feeling Jewish that year or not. Just based on principle. Because if it was magically important that year (when I was BUSY) (with something ACADEMIC), it should be important EVERY year. Diane McBlogger should personally provide me with a free hot meal, at her residence, transportation fees covered and Rebecca's presence mandatory. And at said dinner, we will listen to local DC band Deleted Scenes' EP on repeat, pass around my grades from that ill-fated semester and each family member must look me dead in the eye, apologize, give me three compliments—in alphabetical order—and at least two of them have to be based on my physical appearance and have nothing to do with my personality or "wonderful" sense of humor.
Happy fucking New Year.