with my mother and me on the Acela Express and charmed the Long Island family. Raised eyebrows were exchanged around the table—
Judith has finally landed a mensch, a good one
. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t Jewish. In my gene pool, precedent had been set.
Phyllis swooned—the upscale version of plotzed—because Geoff had read the Haggadah story of the Exodus in rich tones that made him sound like, according to her, “an Australian Charlton Heston.” My mother heaped his plate with brisket. Arnold and he talked sports. Geoff, who was Church of England, ate it all up, including the gefilte fish, which was an acquired taste. On the spot, he was invited for the following year and he accepted then and there, as if it were dead cert he was going to be in my life in twelve months. So, no . . . No way was I going to deprive him of his pleasure, or the rest of the guests of his company.
“Of course you’re still invited. My mother would kill me if you didn’t come.”
“She knows about us, then? And your family? That we’re not us anymore? Because it could be awkward.” He gave me a wry smile. “Talk about the Last Supper.”
“I’m telling her today. I promise she won’t sling the soup at you.”
“I wasn’t worried about me, Jude.” He paused for a moment. “I’m carting in a rug for my mate in SoHo, so I’m driving up. Care to join me?”
I hadn’t thought about the travel. Talk about awkward. “I’ve already bought my Acela ticket,” I lied. “But thanks.”
“Well, see you over the bitter herbs, then.”
• • •
As it turned out, when I broke the news to my mother, she fluffed it off. “Time for change. He never marry you. Good boy, but too young. Not ready to settle down like at your age.”
“He’s young? We’re only six years apart.”
“Korean fortune say six year bad spread for couple. Six bring
sang chun sal.
Not so good luck. You be happy together, but poor like beggar.”
I waved off that craziness. “Plus, who says I want to settle down?” I internally counted to ten. “I’m leaving it to you to tell Aunt Phyllis about Geoff and me.” That way I’d avoid the lecture about what a find Geoff was, how grateful I should be for such a wonderful man, and where did I get off being so picky? “And no talking about it at the Seder.”
“Don’t worry. Was going to tell you, Judith. Seder off this year. Aunt Phyllis call last night. She sick. Has UFO.”
When I gave her a quizzical look, she gave me an exasperated one back. “You know, pee-pee backed up.”
“Ah, UTI. She has a urinary tract infection.”
“That one. Always in bathroom. Can’t do Seder.” I breathed a deep sigh of relief. “And don’t call her to say sorry. Big secret. Down there.” She pointed to her own crotch. “She so embarrassed. Now tell me, dress look good, yes? Ah,
aigoo
, very nice.”
Almost as interesting as Aunt Phyllis’s canceling Seder because of her UFO was where my mother was telling me this—on a Sunday morning, in a Loehmann’s dressing room while she was doing the unthinkable: trying on dresses. She’d left a message that morning to meet her there.
Grace had never been one for shopping, especially for clothes. Every couple of years I dragged her to Chico’s, where I’d treat her to three or four outfits at a clip so we wouldn’t have to go through the torture again for a while. She’d find a look she liked and would buy it in different colors so she’d only have to try it on once.
“Who want to look in mirror that show everything?
Aigoo!
Gain so much weight. I skinny till I have you, Judith. Now fat old lady.”
That’s what she used to say. But today she said, “Not bad, I think. You like black better? Or green? Winnie, come look. Tell me truth.”
Winnie Chang, a well-educated third-generation Chinese-American and the only other Asian at Blumen House, didn’t have much in common with my uneducated immigrant mother. But Winnie loved to shop and
Judith has finally landed a mensch, a good one
. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t Jewish. In my gene pool, precedent had been set.
Phyllis swooned—the upscale version of plotzed—because Geoff had read the Haggadah story of the Exodus in rich tones that made him sound like, according to her, “an Australian Charlton Heston.” My mother heaped his plate with brisket. Arnold and he talked sports. Geoff, who was Church of England, ate it all up, including the gefilte fish, which was an acquired taste. On the spot, he was invited for the following year and he accepted then and there, as if it were dead cert he was going to be in my life in twelve months. So, no . . . No way was I going to deprive him of his pleasure, or the rest of the guests of his company.
“Of course you’re still invited. My mother would kill me if you didn’t come.”
“She knows about us, then? And your family? That we’re not us anymore? Because it could be awkward.” He gave me a wry smile. “Talk about the Last Supper.”
“I’m telling her today. I promise she won’t sling the soup at you.”
“I wasn’t worried about me, Jude.” He paused for a moment. “I’m carting in a rug for my mate in SoHo, so I’m driving up. Care to join me?”
I hadn’t thought about the travel. Talk about awkward. “I’ve already bought my Acela ticket,” I lied. “But thanks.”
“Well, see you over the bitter herbs, then.”
• • •
As it turned out, when I broke the news to my mother, she fluffed it off. “Time for change. He never marry you. Good boy, but too young. Not ready to settle down like at your age.”
“He’s young? We’re only six years apart.”
“Korean fortune say six year bad spread for couple. Six bring
sang chun sal.
Not so good luck. You be happy together, but poor like beggar.”
I waved off that craziness. “Plus, who says I want to settle down?” I internally counted to ten. “I’m leaving it to you to tell Aunt Phyllis about Geoff and me.” That way I’d avoid the lecture about what a find Geoff was, how grateful I should be for such a wonderful man, and where did I get off being so picky? “And no talking about it at the Seder.”
“Don’t worry. Was going to tell you, Judith. Seder off this year. Aunt Phyllis call last night. She sick. Has UFO.”
When I gave her a quizzical look, she gave me an exasperated one back. “You know, pee-pee backed up.”
“Ah, UTI. She has a urinary tract infection.”
“That one. Always in bathroom. Can’t do Seder.” I breathed a deep sigh of relief. “And don’t call her to say sorry. Big secret. Down there.” She pointed to her own crotch. “She so embarrassed. Now tell me, dress look good, yes? Ah,
aigoo
, very nice.”
Almost as interesting as Aunt Phyllis’s canceling Seder because of her UFO was where my mother was telling me this—on a Sunday morning, in a Loehmann’s dressing room while she was doing the unthinkable: trying on dresses. She’d left a message that morning to meet her there.
Grace had never been one for shopping, especially for clothes. Every couple of years I dragged her to Chico’s, where I’d treat her to three or four outfits at a clip so we wouldn’t have to go through the torture again for a while. She’d find a look she liked and would buy it in different colors so she’d only have to try it on once.
“Who want to look in mirror that show everything?
Aigoo!
Gain so much weight. I skinny till I have you, Judith. Now fat old lady.”
That’s what she used to say. But today she said, “Not bad, I think. You like black better? Or green? Winnie, come look. Tell me truth.”
Winnie Chang, a well-educated third-generation Chinese-American and the only other Asian at Blumen House, didn’t have much in common with my uneducated immigrant mother. But Winnie loved to shop and
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