If you ever want to know if someone is Jewish or not, just ask my dad. He keeps a running tally in his head of famous people and those not so famous, who are Jewish. In fact, if we introduce him to someone new, he always leans over and whispers, "Is she Jewish?" Today we discussed James Caan and he believes that he's Italian, so he couldn't be Jewish, because he played in a lot of mafia movies. It's an overwhelming curiosity that all Jewish people have, because we want to be "special." You'll see it alot, especially where old Jewish people gather together; if you see them whisper to one another, they are probably asking if someone in their vicinity is Jewish. We want the popular ones to be Jewish so that makes us feel "special" - the good ones, anyhow. I guess that's how it works. It makes no difference to me, but I have to admit that every now and then I wonder if the person I just met is Jewish. Or from Chicago. I'm not bragging, but I can usually guess both before ever asking.
The "lousy" Jews are those who embarrass other Jews, like the idiot politician that just stepped down from office because he was "sexting" females. My father had nothing good to say about him, except that he's an idiot. A real meshugunah (spelling is probably wrong). It's Yiddish for idiot. "Idiot" was a standard term in my household growing up. We were called idiots on a daily basis, as well as others who my father felt were actually idiots. My brothers and I never thought of ourselves as idiots - it was more of an endearing love call from my father when we did something stupid. Unfortunately, I carried that tradition on with my own kids and used it just as my father did. I never considered my children idiots; I just called them that when they did something stupid. My children are, in fact, a whole lot smarter than I ever was, so the word only applied to whatever dumb thing they were doing at the time. I hope they realize that.
When my parents, including my grandmother Esther on my dad's side, found out I was pregnant with Jason and his father was not only BLACK but NOT a JEW, Esther passed out on the living room floor. Thankfully, I wasn't there, but I can imagine what happened. My father probably swore angrily, my mother cried and my little brother, Danny, had to hear all about it. My family, and probably most Jewish families, are very dramatic and high strung. Everything is always on high gear, with opinions blaring and arguments galore. This is how I was raised. And being from Chicago just added to the octave level. Watch them and you'll see: people from Chicago are just naturally louder.
My dad and I met my mom at her doctor's appointment this morning and it wasn't good news. The doctor showed us an x-ray of her hip and it appears that the ball joint thing they put in her 2 weeks ago, has protruded from her bone. So now she has to have surgery again - tomorrow. She was very depressed by this news, but she really has no choice at this point - it has to be fixed. So they transported her directly to the hospital to prepare her for surgery. Her main concern is that she hallucinates from the medication they give to sedate her. I told her this evening to just pretend like she's getting high and enjoy it. She didn't think that was funny. I think part of the hallucinations are because she has the beginnings of dementia. This morning she called my dad at 7:00 am and told him she was already at the doctor's office and wanted to know where he was, when in fact she was still in her bed at the nursing home. At least she gets a reprieve from the nursing home for a few days.
After the appointment, we went to pick up my dad's glasses. They are large, round multi-focal lenses that I don't know how he's been managing without. The style is from the 80's when the frames were bigger than your head, but he doesn't care. At least now he can see better, but I still won't let him drive. I do all the driving because he still can't see well enough to drive. He insists he can, but I told him we're not even going to argue about that. It's bad enough that he's constantly telling me when and where to turn, to "Watch out!" "Stop!" and various other commands, as if I was just learning how to drive. He tells me to turn up at the right, and so I say, "Here?" and he says no; I say, "HERE?" and he says no, and then suddenly starts screaming, "HERE, HERE!!" There are 2 rights before the one I am supposed to turn right at! A few days ago, he asked who taught me how to drive; I told him that he did, and I remember that day clearly. He sat in the passenger seat screaming at me to stop, start, turn, over and over, so much so, that it was a very short-lived lesson. I remember getting out of the car, slamming the door and walking home. A short time later, I took Driver's Ed through summer school. Patience has never been my father's strong suit.
Oh, and by the way, in case you were wondering, James Caan is not Italian -- he's Jewish...
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