The Naked Truth

Posted on September 15, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I was fortunate enough to be invited to a lovely event last night.  It was a beautiful venue and great food, lots of people I haven’t seen in a while, and I really enjoyed myself.  Several people mentioned that they were enjoying my blog, which was nice.

I have one friend who has great ideas for blog topics, which I appreciate.  When I walked in last night she grabbed me right away and pointed out the very fancy, trés modern chandeliers.  She felt I could do something funny with that and I think I may disappoint.  It reminded me of when my mom expects me to be funny on demand.  She tells all her friends I’m really funny, and then when I see them she gets all excited and says “Go ahead, be funny!  Do one of your funny things!”  And she continues to tell her friends that they should be ready for a big laugh.  I stand there with a blank face because obviously if I have to concentrate and try to be funny, I’m not.  I end up desperately looking around for something funny…and frankly, my eyes frequently land on my mom.  So if I have to make fun of my mom to make her happy, so be it, no problemo.

I enjoyed myself so much last night because we didn’t stop laughing the whole evening.  One friend regaled us with a story about her high school reunion, where she accidentally grabbed her friend’s name tag because they had the same puffy hairdo in high school and the badge photos looked similar.  As the night wore on she started getting really concerned because whenever anyone said “Remember the time we ____” she absolutely positively couldn’t remember.  A guy was reminiscing about their super-hot date and she was thinking that she must have had a lot to drink that night because she definitely didn’t remember their evening of romance.  Later in the evening we meandered on to the topic of high school sports and had a show of hands as to who was on the field playing a sport v. who was behind the field smoking pot.  I’d say it was about a 50/50 split, but rest assured no one inhaled.

Next were unexpected naked people stories, which was a surprisingly popular subject.  I was alarmed to discover how many people have innocently gone to bars, parties and routine places only to find…(dum  dum da dum)…naked people.  I think most of us know by now that any randomly naked group of people is always a group of people no one wants to see naked.  Letting it all hang out is not attractive for most people over the age of 30.  Frankly, it’s pretty bad for a lot of under 30s too.

One friend reported that she and her husband were enjoying a relaxing vacation, and heard what they thought was live music in a bar, so they went inside.  The bar was upstairs (never a good sign) and sadly there was no live band, just a DJ.  But they sat down and ordered some wine and then slowly realized that the room was chock full of ugly naked people.  They had to play it cool though, sophisticated, the sure we wander into naked bars all the time hipsters.  It’s all well and good until naked people start sitting on bar stools and whatnot; naked people really need to stand, not sit.  And when a naked man suddenly plopped down very close to her husband they were done playing it cool-time to guzzle and run.

I had to chime in with my story about being in St. Petersburg on a warm, sunny day (the Russians get about three of those a year); everyone piling outside, stripping naked and covering the riverbanks like beached whales.  I have no room to talk because I too am blindingly white and don’t exactly have a perfect figure, but then again I don’t go flopping my naked butt next to a river. There were other really good stories that I didn’t manage to retain for even one night, so you’re just going to have to trust me when I tell you that after a few cocktails, everybody has a weird naked people story.  I do remember one other story, but my blog is rated R, and the story slips into an R-/X+ rating.

What a night!  And I’m proud to say we’re not ugly, and we weren’t naked.

 

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Ms. Janet

Posted on September 14, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

It’s time for the 2nd installment of Meet My Cats.  Today I’d like to introduce you to Janet, our calico.  She is about 18 months old, a rambunctious squawker who looks sort of delicate but is really pretty tough.  We call Janet our bag lady because if there’s a bag somewhere, no matter what kind or how small, she’s in it.

Although she’s only a couple of months older than the “babies” Jack and Chrissie, she likes to fuss over them from time to time like a mother hen.  Or cat, I guess.  She likes to stand on the sidelines and referee when Jack and Chrissy are sparring.  I can almost picture her with a whistle around her neck calling a time-out.  Sometimes she forgets her place and just jumps right in to the action.  Other times, if it’s kind of a boring match, she accidentally nods off and misses the last few rounds.

Out of all the cats, Janet makes the most use of the various toys and other kitty amenities around the house.  The leopard crinkle tunnel that our friend gave us as a cat-warming gift is very popular, and sometimes you just notice it moving around the room seemingly on its own.  But you always find Janet in there, wriggling around like a worm.

Janet’s very favorite toy is the weasel.  It’s one of those weasels that used to be attached to a ball many years ago, and now is just a sad raggedy little thing that’s been ripped apart by generations of cats.  Frequently we hear Janet screaming bloody murder; caterwauling for her life.  The first few times she did that we went running to her, thinking for sure she was hurt or being attacked by something (maybe even a raccoon).  But now when we hear that particularly piercing sound we know that Janet will appear moments later carrying the weasel in her mouth, ready to play.  It’s her very special “I have a weasel” sound.

Janet also had the rather unique experience of being petted by my mom.  My mom typically loves our cats from afar, but at some point while we were sitting around the kitchen table talking one day, Janet huddled up right in front of my mom.  I was holding my breath because my mom has a very solid belief that cats do not belong on kitchen tables.  Like very, very, very solid.  But Janet worked her little charms, and soon mom was absentmindedly petting her, and sort of styling her fur.  She made a nice little Mohawk on Janet’s head and was no doubt getting ready to take her for a mani-pedi when Janet wisely slipped away.

Unlike Helen, Janet is not a serious contemplative type cat.  She strikes me as sort of a smart ass, and if she could talk I think she would be very sarcastic, which I admire so much.  Sometimes I think she’s rolling her eyes at me, but I’m sure that’s just my imagination.

 

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Can You Hear Me Now?

Posted on September 13, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

My favorite things include raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens.  Also brown paper packages tied up with string.  All of those things are lovely, but in my opinion Julie Andrews left out some very important items.  Here’s my top 10, in no particular order:

  1. Ice cream (any flavor as long as it’s chocolate)
  2. Cats
  3. Gay men.  Every woman should have at least a dozen on hand at all times
  4. Shoes
  5. Satellite television
  6. iPads
  7. Walkie-talkies
  8. Microphones
  9. Plain M&Ms
  10. Peanut M&Ms

Most of these are self-explanatory, but if you’re wondering about #7, I am obsessed with walkie-talkies, which is ironic since I cannot safely walk and talk at the same time.  But standing still, they are just so way cool.  I was a big fan of CB radio back in the day too.  I loved saying breaker breaker, what’s your 20?  10-4 good buddy!  Basically I love any device through which I can broadcast my every thought (like this blog for example).  Obviously #8 is a variation on a theme.

Walkie-talkie privileges have only been bestowed upon me 3 times.  Twice I was given a walkie-talkie at a law firm.  The first time, my firm was moving, and we all needed a way to communicate throughout the whole hair-raising experience.  So really I only had a temporary privilege.  OK, maybe I had a little fun here and there, what of it?  I ended up listening to some big boring lecture about appropriate use of the firm equipment blah blah blah whatever.  After that I quickly gave everyone my 20 before they wrenched it out of my hands.

The second time, I was part of a highly trained elite office emergency response team, kind of like a Navy Seal except the only thing I had to do was clear half a hallway of people in the event of an emergency.  Still, you never know when some stealth underwater work or a helicopter rescue might be required.  It was a great gig because in addition to the walkie-talkie I also got a bright yellow windbreaker with big orange flames on the back.  I was wielding quite a bit of power there my friends.  I absolutely begged for a megaphone, but no luck.

Anyway, the one time I actually needed to use the walkie-talkie for what may have been an emergency, it was about 7:00 in the evening, and absolutely no one responded.  I asked for help repeatedly and got the sound of crickets chirping.  So I had to singlehandedly save everyone in the building while fighting back the smoke and flames and carrying an old lady and a baby to safety.  OK, that was a slight exaggeration; it was just a surprise fire drill.  No smoke, no flames, no old lady, no baby. But clearly I was ready, willing and able to risk my own life to get a bunch of corporate lawyers off their conference calls and escort their sorry butts to safety while they whined about me interrupting them.  Bless their hearts.

The third time was when Dan bought a set for us, after 9/11, because it turned out that if I was on the roof of my office and he was on the roof of his office we could clearly communicate.  There was one slight problem…my office was caddy-corner to the FBI and they had like a huge honking problem with me standing on the roof with a walkie-talkie.  Another boring lecture about national safety from some sharpshooter or something.

As to microphones, I love them.  Once again it’s the sound of me running my mouth and what could be better?  No one will give me a microphone unless they absolutely, positively have to do it.  At a fundraiser last year they had no choice because I was announcing the big prize winners.  The executive director of the organization, and my good friend (I thought), stood 2” away from me, ready to wrestle me for the thing if anything bad went down, and hissing into my ear about what I was supposed to be saying.  Geez, like I’m a loose cannon or something.  If she could have figured out a way to put me on a 7 second delay, she would have been slightly more relaxed.  So I made a few Priest/Rabbi/Horse in a bar jokes, is that so bad?  And for one brief shining moment acted like a rock star and asked everyone if DC was ready to rock.  It’s all just in good fun.

For now I’ll keep using this blog for shout-outs, but one day I will sneak a microphone when no one is looking, and finally have a little fun.

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Happy Birthday Duuuude!

Posted on September 12, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

September 11 has come to signify an unspeakable horror, that’s hard to even think about.  But I am lucky, because it also happens to be my nephew Craig’s birthday, so I always have something pleasant to turn to on 9/11.  He’s turning 22 today, which is really hard to believe.  He’s a senior at the University of Pittsburgh.  The word I use most often to describe him is affable.  He’s just an affable guy, and charms everyone he meets.  He’s also, like both his siblings, super smart and very funny.  He always, always makes me laugh.  He does a Bill Murray impersonation that is so good that Bill Murray would be confused as to who’s who.  He’s especially good with re-enacting a few classic Caddyshack scenes*.  We both love the movie Office Space and he does a mean Lumbergh** too.

I always have fun when I’m hanging out with Craig.  When he was about 8 years old, I was sitting in the family room with my sister-in-law, and out of nowhere he and several of his buddies come tumbling into the room, sweaty, all of them wearing what appeared to be bridesmaid dresses, dirty tube socks and carrying toys like a bow and arrow and his very favorite light sword.  In between laughing really hard, my sister-in-law somehow managed to snap a picture of the boys that I believe is on their refrigerator to this very day.  Nowadays he is nice enough to encourage me when I try to be cool and say something like fo’ shizzle.  He teaches me “new” slang as soon as it’s out of fashion.  I’m not exactly sure what the deal was, but somehow Craig acquired the nickname eggy nuggin when he was a kid.  I think it’s safe to say that absolutely everyone in his neighborhood, and beyond, still refer to him as The Nuggin (new-gn) now and then.  More often than not, I just call him duuuuude, so he knows I’m cool and all.  Out of all three kids, I would say Craig is the least embarrassed of me when I meet his friends.  Either that or he just doesn’t show it, but either way it’s nice.

Craig is very athletic and loves all sports.  He’s the reason ESPN has an 18 channel franchise with 24/7 “sports.”  Honestly, if the only thing to watch on ESPN is NCAA frog-tossing, that’s what Craig will be watching.  He will be able to give you all the stats for each player, not to mention the frogs.  The only time Craig is not tossing or kicking a ball or shadow boxing or constantly moving is when he’s asleep.  He was born into a diehard Redskin family, and he has definitely kept up his part of the bargain.  I love watching games with him because he is typically able to predict what’s going to happen with each play.  “I think they’re gonna go for the famous whatchamahoozit pass…yep!  Did you see that?”  I always tell him that all I saw was somehow another guy got the ball and started running.  Other than that, all details are fuzzy.

Growing up, Craig was a straight up happy kid.  Still is in fact.  When he was about 12 Dan and I were staying with him and his siblings so his parents could take a little getaway.  Between their complicated activity schedules, car pools and the standard teenage angst of my niece, who was about 15 at the time, we were just a little overwhelmed (and hat’s off to all the parents that do this stuff all the time!).  It was very unusual for him, but one day Craig started nagging me about something.  In a state of despair I said “Craig, I have my hands full here.  Do you think you could be a brat some other time?”  He thought about it for a minute, then said “sure, OK” and went on his merry way.  He’s still holding that raincheck. Last year, when he turned 21, I somehow in my head thought he was turning 20.  This could be because he made himself a year older on Facebook for a while so I was subtracting.  So he posts something last year about finally turning 21.  I send him a snarky little email telling him he’s not fooling anyone.  Craig never said a word, but then I told my brother about it, who clued me in that Craig was right and I was…whatever the opposite of right is.  I lost some Aunt points there but I think I’m recovering.

I can’t possibly fit everything amazing about Craig into a little blog post, but until I write a book about him this will have to suffice.

It has been a pleasure and a privilege to watch him grow up into an amazing young man.  Now I need to pull out a box of tissues, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and watch videos of him when he was little.  Happy Happy Birthday Craig!

Carl Spackler, Caddyshack:

*“So, I tell them I’m a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald… striking. So, I’m on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one – big hitter, the Lama – long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga… gunga, gunga-lagunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he’s gonna stiff me. And I say, “Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know.” And he says, “Oh, uh, there won’t be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness.” So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice.”

Meet Bill Lumbergh from Office Space:

**”Hello Peter, whats happening? Ummm, I’m gonna need you to go ahead come in tomorrow. So if you could be here around 9 that would be great, mmmk… oh oh! and I almost forgot ahh, I’m also gonna need you to go ahead and come in on Sunday too, kay. We ahh lost some people this week and ah, we sorta need to play catch up.”

**

 

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Child’s Play

Posted on September 11, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

My office is filled with toys and candy and magic wands and all kinds of fun stuff.  Over the years I have found that when people come bursting into my office, typically with problems they created that I need to solve, the fun items soften the blow a bit; absorb some of the negative energy blasting out from all sides.  It also creates a nice inviting atmosphere in which people feel comfortable coming in and telling me all kinds of things I don’t want to know.  It’s my job to listen regardless.  Over my years of trial and error research, I found that Rolos are the perfect candy for office snacking.  Everyone seems to love them, across all socio-economic strata.  I’ve added mints and jelly beans along the way, for variety, but of course there are truly weird people who don’t like chocolate.  When I notice someone who never eats a Rolo, I log that fact in their Permanent Record.  I’m not saying it’s anything I will use against them at work, it’s just a good piece of information to have when I plot my Global Domination.

I’ve acquired some fun items over the years, many of them gifts.  A doorstop with witch socks and ruby slippers meant to peek out from under the door, a cowardly lion lunch box, a Wonder Woman lunch box complete with salt and pepper shakers, a Staples “that was easy!” button.  I snagged a truck from UPS at a conference a couple of years ago, and after stomping my foot and pouting like a child I finally got a beautiful little UPS airplane with real blinking lights, engine sounds and a spacious cargo area.  It would be unwise for me to discuss what I keep in there.  Soon after that UPS went and got a restraining order preventing me from coming within 50 yards of their exhibit booth.  No one knows how to have any fun anymore.  I have too many M&M dispensers to display all at once, so I have a rotating inventory.  I’ve got a couple of awards or whatever, pictures.

A colleague of mine at a former firm had a wand with purple and blue and silver sparkly stuff floating around in it, a truly magic wand.  Over the several years we worked together, I went straight to her office each and every morning and asked her if I could have the magic wand.  The answer was always no.  She was kind of mean now that I think about it.  But on my very last day at the firm, I went in and asked her for it, our final ritual, and she gave it to me!  I cherish it and also know that it is coveted by many in my office.  That’s why I chained it to my desk.  One can never be too careful these days.  I have a pink and silver plastic fairy wand with genuine fake pink fur that I also got from a vendor at a conference.  1,200 professional legal administrators attending the conference, adults all of us, standing in a line that snaked through the entire exhibit hall to get our paws on one of these.  Thank goodness alcohol wasn’t being served or the whole thing would have broken out into a brawl.

One of my staff gave me a mirror that says “It’s All About Me” and I was thrilled that someone around the office finally understood the dynamic.  I have a hard hat from when I visited CERN, the particle accelerator place in Switzerland.  I like to have a hard hat around in case I need to look official or something.  A tool belt is definitely on my wish list too.  The parents of one of my former colleagues brought me a set of 3 beautiful elephants from India.  I brought back worry beads from Greece that I really ought to use more often.  I have a Slinky, light up super balls, a pad of fashion citations that I’m not allowed to use, a little book called Do Unto Others, And Then Run.  Just in case someone needs something to flip through while they’re sitting in here.  I have a miniature ferris wheel and carousel to remind everyone that life is just one big carnival.  I have a Blackberry that takes poor quality photos and makes me squint.

Finally, my very newest super cool acquisition:  The Solar Queen.  Her Majesty, wearing a lovely yellow frock and sensible shoes, carefully coiffed hair, white gloves, and little purse.  When sunlight hits the solar panel on the purse, Her Majesty gives a very proper royal wave.  She was a gift from someone who knows a lot about Queens.

An attorney who left my firm a while back gifted me his “next teller please” sign, but no one ever pays any attention to it, they just keep coming to me.  Funny how anytime someone is leaving it’s as if they were crawling off to die somewhere because people come wandering through their office as if it’s a flea market and start staking a claim on things.  For some reason everyone assumes that although people bring in all their personal items when they start working here, they somehow don’t plan to take anything with them, it’s all up for grabs.

All I know is that when I’m having a rough day, I can eat Rolos and play with my airplane and wave my magic wand around and pretend that the rest of the world has gone off somewhere far far away.

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Go Back Where You Came From

Posted on September 10, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Like many people in the DC area during the Great Derecho of 2012, we lost power at home and schlepped all 4 cats to a hotel.  One of us had to keep an eye on the cats at all times, so we took turns leaving the room.

When it was my turn for breakfast in the morning I made my way down to the hotel restaurant.  The place was packed and I was seated at a table wedged in between two other tables.  I ordered and settled in with my iPad to read.  Oh, but there was Chatty Cathy sitting across from me one table over.  “Do you just love your iPad?  I’m thinking about getting one.”  I told her I really loved my iPad especially when I wanted to read a good book over a quiet breakfast.  She was not discouraged and kept babbling about this, that and the other thing.  She was visiting DC from California, here with a friend attending a convention of some kind.  Fascinating.

Then she asked about me and I explained why we and our 4 cats were staying there.  Where did we get our cats?  Oh, from a shelter?  Then she explained that she had tried to adopt a shelter cat but the shelter turned her down.  It turns out that she wanted the cat to do some mousing in the back yard and the shelter didn’t want her to let the cat outside.  But even more outrageous, they told her she would need to have the cat fixed before she brought it home.  The outrage!

All efforts to hold my tongue were futile.  I launched into a rant about irresponsible pet owners and the hundreds of thousands of healthy animals that are put to sleep every year for lack of a home.  The woman interrupted and said she didn’t see the point in fixing the cat when it was just going to get eaten by a coyote. OK, that stopped me in my tracks.  Huh?

Well naturally the coyotes had already eaten dozens of cats from her yard; sometimes she could go through 2 or 3 a year.  As if that wasn’t enough, she launched into a graphic play-by-play description of how coyotes prepare that particular meal.  I said “You’re nuts.  Like cuckoo, looney tunes, nuts.”  I turned to my neighbor on the other side, who was trying desperately to shove his face in his newspaper, “Did you hear this woman?  This is how serial killers get their start, she’s sick.”  He gave me a look that said “why are you screaming at a serial killer?  This isn’t going to end well.” and went back to his paper.

By then her friend had come down and joined her so I turned to her and said “Your friend is nuts.”  She nodded her head knowingly. The friend fussed at the woman about her evil ways and how upsetting it was for her to keep talking about coyotes eating her cats and thank goodness the shelter hadn’t given her another one.  Relief—someone sane to calm this woman down.

The friend told me she would never, ever have an outdoor cat.  I noted that she must have coyotes near her house too.  She said no, but that she lived in an area with a lot of those Vietnamese people, and the Vietnamese routinely hold animal sacrifices.  That’s why she and her neighbors were constantly finding half burnt cat bodies all over the place; absolutely everyone knows about those people and their devil worship.

Wow.  They were both psychos.  Had I just stepped in to a really horrible parallel universe?  I know Californians are a little out there, but not like this.  I turned to my neighbor on the other side again, but he was gone, food untouched.  Check please!

I went upstairs and told Dan that although I hadn’t seen the hidden cameras, I had definitely just been punk’d.

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Slim Pickins’

Posted on September 9, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

It’s hard to believe that people continue to make money by creating fad diets.  Even the most intelligent women allow themselves to be wooed by quick-fix weight loss.  And fad diets seem to appeal to women whether they actually need to lose weight or not.

The hot new thing now appears to be the Dukan diet, which seems to me is just a variation on the protein diet theme.  It’s not that I don’t believe people lose weight on these diets, because I’m sure many of them do, but I happen to think that there are other diets that would work just as well.  I’ve come up with a few ideas myself.

The M&M Diet:  For the first two weeks, drink lots of water and eat nothing but plain M&Ms.  You can have as many as you want, but you cannot eat any other food.  For the next two weeks, you move on to Peanut M&Ms, and again eat all you want but don’t sneak in anything else.  By week four you should be feeling pretty sluggish and depressed, but you will probably have lost 10 pounds because who in the hell can eat nothing but M&Ms for weeks on end?  Your dark depression may turn out to be an excellent weight loss tool.  At least it’s better than the cabbage soup diet, which works on the same principle.

The Flu Diet:  In the first week, find a way to contract the flu.  Eat anything you want; throw up.  With any luck, you will still be weak and feverish all through the second week, which is when you eat nothing but Saltine crackers and clear soup.  Week three, nothing but green Jello.  Week four, get out of bed and try on some clothes.  You will perk up considerably when you find they are all too big.  Week five, buy a bunch of clothes in your “new size” Week 8 throw new clothes in the back of your closet because they’re too small and wear your fat jeans to Dairy Queen for a blizzard.  For a little exercise, kick the adorable little imp at DQ who says “look at that lady Daddy, she’s FAT”  Reward yourself with a second blizzard.

The Vegamite Diet:  Quite possibly the most vile thing you’ve never tasted, this is a gift from our mates down under.  Buy several jars of Vegamite and eat nothing but Vegamite sandwiches on whole wheat bread for the first two weeks.  Week three, throw out all leftover Vegamite, put on your fat jeans and go to Dairy Queen for a blizzard.

The Dairy Queen Diet:  Put on fat jeans.  Go to Dairy Queen for a blizzard.

Kids, this is for entertainment only.  Please don’t try these diets at home.

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Bottoms Up!

Posted on September 8, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

I am, without a doubt, the clumsiest person in the world.  Many of you have witnessed some of my more magical moments; there have been so many it’s hard to keep track. But there are several that are particularly memorable.  Here’s one of them:

What starts out as such a fun and harmless adventure-at the waterpark with my family, getting ready to float down the lazy river.  So my niece and nephews, brother, sister-in-law, husband just sit right down on an inner tube like it’s nothing at all.  For me of course, getting in the inner tube is a major project fraught with problems.  So I start right away by slipping on the steps; to be honest I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten into a pool and not slipped on the steps.  Then I pull over an inner tube and turn around to sit in it.  Of course the inner tube slipped out of my hand and floated away just as I turned around to sit on it, but it was too late and I sat anyway and sort of fell.  I know some of you don’t believe you can actually fall in a pool with 2’ of water, but I persevere and make these things happen.  Then I made someone in my family hold the damn thing while I tried to sort of lower myself into it from the side of the pool.  That did not end well.

My next bright idea was to go under the water and try and come up into the tube, which as you can already imagine, did not work.  I discovered something so interesting–if my girth is wider than the hole in the tube, and it is, I end up with an inner tube necklace sort of situation. By then I had become quite a spectacle and was drawing a crowd, so of course I took a moment to wave and blow kisses to my fans.  It took a village, but eventually I actually landed in a sitting, upright position in the inner tube.  Ready to go!

I lean back, relieved to have survived the whole thing.  Ahhh, close my eyes, relax.  I had floated maybe 3 feet away at that point, tops.  And to this day I don’t know what happened, but I suddenly, well, capsized.  It’s not like my butt wasn’t wedged into the tube with little hope of breaking free, but I literally turned upside down with my head under water and my hind parts sticking straight up.  If I knew the laws of physics I would say this probably defied them.

And as if that wasn’t weird enough, it seems to have all happened in super slow motion, and I just sat there saying wow, this is odd, I seem to be tipping.  Gee, I’m the wrong side up.  I finally surfaced to find most of my loved ones pointing and laughing.  I was so proud and expect nothing less.  But my brother, who does understand the laws of physics, was literally just stunned.  He kept saying “how in the hell did you do that?”  As if I had willed myself into that scenario.  The thing is, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe, and every time he said that I went into hysterics again.  It was one of those total release, laugh until your face hurts and then giggle all day type deals.  To this day, and even as I write about it, I literally laugh out loud.  And every once in a while my brother just looks at me and says, apropos to nothing, “how in the hell did you do that?”

I have two older brothers, both of whom enjoy making fun of me, and hey, why wouldn’t they?  So I would say the only thing missing that day was my other brother, who would have enjoyed it so much.  He has been watching me do stupid stuff my whole life, and it’s sad he missed something this spectacular.  If I knew how in the hell I did that, I would do a replay, just for him.

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Married Life, Part Deux

Posted on September 7, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Yesterday we discussed un-common interests.  Today we move on to more mundane items that are nevertheless critically important.  And I don’t want to bash men, but one needs to understand their care and feeding.  Dan has an open invitation to post a rebuttal.

First and foremost, separate bathrooms.  Men are disgusting—who wants to wallow in their filth?  Also, how many times do couples fight about the toilet seat being up or down?  Men and women are not meant to share bathrooms.  I have mine rigged so that Dan gets hit with an electric shock if he tries to set foot in there, although there’s a special override in case I need him to come in and fix the plumbing or something.

Second, slow down and enjoy all that life has to offer.  As Dan cheerfully says “we have the rest of our miserable lives together, why rush?”  I know, pretty romantic stuff.  I am one lucky girl.

Of course when we discuss husbands what we are really talking about is a creature somewhere between adult and child.  So for example, Dan is envious of every man who can belch louder than he can.  “Man!  Did you hear that guy?  Maybe if I keep practicing.”  Wistful.  He definitely enjoys watching things get blown up, which seems to be a featured scene in everything he watches.  He makes little explosion noises while he watches.  He still finds jokes about bodily functions absolutely hysterical.

Dan also heads out to work with pockets full of jingly jangly items.  I have no clue what all is in there, but then again I don’t want to know.  One day Dan came home with a Dilbert M&M dispenser.  I collect M&M dispensers and had never seen this one before.  It was lovely but looked a little, umm, well a lot, used.  It was pretty cool though, you had to push Dilbert’s arm to get him pounding away on his keyboard in order to dispense the candy.

I said “wow Dan, where did you find this?”  Hands stuffed down in his pockets, staring at his shoes, he mumbled “I traded a guy for it at work.”  Okey dokey, what did you trade?  “You know, whatever”  Hmmm.  Had Dan gone off to work today with Oreos and a pudding cup?  That must be it, the guy was hurtin’ for some Oreos.  Some poor schmuck got desperate when his wife put him on a diet and packed melba toast instead of cookies.

Which brings me to another point.  Do not, under any circumstance, tell your spouse what to eat and what not to eat.  If your spouse is unsuccessfully trying to pull on a pair of jeans, do not ever, ever ask why they don’t button anymore unless you’ve been hankering to spend some time sleeping on the sofa.  In fact, a wise man would say “oh no, I knew I was going to shrink those jeans when I left them in the dryer too long.”  The wise man is the one who’s going to get laid tonight. Just sayin’

Finally, I know that it is in fashion to communicate-talk about your completely valid and important feelings, listen to his dumb feelings and feign interest, keep both eyes open so you don’t miss a thing.  But the way I see it, the key to a long marriage is for love to be blind, deaf and dumb.  If you don’t want to see him chugging milk out of the carton, don’t look!  If you don’t want to hear him saying stupid shit that makes you want to kill him, don’t listen!  If you think it might not be a good idea to tell him about that big bald spot, shut the hell up!

For all of you newlyweds who just peered into my version of your future…you’re welcome.

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Separate But Equal

Posted on September 6, 2012 by Jill Foer Hirsch

Dan and I will be celebrating our 24th anniversary next month.  We started dating 27 years ago.  That is a really long time.  Sometimes people ask how we do it, how we sustain the relationship.  This is part one of a two part series on marital bliss.

Forget conventional wisdom and avoid having common interests—highly overrated.  Quite a number of years ago Dan and I somehow got it in our heads that we should have more in common.  So I agreed to take a Physics for Dummies class at the Smithsonian, in the hopes that one day I could keep up with whatever the hell Dan talks about all the time.  Dan agreed to join me in ballroom dance lessons at Arthur Murray.  Why ballroom dance?  Because I had this vague, romantic idea about swishing my silk gown (that was before Dan banned silk) and twirling all over the place.  I’ve seen it in the movies and it is way cool.  At our wedding all we were able to pull off is what Dan fondly refers to as the “7th grade shuffle”  Ahh, those junior high slow dances to “Color My World”  Fab.

Ooops, digressing as usual.  I settled in to the first Physics class determined to learn the stuff.  After all, this was the most basic beginner’s course.  At least, that’s what the instructor said at the beginning of class.  But wait, what was he saying now?  Oh, he noted wryly that he certainly wasn’t going to bore us by rehashing the whole Theory of Relativity thing.  No one was that basic.  Giggles and nods all around.  I slumped down in my chair as he jumped right into mass and velocity or something.  By the end of the class the two things I thought I knew about physics were proven untrue, so apparently I knew less than nothing.

After constantly interrupting the instructor with what were apparently stupid questions, I decided it was in everyone’s best interest that I not return.  And don’t think that I didn’t see the other students high fiving each other when I said I wasn’t coming back, because I did.  And OK, the standing ovation when I left was tee hee ha ha funny.  Everybody’s a frackin’ comedian.

Well that was a bust but maybe the whole dance thing would work out.  I was already picturing us swirling around the dance floor at our next… what exactly?  Waltz?  Debutante Ball?  No matter, we would be dancing under the starlight somewhere or other before we could blink.  Class one, the box step.  Right away there was a problem-the instructor gently noted that I’m not supposed to lead.  Dan quietly explained “my wife can’t go backwards,  she can barely go forwards and you can’t believe how clumsy she is and”…but the instructor was insistent.  The woman does not lead.

After I finished telling the instructor that I don’t know where she comes from, but where I come from women can do any damn thing they want, we moved on to class two.  Somehow by the second class, other couples were already gliding gracefully around the floor.  Dan and I were still in a corner, practically screaming ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR and flopping around like Lurch being electrocuted.  An hour later when the rest of the class was moving on to the foxtrot or something and we were still in a corner arguing about which one of us couldn’t do the stupid box step, backwards or forwards, the instructor came over and as diplomatically as possible explained that the Arthur Murray Dance Studio would be more than happy to give us our money back if we were finding that perhaps this wasn’t something we enjoyed.  She asked if in good faith we could just agree that if we were ever dancing in public we would never utter the words Arthur Murray.  We took the money and ran.  Well, walked really fast because I’m too clumsy to run.

Since then, we’ve wisely decided that separate interests are the way to go.  And no more dance lessons, ever, ever again.

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