by Rachel Ament
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Ament
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The Jewish daughter diaries : true stories of being loved too much by our moms / edited by Rachel Ament.
pages cm
(alk. paper)
1. Mothers and daughters–Humor. 2. Jewish women–Humor. I. Ament, Rachel, editor of compilation.
PN6231.M68J49 2014
818'.602080353–dc23
2013050450
CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction: A Black Hole of Nothingness—Rachel Ament
JDate My Mom—Lauren Greenberg
Selective Stage Mothering—Sari Botton
Deviated Perceptum—Abby Sher
My Grandmother’s Men—Kerry Cohen
They’re All Jealous of You—Mayim Bialik
Ladies Who Lycra—Meredith Hoffa
Become Carol Breslaw in Just Four Easy Steps—Anna Breslaw
Every Child Is My Child—Chaya Kurtz
Bringing Peace, One Man at a Time—Iris Bahr
You Should Be Playing Tennis—Jena Friedman
Ominous Pronouncements of Doom—Rachel Shukert
The Jew in the Backseat—Leonora Ariella Nonni Epstein
There Was Totally Blood Everywhere—Jenny Jaffe
The Beautiful Butterfly Yenta—Lauren Yapalater
Seth Cohen Is the One for You—Rachel Ament
Classic Cynthia Drysdale—Rebecca Drysdale
The Inner Monster Speaks—Emmy Blotnick
Death-Defying Vegetarian Dishes—Arianna Stern
If You’re Gonna Smoke, Smoke Right—Almie Rose
Love, Sacrifice, and EPT—Nadine Friedman
Eviction of the Alte Moid—Deb Margolin
Home for the Apocalypse—Gaby Dunn
My Mother Played the Drums at My Wedding—Wendy Liebman
Mom, Everlasting—Mireille Silcoff
Ya Want an Opinion?—Iliza Shlesinger
My Little Shiksa Goddess—Dylan Joffe
Jewish Mom Genes—Mara Altman
About the Contributors
About the Editor
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
To my dear mom.
INTRODUCTION
A BLACK HOLE OF NOTHINGNESS
Rachel Ament
MOM: Hi, Honey!
ME: Hi, Mom.
MOM: You sound distracted.
ME: Sorry, I’m just busy with this anthology. Mayim Bialik just agreed to contribute. We’ve been emailing.
MOM: Oh wow! That is fantastic. Mark, get on the phone! Rachel is co-authoring a book with the girl from Blossom! They’ve been emailing! They are good friends now!
ME: Well, not co-authoring. She is contributing. Rachel Shukert is also writing an essay.
MOM: Wow, another Rachel! This sounds fun!! Did you tell Blossom that you used to look just like her when you were a kid?
ME: What? No.
MOM: You really need to tell her that. You guys had the exact same eyes. Narrow but really alive.
ME: Well, I don’t want to tell her that. It would make me look like some kind of weird superfan.
MOM: Hold on, let me go find some of your old school pictures. I’ll scan them and you can email them to her.
ME: Mom, seriously, don’t.
MOM: People used to call you Blossom on the street. Remember when your teacher Mrs. Stubbs was like, “Hi, Blossom…I mean, Rachel.”
ME: I really don’t remember that.
MOM: Sometimes I would see Blossom on TV and be like, “Rachel? No, Blossom. No, Rachel! No, Blossom!!!”
ME: Mom, she was like ten years older than me. I really don’t see how you could have confused us.
MOM: Okay, I just found that picture of you with a floppy hat. It has a theater mask pin at the top instead of a daisy. But I think Mayim will really appreciate that because she’s into acting. I’ll have Dad scan it for you tonight.
ME: Thanks, but I’m not sending it to her.
MOM: What story is Mayim going to tell about her mother? I bet her parents look like your dad and me.
ME: Hmm, try Googling them.
MOM: Just did. They don’t look like us! Genes are nuts!
ME: What do they look like?
MOM: Like they are from Philadelphia.
ME: Huh? What does that even mean?
MOM: They just have this Philadelphian vibe about them.
ME: Okay…?
MOM: What is Mayim going to write about?
ME: About how her mother thought that when something didn’t go right in Mayim’s life, it was because everyone was jealous of her.
MOM: Oh that reminds me—do you think your friends Alyssa* and Cara* are jealous about your book?
ME: No, they are happy for me! My friends are great.
MOM: Well, maybe they are like 60 percent happy and 40 percent jealous?
ME: Jesus Christ, Mom…
MOM: Well, at least Beverly understands where I’m coming from.
ME: Who the hell is Beverly?
MOM: Mayim’s mother. I just Wikipedia-ed her.
ME: You are crazy. I’m going to write about this in the book.
MOM: You can’t keep using writing as a weapon against me, Rachel.
ME: Sorry, I won’t if it will embarrass you.
MOM: No, you should. I think it will be funny. Who are you dedicating the book to?
ME: You, of course. The book is about Jewish mothers.
MOM: Yes, but wouldn’t you dedicate it to me regardless?
ME: Yeah, but maybe also Dad?
MOM: That’s sweet of you. But there’s something about a mother that is a bit more crucial and important than a father. It’s harder to move forward when your mother dies.
ME: I don’t want to think about you dying right now, Mom.
MOM: When I die
, you will feel like you are sinking into this black hole of nothingness. Everything will be black. You won’t be able to see colors for a while.
ME: Can we talk about something else?
MOM: How do you think you will respond to my death? A loud hysterical reaction or a quiet detachment?
ME: I think I’ll be hysterical.
MOM: Yes, you are very reactionary. What kind of antidepressants do you think you will take?
ME: I guess Zoloft?
MOM: It’s very hard to lose a Jewish mother, Rachel. I hope you have a good support system. A Jewish mother is like an extension of yourself. You are always in my head, and I am always in yours!
ME: My non-Jewish friends are really close with their moms, too, though.
MOM: Uh-huh. Okay, honey!
ME: They are!
MOM: I’m not saying Jewish moms love their kids more than non-Jewish moms.
ME: I feel like that is what you are saying, though.
MOM: No, Jewish love is just different. More frightening!
ME: Frightening?
MOM: It can be scary. I’m scared of how happy I get when good things happen to you and how sad I get when bad things happen. You should really email Mayim about this.
ME: Why would I email her about that?!
MOM: I read that she practices attachment parenting. She’ll understand where I’m coming from. Beverly might also be interested!
ME: I don’t want to keep bothering Mayim. She’s busy with a TV show.
MOM: Just send her a quick note before dinner. She won’t mind.
ME: Okay. Well, I have to go.
MOM: Okay, sweetie.
ME: Wait, Mom?
MOM: Yes?
ME: I’m glad you are like this.
MOM: Thanks, sweetie. You know no one has your back like your mom! You think that Cara is your best friend but she’s not. I am.
ME: Okay…
MOM: Cara wasn’t even there the day of your birth. She was in Ohio.
ME: But she was just a baby. And we didn’t even know each other yet!
MOM: I’m just saying that I was there in the hospital that day holding you in my arms. And Cara didn’t even bother calling.
Of course, my mom was—as she always is—right. No one loves me as much as her. And no one else’s love can exert such a hold over me. My mom might overwhelm, overstep, and overbear, but she still bears the torch. She still has the power to guide the course of my life, to give it an added spark of meaning. My mom has a way of making me feel like even the most insignificant moment matters: a bad date, a butchered haircut, a fight with a friend. No situation is too inconsequential. If it happened to me, then it matters to her.
Sure, my mom’s overconcern might at times make her seem nuts. Extreme love and dedication often blur reason and perception. Every time I miss her call or text, she imagines me hospitalized or imprisoned. Every time I complain about a headache or stomach pain she will want to know who the hell has knocked me up. My mom only knows how to tread in the waters of the extremes. But inside those waters of extremes is insuppressible love.
What makes a Jewish mom stand out is not the degree of her love but how her love materializes. Love suffuses a Jewish mom’s every thought, her every behavior. She cannot rein any of it in. And when so much love blares so forcefully out into the world, the sentiment can’t help but be returned. America loves Jewish moms because they show us their entire selves. Honesty is infectious. Honesty combined with pluck and gumption is intoxicating.
I wanted to capture this exposed feeling, this raw love. I grew up around a parade of Jewish moms. Now, in my late twenties, living in a big lonely city, I find myself searching for a new squadron of Jewish moms to love. I miss the energy, the warmth, the rawness of Jewish moms. But what I perhaps miss most is the humor. Jewish moms are hilarious. They are classic, old-school camp: bold, unpredictable, and over the top. When I tell my friends funny stories about my childhood or about my twenties, the stories almost always circle back to my mom. She is the heart of every tale. She is where the plot rises, where the dialogue stuns.
A few years ago, I started noticing a similar trend in the stories told by many of my Jewish friends. In almost all the stories, the moms were driving the story line; the moms were peddling the jokes. I wanted to find a way to gather these funny stories of Jewish moms (and grandmas) into a single collection. So I started emailing some of my favorite Jewish writers and entertainers, asking them to send me their stories. The response was astounding. All the writers were thrilled to tell the story of their crazy Jewish mom. And many of them insisted that their mom had to be the absolute craziest.
Of course I realize the thematic challenges in putting together this collection. I realize that a Jewish mom is not a one-size-fits-all archetype. That there are variants of the archetype, many of which appear in this book. There are Jewish moms who are farmers; Jewish moms who are hippies; Jewish moms who are drunks. I wanted to share all these stories. But I also want to tell the story that connects them. Within all these tales, there tends to be a unifying force. And that, of course, is the way the Jewish mom loves.
This book is by no means representative of the entire Jewish mother experience. I simply set out to share stories that will move you, that will make you laugh. My life has been charmed with stories on top of stories of Jewish moms. My hope is that now everyone else’s can be, too.
* Names changed
JDATE MY MOM
Lauren Greenberg
My mother wants nothing more than for me to be happy—and it’s ruining my life. She equates my happiness with me marrying a Jewish man who can support me financially. I, of course, know better. I know the only thing that will make me happy is a low dose of Prozac. That said, I’m not a monster. Just as much as my mother wants me to be happy, I want her to be happy. I just wish we could find a compromise that doesn’t involve JDate.
Like every major battle in history, it started with a poorly executed plan, which entailed me moving back in with my parents (rent-free) for the year after I graduated from NYU. That way I could save enough money working at some stupid office job to move back to New York.
When I returned home, my mother sat me down. While she and I are close, our conversations are often lighthearted and are usually related to Oprah in one way or another. This conversation was clearly different—she needed to tell me something and it was serious.
I braced myself, expecting some kind of cancer-related news. My mother looked me dead in the eyes, took a deep breath, and solemnly explained, “There’s a whole new crop of twenty-five-year-olds coming in. You need to act fast.” No one was dying; I was just entering my mid-twenties. Phew! What she meant was that my expiration date as desirable marriage material was fast approaching. She then sang me the mantra she somehow works into every conversation: Looks don’t matter. Your sex life doesn’t matter. That all goes away. Marry rich or you’ll never be happy.
With more and more time spent at home, I found that my mother’s mantra was starting to ring true. It was increasingly easy to twist her irrational threats into logic. I thought to myself, If I married rich, I wouldn’t have to ever work a shitty office job again. I could spend my days working on the collection of brilliant short stories that were currently occupying my evenings and weekends. I could write and have a life! Before I knew it, I was fueled with enough motivation to join JDate.
The first guy I met on JDate was a ventriloquist. Unless you’re my therapist (who thinks I’m projecting), it may seem weird that, out of all the eligible lawyers, bankers, and engineers, I was attracted to a subpar comedian. He asked me on a coffee date but took me on a helping-a-ventriloquist-shop-for-shoes-before-getting-coffee date. We only went out that one time because how can you top that? Romance!
The second guy I met on JDate—let’s call him David—worked in sales and came from a good (w
ealthy) family. We didn’t really have a romantic spark, but I also didn’t hate him. Thus, he was the one. I locked him down, deleted my JDate profile, and about three years later, David and I were engaged. I did it, Ma!
But eight months later, our engagement was over. David and I broke it off while at a friend’s wedding. Seeing two people who are actually in love commit to spending the rest of their lives together was enough for us to realize that was not for us. The breakup was totally mutual and easy—at least for us. According to my mother, I’d thrown away my only shot at happiness. How could I be so dumb? If time wasn’t on my side when I was twenty-four going on twenty-five, I had now entered stage 4 single-girl cancer.
In the year following that breakup, my mother suggested I try getting back together with David a lot, roughly 365 times. She acted like I was a used car with one month left on my warranty. Pretty soon, no one would want me. Whenever I told her it wasn’t going to happen—that David and I were just friends—she’d beg me to reconsider.
Once in a while, she’d suggest I get back on JDate. She’d plead, “It worked once before. You never know,” as if I was trying and failing to meet potential husbands. To clarify, I wasn’t. I was the happiest I had been since college—before I took her gold-digging advice. I had been dating guys casually since my engagement ended and was very sexually and emotionally fulfilled.
“There’s not one guy you want to settle down with?” my mother would ask, perplexed. I’d tell her I wasn’t even thinking about that. I was just having fun. Then she’d say something like, “Fun doesn’t take care of you when you’re old.” Then I’d change the subject to an item on Oprah’s Favorite Things list, and we’d talk about body butter for another forty-five minutes.
You can only ignore a Jewish mother’s advice for so long before she takes measures into her own hands. Eleven days before I turned thirty, I received an email welcoming me to my new JDate account. I assumed it was spam since I hadn’t opened a JDate account in more than five years. Nevertheless, I opened the email and saw a message from my mother. I had never been more disappointed not to receive spam in my life.
I want you in a fabulous, happy relationship in 6 months or less.
