Yiddish for Dummies

I may be infatuated with my therapist, but at LEAST I am not a schmuck in the Bush administration.


http://www.vidlit.com/gandl/



schmuck also shmuck (shmk)
n. Slang
A clumsy or stupid person; an oaf.

The Elephant in the office

Uncomfortable situations come in all shapes and sizes: perhaps your creepy mailman asks if you have a boyfriend. Or maybe, as you check out at the drugstore, the cashier asks for a price check on Ex-Lax. Or maybe, just maybe, you come to the realization that you must tell your therapist you have a crush on him. I can just hear it now... "Yes mother, I met a boy. He's adorable, dreamy in fact. He's a doctor by day; professor by night. He can finish my sentences before I think of the endings. He's smart. Self-aware. Got a killer smile. He's sensitive. Cultured. He just, gets me. Oh, and one more thing. He's my therapist." GASP!

I rehearsed my lines, while walking briskly across 42nd street, dodging hazards like obscenely tremendous umbrellas and dangerously meandering pretzel carts. There was an autumn chill to the air; that, coupled with stinging rain made for an uncomfortable schlep across town - "Listen, Dr. "Smith," I think about you in ways that are..unprofessional." - "I have to sell organs to write you checks, but I want to come here every Tuesday. Forever." - "Look, I know you're married and all, but...." Two more blocks. Ok. CLEARLY none of these were going to work. But I had to bring it up. The elephant in his office was growing larger by the session. Dumbo would surely start to nudge me off the couch with his steadily inflating presence. And even if I had funds to spare, I wasn't about to start subsidizing animal therapy.

The elevator doors opened; I could feel my heartbeat quicken - my left atrium detected the sudden widening of the blood vessels, and adjusted its pumping speed. I could turn around; run away; pretend I was sick; forget I had an appointment. But the challenge was already set. If I could get through this, I could surely do anything. I had to be in therapy purely for myself, NOT so I could engage in endless witty banter with someone so off-limits, for so many reasons. As I entered my favorite little midtown office, I was enveloped by comfort and ease, books, soothing lights, soft steady rain pelting the window. There was chatting. Laughter. Jokes. Sarcastic remarks. Toss of the hair. Yikes, was I flirting? "Tone it down!" the voice inside me screamed. I fidgeted; scanned the room for a distraction. (His beautifully pressed black pants, subtly highlighting toned muscles below? The simple gold wedding band on his finger? The way the light hit his lovely almond skin as he laughed... NO, NO! NO! FOCUS!) We got down to business. It was now or never..

And so I came clean.

Forty-five minutes later, I left his office into the rapidly darkening night, and waited for the M104. I was in one piece; the world was still here; rush hour traffic crept by; no fainting spells had ensued, nor was I still searching for a vacant cave into which I could crawl. Yes, I pictured his warm smiles, analyzed his soothing reaction, remained befuddled by his professionalism, but felt an odd sense of relief wash over me, slowly forcing out the embarassment still occupying my conscience. I reached for my newspaper and flipped to the Real Estate section, immediately drawn to an in depth piece about bedbugs. With horrid fascination, I read about long battles with terrifyingly stubborn and invisible bedroom invaders. And suddenly I knew I was gonna be okay.

Karma [police]

The other night, after waiting 15 minutes for a bus, I reluctantly settled into the plush vinyl seating of a cab, on a journey southward to the LES to finish a viewing of, naturally, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Oh Willem Dafoe, how you frighten me). Frustrated by the lack of foot room (these Crown Victorias are monstrous, how can I, the only backseat passenger be squished?), I glanced down to inspect. To my surprise, I discovered a mysterious laptop bag, containing among other oddities, the laptop itself, maps, a speeding ticket, pages of haphazardly scrawled notes, and a crisp hundred dollar bill which I, pre-holiday-repentence, did not pocket. (Would have been a rather fallacious way to enter the Day of Atonement, huh?)

With extra luggage in tow, I arrived at my friend's apartment, so near the East River, he may as well have been wearing a lifejacket and polishing oars. "Ok. Before Christ graces us with his presence, I have a fun activitiy," I blurted out before even saying hello. Finally. All my Law and Order watching would pay off. I could call CSU for fingerprint dusting or hair analysis, or page the medical examiner for urgent DNA results. I could investigate credit card receipts and hack into Apple's computer registration system. Hmm, maybe I'd gone too far. Time to reel in the ship I sail called "USS Delusions."

We got right down to business, bubbling with glee at the task ahead of us. Papers were strewn about, maps unfurled, notepads inspected, as we tried to trace John Doe's whereabouts. He had rented a car in California and driven along the coast. He had horrible handwriting, favored red pens, and had just attended what seemed to be a big board meeting in Manhattan. A turkey sandwich had been purchased. Many business cards acquired. Some cds lay unopened. An ipod shuffle sat idly. I inspected the computer's contents, while my friend was lured off course by the ipod. "Don't do it," I warned, "He might know we plugged it in! We'll be ruined." Like delivering a speech at a school assembly, naked as if in your standard nightmare, our inspection seemed like a violation; exposure; a breach of unspoken trust. But we couldn't stop here; we were the primary investigators assigned to the case. DNA evidence was catalogued. Enterprise rent-a-car contract was decoded. Emails were infiltrated. The DVD player hummed barely-audible sweet nothings in the background; Christ would have to wait.

At 22:47h, the Case of the Missing Bag was officially cracked, and somehow, my empty Brooklyn lager was replaced with a fresh one. The victim? Head of an independent West coast record label (who definitely needed a handwriting lesson). He had been here for a meeting, and after having one too many dry martinis in the West Village and a sour phonecall that ended with the shouting of an expletive, he must have foolishly and absentmindedly abandoned years of hard work. (Ok, the last sentence was James Frey-ized...but doesn't it sound plausible?)

Later that night, as I sat in awe watching [SPOILER ALERT] Jesus die a bloody death for all of humanity's sins, I couldn't help but feel like a hero myself. The next day, emails were exchanged, I gushed about music, a meeting was planned on 6th Avenue, and many coincidences were discovered - we actually had a friend in common, and would both be in the same block of Manhattan on the same day. I could feel my good deed points piling up. Yesterday, I received a big white package, filled with heaps of cds, and records galore, including an LP never before released to the public.

So here's the recipe for success, happiness, rewards, luck: do your part, pay it forward, believe in good, put yourself in others' shoes, follow the humble Jewish carpenter and become a martyr for humanity's sins . . . for the karma police are out in full force. Especially in the West Village.

Dreaming

My friend has dreams. Dreams of slow and deserving fame; of belting out musical epiphanies and revelations through tunes we can only imagine; of being on stage, blinded by hot lights in concert-like hues, her mouth resting tentatively against the cold metallic gridded orb of the microphone, as she soaks up the palpable energy of thousands of fans spread out before her, like a colony of swarming insects; of concentrating NOT on the microphone's stench of last night's beer, old cigarettes, and remnants of all the depressed, idealistic, visionary, auditory geniuses that have come before her, but rather of being carried away by melodies and smart words she is about to unleash onto thousands of human sponges waiting to be enlightened.

Except she is in her pajamas. Depending on the season - either a silly orange silk Vietnamese outfit, or some semblance of plaid flannel pants and a simple tank. This isn't the outfit she planned. It's all wrong. She should be wearing jeans, some sort of hipster footwear, stripes on top. A hoodie with snaps. A patch perhaps. A nerdy tshirt from her Jewish summer camp in the 80s. Some kind of leather or silver bracelet. Eye makeup. A vintage necklace from her grandmother. A brooch from Morocco. Courduroy. Nursing a beer. No wait, sipping her flask, full of whiskey. It's all wrong. She can't perform barefoot, in flannel.

Then she wakes up. Just in time.