You look exactly like that person you look exactly like


Oh wow, I really have to eat my words -- there was a cooler full of Heineken at dinner tonight and when I had to leave to chase Wally I saw a giant guy carrying in a case of Sam Adams Summer Ale. I tried to remember when doing the meet and greet with the younger generation not to say anything about how much older they look or how they look "exactly" like one person or another. Those things that slip out of my mouth that I know are dull and unanswerable but just rush in to fill up any possible split-second silence or energy dip. It was great to see my cousin L., the one who does, by most accounts, look exactly like me. She remarked on the dearth of Jewish-looking people in the room, and later the dearth of actual Jews. More than half of the "cousins" -- the original first cousins, that is my dad's group, sons and daughters of the strongest, loudest, most energetic, pushiest group of sisters the counter guy at Zabars ever laid eyes on-- married Shiksa (or male equivalent), and most of the rest married Jews with Christmas trees. L. also noticed that you can tell how Jewish someone is (most of the room being 1/2 to 1/4) by the way they enter a room. Shoulders back, friendly smile, confident, grounded -- not related to Abraham. (Of course way back they were. I think everyone but a former neighbor who called us Israelites and members of the Tea Party are aware that Christians descended from Jews, right?) Which leads me to the first real shocker of the weekend -- the hosts, wonderful, generous, amazingly sweet people who went to the trouble to get a moon bounce for the kids to play on -- are right wing.

L's sister reminded me of a fantatsic noncompliment to add to the list. Someone told her she looked great for her age. When she asked "How old do you think I am?" The person guessed 45 (she's 40). She's pretty and looks great (for her actual age, too) but somehow got mistaken once for being her boyfriend's mother. I can top this as of today -- the guy at the front desk mistook my dad for my son. This was right after my aunt asked my father what happened to his hair.

BTW, because of time constraints and typing in the dark trying not to wake Wally I think this has turned into a traditional online journal-type thing -- here's what I'm doing today. And the timing is odd, since I just figured out yesterday that I don't really have the stomach to do what I'd have to do to relay all the great tense, awkward, inappropriate, salacious stuff that goes on in my life and the lives of the people around me. This is all part of the mild frustration I feel about not being able to "put myself out there". Wishing I could. And again, I shouldn't say could, but wishing I had the balls to do it. But then would I sacrifice friendships, relationships, family members, my "romantic partner"? (Love how someone side-stepped this today, instead of asking "Is your boyfriend/husband/SO coming" she simply said, pointing to Wally, "Is Dad still in the picture?" I laughed, just because I liked how she phrased it but she jumped in saying people are changing and moving on and she's of course completely right about that. Back to sacrificing the well-being of everyone around me and opening myself up to a firing squad of fury-- I don't have the stomach for it. I feel bad that someone feels bad that I feel bad that they feel bad that......for example one friend feels a little -- not offended, but...---that I posted two of the things he said to me as genuine encouragement type thing on the list of noncompliments. I hadn't remembered him saying them to me, (though I did upon reflection) and really I just meant those as funny. Now I know he's going to be -- not offended, but...-- that I mentioned this. So that's as far as I can go. I can't even use $20 bills in a store when what I'm buying comes to less than $10 because I don't want to annoy the cashier with having to give away too much change.

Comments

  1. LOL about your dad being mistaken for your son! That person must have been demented. Once Andrea was mistaken for my daughter, but I suppose that was less insulting since we're around the same age. Never mind the fact that we're different races, and at the time we were dressed up as Brian Johnson and Angus Young of AC/DC (don't ask). Maybe the latter is the reason the cab driver thought Andrea was my daughter???

    Regarding the desire to "really" put yourself out there - that's what fiction is for!

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  2. What about Miriam's building, circa 1999? Were you my daughter, or was I yours?

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  3. Jesus, Rachel, get out of my head. I thought I was the only one neurotic about feeling bad about making a cashier give me too much change. I also have issues with using my debit card for small purchases. I am chuckling to myself. P.S. Whoever mistook your dad for your son was not only blind, but crazy as well. And, did something happen to his hair? I think he just looks like your dad. Never noticed anything different about his hair.

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  4. Somehow the dad being son thing reminded me of Veena asking is someone's dirty, torn-up shoes were brand new.

    And the NYT just posted an article about how those moon bounces have 15x the legal level of lead in the vinyl -- maybe they were trying to poison all of you.

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  5. Why didn't I answer these comments?

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