Happy Thanksgivukkah! And happy birthday to my bar manager!

I head to his favorite chocolate store before work. I’ve been eyeing their colorful tins. I want to get one full of chocolate. I walk in. The guy behind the counter greets me,

“What can I get for you?”

“I’d love to get one of those tins with chocolate.”

He turns toward the woman in charge. She tells me,

“Sorry, the tins aren’t for sale. Only when you buy taffy, then it comes in a tin.”

“Well I’d like to buy chocolate.”

“I’m sorry, but they’re only for sale with the taffy.”

I think about this for a minute. I see a sign that says $16 for a tin of taffy. I’m trying to spend a lot of money and this lady is making my brain hurt. I try again,

“So the tin is for sale with the taffy for $16. I would love to buy the tin without the taffy and I would like to buy a lot of chocolate.”

“I’m sorry, the tins are not for sale. But I can give you a tin.”

Great.

My friend has stood up in defense of mullets. She just gave one to her adorable little one-year old. That girl can pull off a mullet. I also rocked a mullet until I was two. If you’re a toddler, go for it.

I have good news and bad news. Good news: my boyfriend is home. Bad news: he is starting to grow a mullet.

He tells me,

“I’m treating this whole move to North Carolina as a joke.”

Yes. That’s what clip on mullets are for.

It’s not a full mullet yet. It’s just a little long and wispy. I tell him,

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I wouldn’t know it’s a mullet unless you told me.”

He sighs,

“I know. The hairdressers didn’t believe me. But give me another month.”

“Are you really committed to this?”

There’s a long pause.

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“The problem with mullets is that it could look bad.”

A regular pays his bill with his credit card and hands me twenty dollars. He says,

“Keep ten and give me ten back, or keep more if you want.”

“Really?”

“Just bring me ten back.”

I give him two fives and ask,

“So what are we doing here?”

“Oh you drive a hard bargain, keep another five.”

My great great aunt’s cookbook is amazing. It could entertain me all day. I follow my roommate around the apartment reading excerpts out loud. I think she’s trying to study, but I’m not.

I read her the recipe for squirrel pot pie. She’s not fazed. Turtle soup. She nods her head. Muskrat fricassee, raccoon, woodchuck pie, roast beaver, bear, antelope. She seems to think it’s all very reasonable. I read her one last recipe particularly good for this time of year: possum and sweet potatoes.

She exclaims,

“Oh no! Gross!”

“So squirrel and raccoon are fine, but you’re going to draw the line at possum?”

“Yes.”

Note: Squash is equally good with baked possum if you don’t have sweet potatoes.

“Adequate cupboards will be one of your first considerations in planning your kitchen. … Doors should be easy to open and a joy to clean.”

“A child who is never hungry for breakfast will find his appetite stimulated by getting up half an hour earlier than usual and taking some brisk exercise.”

“Dishwashing made easier: Dishwashing can be made practically painless even during those long years between the honeymoon when the man of the house helps with the supper dishes and likes it, and the time when the children are big enough to do them alone without casualties.”

Note to self, have children immediately so I can stop washing dishes sooner. And I should’ve broken more dishes when I was younger.

And before you go thinking that this cookbook is worthless, there are some serious instructions in here:

“Raccoon Pie: skin the raccoon, remove all scent glands and surplus fat. Cut into pieces.”

“Turtle Soup: Skinning a turtle is simpler than killing and plucking a chicken.”

“Squirrel Pot Pie: this is an excellent way to cook old squirrels which are too tough for frying.”

I walk into a nice paper store. I’m bombarded by Christmas. There are Christmas napkins, aprons, doormats, tea cups, Christmas cards, do-it-yourself Christmas cards, and don’t forget to join the email list for more Christmas craft ideas.

I see three rolls of Hanukkah paper. A young guy clerk asks me,

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, do you have any other Hanukkah paper?”

“This is it.”

“Ok, thank you.” I pretend to look through my options again. I hear the guy remark to the other guy behind the counter.

“I like Hanukkah better than Christmas. It’s so much classier.”

Now please excuse me while I go wrap Hanukkah presents and listen to Christmas music.

See upper left hand corner of photo, someone has brought the Steins a present and they couldn’t find any Hanukkah paper.

I recount the details of my haircut to my bar manager. What guy doesn’t want to hear everything about my trip to the salon?

Halfway through my haircut, my hairdresser bends over, buries her face in my hair and takes a big sniff. She exclaims,

“Your hair smells sooo good.”

I tell my bar manager,

“But all she does all day is put good smelling stuff in people’s hair.”

He says,

“She’s got the right job. That is a woman who loves hair.”

I head in for an expensive haircut. I know it’s a lot and I go more often than I need to. I love that they take my coat, hand me magazines and make me coffee, several cups. I’m going to see how much my roommate charges to do this for me.

Relative to the number of Jewish people in the area, the Hanukkah wrapping paper selection is dismal.  Amazon doesn’t even offer very good options. What is a Jew to do? I’m going with a mixture of Hanukkah and Thanksgiving themed wrappings. And if I can figure out how to tie Hanukkah socks in a bow, we’re all set.

My little sister and I had a sleepover this weekend. We stayed up REALLY late, 10:30pm and we slept in until 9am. My little sister said she woke up at 7:30 but wanted to let me sleep. A good idea for everyone. I’m not nearly as much fun at 7am as I am at 9am.

She goes over her Christmas list with me: Slushy Magic, a bike, suspenders and glasses without lenses with tape around the nose. I exclaim,

“Suspenders?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what color or pattern?”

“Whatever they have at Claire’s.”

“What will you wear them with? A shirt and jeans?”

“Yeah, I’ll tuck my shirt into my jeans and then the suspenders go over my shoulders and clip onto my pants.”

“To hold your pants up.”

“NOOO. To be cool.”

A regular walks up to the bar with his girlfriend. His girlfriend starts talking to my bar manager. The regular waves his phone around. What is he doing?

Click, click, click.

Oh my goodness. He’s taking photos. I dash back toward the kitchen and hide behind a wall. My general manager asks,

“Is he trying to take photos of you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m hiding.”

I pop back behind the bar. I notice the regular is trying to read but he doesn’t have good light. I offer,

“Would you like to move over here for better light?”

“No thanks, I can get better photos of you from here.”

Oh. Ok.

I keep working. The regular sighs,

“I’ve gotten plenty of photos of your bar manager, but I can’t get any good ones of you, you keep moving.”

Funny thing about that.

I have bought the biggest warmest down coat I could find. It’s like a sleeping bag with sleeves. It’s not like a snuggie, because snuggies don’t have zippers and hoods. Ok after a quick google there are snuggies with zippers and hoods, but whatever, my coat is like a sleeping bag and it goes great with my jammies.

I’m ready for Winter. Even if it is 70 degrees today.

Baby snuggie. This alarms me.

My bar manager was in a drink contest last night. I was excited to go see him. Almost as excited as I was for the free food and drinks. I think I was a small starving child in another life.

I graze the cheese spread and keep an eye on the passed hors d’oeuvres. Those bacon wrapped thingys should’ve come around a second time.

More and more people arrive. It’s a good showing. I know a lot of people here and recognize even more. I say hi indiscriminately. A guy approaches our table. He starts to talk to my bar manager and notices me. He declares,

“Hey! Good to see you!”

He raises his hand for a big high five. I go for it. Some people have been saying my high fives are bad, but I think they’re at fault. I was a cheerleader. I KNOW how to high five.

I high five the guy. He goes for the high five turned handshake. Odd awkward. I wait for a fist bump. He chats a little more and before wandering off says,

“Good to see you guys, it’s been a long time.”

My bar manager turns to me,

“Who was that?”

“I have no idea.”

My boyfriend is far away. Not that far away, but far enough away for me to feel sorry for myself. Sigh. I better go smell his dirty undershirt I stole.

My mom asks me,

“Does he know you took it?”

Yes he does. I stole it and then I told him,

“I took one of your dirty undershirts, is that okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“It smells like you. I like it.”

He takes the shirt, holds it up to his face and takes a big whiff. He nods his head. He seems to understand. I offer,

“Do you want something of mine? Underwear?”

“No thanks. I’ll let you know if I see a pair I want.”

It’s amazing how many people think the blue wig is my real hair. Last night someone remarks,

“You have a great haircut, it looks really good with your face.”

“Thank you.”

I clipped a couple devil horns into my wig. Another bar guest remarks,

“Those horns go great with your hair, you should wear them more often.”

I am now giving considerable thought to a wearing a wig to work on a regular basis. Maybe a normal colored one. People have no idea. It would be great for days when I don’t shower and look like a mummy with a trash can on my head.

Happy Halloween! I’d love to be Wonder Woman again, but I’m working at the bar. I won’t be able to wear my red stiletto superhero boots and what’s Wonder Woman without her heels? I will have to wait for Purim.

Two guys sit down at the bar. They’re nothing out of the ordinary. I serve them and go about my business. They’re talking about a mutual girl friend of theirs loud enough for half the bar to hear. One guy declares,

“Her personality is kinda hot.”

“She’s hot. But she’s not as hot as me.”

A regular complains to me about his twenty-three-year-old daughter,

“I’m not sure if she’s going to make it.”

“She’s an adult and it sounds like she’s doing fine.”

“I’m an adult and I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”

He continues,

“She was asking me for advice about her boyfriend. He watches porn.”

“Oh?”

“Her girlfriends’ responses ranged from infidelity to it doesn’t matter.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“I said that as long as he doesn’t watch it for more than ten minutes at a time it’s not a problem.

People ask for all sorts of crazy drinks. Some from 1965, some from 1995. They almost always start hesitantly,

“I don’t know if you have it, but could you make me an Aviation?”

“Of course.”

“Could you make me an Appletini?”

Against my better judgement, but sure.

I can make almost anything. I’m working with a well stocked bar and Google.

A woman states,

“I don’t know if you can make this but-“

“-I probably can.”

“Do you have whiskey and ginger ale?”

Maybe I need these so I don’t have to figure out how to make it.