New Year's Eve, So We Meet Again

The pain surged through my head like it had been struck by lightning.  My attempts to alleviate the unrelenting pounding were futile - Advil failed me. The prospect of throwing my head through the wall seemed promising.

It was New Year’s Day. I was twelve years old and apparently in the throes of my first hangover. Amazing what a couple sips of champagne will do to you at that age. 

Hangover aside, I miss those early New Year’s Eves, when the evening was simple, and expectations were minimal.

Of course, the older we get, the greater the pressure to make New Year’s Eve an epically great night. 

New Year’s Eve and I have had our battles. Every year it wins as I fall prey to its seductive powers.  And every year, expectations exceed reality.

New Year’s Eve is arguably the most highly anticipated, over-hyped night of the year (if you think the award goes to Valentine’s Day, I won’t fight you on it).

I view New Year’s Eve like a bad relationship – the lower the expectations, the smaller the chance for disappointment.

As such, I tend to prefer the low-key New Year’s Eve celebration. In my experience, all you need are a couple friends and some special appearances by Andre, Jim, Jack, and the Captain, and you have the makings of a promising night. 

In all fairness, I’m sure there are plenty of people who can successfully pull off a fun, extravagant New Year’s Eve celebration. I just have yet to meet any of them.

But, the truth is, it’s hard to deny the allure of ending the year with massive quantities of alcohol, to celebrate the good and drown out the bad.  

New Year’s Eve is an opportunity to start the New Year off any way you want, whether you choose to spend it with close friends or a random stranger you picked up at a party (no judgment).

Regardless of how you decide to ring in the New Year, enjoy tonight, for tomorrow brings New Year’s resolutions.

My resolution: to actually keep a resolution. 

…At least until February.

(On a side note, if you plan on driving and have ever uttered the phrase, “But I’m a good drunk driver,” save this number in your phone: 800-200-8294. Free cab rides for anyone 21 and older in the DC metro area.  What can I say, it’s the future Jewish mother in me.)

The Sports Fan’s Guide to Women

I’ve received multiple requests to write posts about my views on relationships.  Most people come to me for relationship advice, though given my success in that area of life, I have yet to figure out why. 

This isn’t going to be a long post, merely an observation I wanted to share with you as a token of my gratitude.

At some point in their life, most women have heard the phrase, “I don’t understand women.  They’re just too complicated.” 

At the Caps game this week, I observed that women (at least those who attend games, voluntarily or by force) are not that complicated.  Women at sporting events can be divided into two categories: those who dress like they’re going to a club, and those who dress like they’re going to a game.  So, guys, if you really want to know more about a woman you’re dating, or interested in dating, just take her to a game.

I consider myself lucky that most of my friends fit in the latter category.  When the question, “what should I wear?” is asked before a game, I know it’s an inquiry into the team colors (Rock the Red!), and nothing more.

Then, there’s the other type of woman, the one whom I was sitting behind at the game Tuesday night.  These women are easily identifiable by their stilettos and slutty tops.  Men, if your date is dressed like this, assume you will be watching and listening to more of her than the game.  Of course, depending on the shirt and the success of your team, I suppose that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Nonetheless, I watched as the two guys in front of me played babysitter to their dates. 

“You can’t get up right now.”

“Why not?”

“You need to wait until a break in game play.” 

“But I want to go NOW!”

Defiant, the women stood up and were subsequently booed by the entire section.  Defeated, they sat back down.

To quell their whining, the guys opted for the adult bribe of choice: beer.

Rookie mistake.  Women become chatty with alcohol.  We all suffered.

So, men, here’s my advice.  Whether you’re the kind of guy who likes a woman who is dressed to perfection no matter what the occasion, or you like a more laid-back woman, if you take her to a game, you’ll figure out the type of woman you’re dating.

If you prefer the high-maintenance type whom isn’t a sports fan, just do the rest of us a favor and bring her a Kindle, or maybe just some scratch n’ sniff stickers, to keep her occupied if she gets bored.

Happy/Merry [Insert Preferred Holiday Here]

‘Twas the first night of Hanukkah, and all through the day,

My non-Jewish friends kept texting me to say:

A very Happy Hanukkah to you I am wishing!

Hanukkah?  What the hell are you talking about?  I’m still full from Thanksgiving.

Messages and well wishes in abundance did I receive,

And yet not a single gift will I be given before Christmas Eve.

But this I must say; despite my kvetching and scrooge-esque attitude,

I wish all you Jews a fun-filled day of movies and Chinese food.

And to those observing Christmas with celebrations big or small,

Season’s greetings, and a very merry day to one and all!

Why the painfully awkward poem?  It’s my mom’s trademark for special occasions, so today I thought I’d carry along the tradition. 

After all, aren’t those awkward traditions half the reason we love and/or loathe the holidays?

Think of this poem as a metaphor for holidays spent with family – a little bit of awkwardness, some painful moments, and cheesy in the best possible way.

Hanukkah is no exception.

And before you ask, there is no “correct” spelling.  Hanukkah, Chanukah, Chanuka.  Everyone spells it differently.  So just put some Cs, Hs, As, Ns, Us, and Ks together, and I promise you’ll get close enough.

In my mind, Hanukkah traditions can be summed up in four words. Latkes. Gelt. Dreidel. Menorah.  

Of course none of these traditions are actually commonplace in my household. 

Latkes, I’ve found, are best enjoyed at Hanukkah parties thrown by others.  No oil burns, no mess to clean up, and no Jewish mother staring you down as you shove a deep fried potato pancake in your mouth (and by you, I mean me). 

Ah, gelt.  The chocolate coin.  I have no idea how or where this concept originated, but I fully support the melding of chocolate and money.  If one day people choose to throw some diamonds into the mix, all the better. 

And, then, there’s the dreidel.  You know, “I have a little dreidel, I made it out of clay, and when it’s dry and ready, oh dreidel I shall play.  Oh dreidel, dreidel, dreidel…”

No? Just me?  First awkward holiday moment, ✓ 

What college students quickly realize about dreidel is that the rules translate seamlessly into a drinking game.  I finally had the perfect excuse for my less than stellar dreidel spinning skills. 

Back at home, however, my cousins are quick to mock my lack of finesse with the dreidel.  Apparently they went pro in dreidel spinning, and I didn’t make the cut.

Arguably the most important Hanukkah tradition, and the only one we make an effort to keep as a family, is the nightly lighting of the menorah (Hanukiah for accuracy's sake).  Our singing, a melody combining the tone deaf with the talentless, elicits a crescendo of dog barks in the neighborhood.  But, hey, it’s tradition.

However, for the first time I can remember, this year our menorah burned for only four nights.

In letting Hanukkah pass by without much pomp and circumstance, I discovered something remarkable.  The celebration of Hanukkah is predicated on a Pavlovian response. 

Think about it: light a candle, get a present.  No wonder I lit candles so (...wait for the pun so painful you’ll cringe when you read it…) religiously all those years.

Not only did my family forget to light candles every night this year, but this also marks the first Hanukkah we neglected to open a present on each of the eight nights.  Coincidence?  I think not.

Even during the four Hanukkahs I celebrated in college, I would get care packages with eight of the most random little gifts my mom could find.  I lit candles every night, and afterward rewarded myself with one present.  Anyone in need of Hanukkah socks?  I have about 15 pairs.

Gift exchanges and other parallels between Hanukkah and Christmas lead to the common misconception that Hanukkah is a religious holiday in Judaism.  I assure you, it is not. 

The truth is, Hanukkah, at least the way it is celebrated in the States, is an Americanized, consumer driven holiday (à la “Hallmark”).  The purpose was to help the Jewish people assimilate into American society in the early 20^th Century. 

Don’t mistake my comments for cynicism.   I embrace consumerism for all it has given us, mainly Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and 20 daily e-mails from Amazon alerting subscribers to a new deal.

Despite the allure of all the holiday discounts, I refuse to set foot near Tysons Corner (the local mall to some, mecca to others) unless stripped of my free will and physically dragged there.  However, this year I made the calculated decision to brave the local outlets over Black Friday weekend. 

Signs jumped out of window displays.  “Entire store 60% off.”  “Additional 20% off items already marked 80% off.”  “Oh hell, just take it.”  I was on cloud nine. 

And then, without warning, a sales associate slammed me back down to reality. 

“Would you like gift receipts with your purchases?” she asked.  I wanted to say yes, but instead I just smiled.  “Nope, three bags and it’s all for me.”

So from one schmuck to another, wishing you a very Happy Holidays!

...And So It Begins

Let me start off by saying I am a hypocrite.  I don’t deny it.  I hate blogs for the same reason I hate Twitter and frequent Facebook status updates.  I refuse to believe that anyone’s life is so interesting we need to read about it on a daily – or worse, hourly – basis.  I figure if my ex had a hard enough time trying to pretend to be interested in my day, why should you have to?

As such, I assure you this will not be a play-by-play of what I do each day between my morning and evening drug cocktails (all legal, but another story for another post).  I view this endeavor as an attempt to interrupt the monotony of the day with some sarcasm and hopefully a little humor.  If nothing else, this is a way I can (potentially) call myself a writer without feeling like a jackass every time I do so. 

In all fairness, I’m actually not that funny.  Some of you may be thinking, “No shit.”  Have you ever watched a late night host fumble during the opening monologue, try to recover, and fail?  That’s the story of my life.

I can play something out perfectly in my head, but it usually results in blank stares and confused looks as I trip over my words.  So, instead, I write. 

I tend to write what I know.  Granted, as I’m only 24 and barely old enough to have a quarter-life crisis, I have a lot left to learn.  Like most people my age, I’m still a work in progress.  Just ask my mother.

If you’re wondering about the blog title, Just My Mazel was what I planned on titling my nonexistent book.  For better or for worse, it’s the phrase that most aptly sums up my life.  If you know me (and I assume all of you do, or let's face it, why would you be reading this?), you know it's true.    

On a side note, my apologies to any goyim who don’t understand some of the Jewish humor that is or will be in my posts.  To educate yourself, watch a couple Ben Stiller movies.  Just think of them as CliffsNotes for Judaism.

I digress.

So, after some convincing from a few determined friends, I am moving my witticisms from G-Chat to the blogosphere.

Also, I’m all for commentary, whether praise or constructive criticism. Of course if you’re anything like me, criticism will come out sounding more bitchy than constructive.

However, if you are one of those people who relish the opportunity to bitch and moan every time I make a post, here’s some advice for you: stop reading.  Why waste your time reading something that you know is going to piss you off? 

Of course I’m not so naïve that I actually believe everyone is going to follow my recommendation.  How do I know?  It’s just my mazel.