New Christmas Rule

Bill Maher is the King of New Rules, but that hasn’t kept me from coming up with some of my own. One of my latest new rules: you shouldn’t “like” your own Facebook status. The reason is self-explanitory.

I saw a commercial on TV the other night which spurred another New Rule. The commercial featured Santa, reindeer, Christmas trees, Christmas lights, stockings over the fire place, and milk and cookies.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a Christmas advertisement. But Santa said, “Happy Holidays,” and with that, I took issue.

When I was a kid, the whole Merry Christmas thing offended me. If you know me today, you might be surprised since the general though of religion makes my skin crawl. But when I was young, I felt screwed. Why didn’t Jews get TV commercials? Why was Chanukah an afterthought? Why didn’t Jews get a holiday movie (Passion of the Christ doesn’t count)? Why would TV shows have some half assed little Menorah in the corner with one big nosed, curly haired Jew standing all alone, while everyone else had a good time? Why does this paragraph remind me of Passover diners?

Then, to appease me (and only me), the holidays were jumbled together. And that made me happy because, well, the spotlight wasn’t just on Santa and Jesus. If you wish me a Merry Christmas, chances are I’ll give you the death stare. While I don’t really celebrate any holiday, I do feel, in the spirit of the season, that the whole Happy Holidays greeting is acceptable.

If you run a generic “go buy stuff” commercial, it’s cool to cut to the chase with a Happy Holidays greeting. If you make no effort to include anyone else’s holiday celebration in your ad (and that’s totally fine) then call it what it is—a Christmas ad.

Getting There

I had dinner with a friend last night that lives in Alexandria, Virginia. You’d think as a lifelong DC resident, I’d know my way around … Good thing I have Annie, my portable GPS (MapQuest and I don’t get along—reading a map as I drive down dark, unknown roads is a recipe for disaster). I don’t name inanimate objects (I’m not eight), but after Annie helped me get to Annandale last year, I felt she earned a name.

Once I entered the address to the Mexican restaurant, I was good to go … except the suction that held Annie onto my windshield puckered out. Annie fell to her death. Good thing I had a backup navigation system on my cell. Annie II seemed to do the trick; until she told me I arrived at a stranger's ... casa. 

People say it’s not manly to ask for directions. It’s not manly to drive around wasting gas and getting pissed off. I found myself in Old Town and asked a lovely couple for directions. They were tourists. Fuckers. My friend couldn’t direct me. Next thing I knew, I was on 495 going to Baltimore! Turn around! Turn around!

I asked a guy at a gas station for directions to the Mexican restaurant. “Oh!” he said. “They have bomb ass enchiladas. Stay on this road until you get to the light and turn left on, you know, whatever that road is.”

His directions, no surprise, were incorrect. Suffice to say, I eventually found the place. The enchiladas were just okay.  

Fruit

I like fruit. I don’t eat eight pieces a day, but I usually have some berries, an apple, banana, or some mango. Occasionally, I like to freeze fruit. Bananas, when cut into slices and frozen, are great. Don’t make the mistake I did by freezing an entire banana unless you want to chip a tooth trying to take a bite.

I’m a writer. If you haven’t bought my book, you might consider doing so (www.itsamiracletheyaintdeadyet.com). People tell me they like it. Maybe they’re lying. I hope not. One thing I like to do from time to time is make comparisons. I like analogies just fine … unless one of the items being compared is a fruit and the other is something that will make me never want to eat that fruit again.

The tumor on his colon is the size of a grapefruit.