The Dave Who Ruined Christmas

“Man, I wish you could join me for Christmas,” Dave said.

“I know. It’s not even like I’m doing anything special—maybe a movie and some Chinese food.”

“Why don’t you come up to Syracuse? My family always makes it a really big event, and I’ve been wanting you to meet my parents anyway. And . . . I miss you. Besides, maybe then we can finally, you know, take our relationship further.”

That was all it took. I had never celebrated Christmas before, most likely because I’m Jewish. But like most Jewish people, I’d always been kind of curious as to what actually happens at Christmas. Was it as warm and fuzzy as all the Hallmark commercials? Did someone always get a diamond and happiness abounds, like Zale’s says? Would I get the hottest new toy that I had been wishing for, as Toys R’ Us predicts? I’d also never dated a guy who was so freaking . . . nice. There were no games with Dave, no mystery as to how he felt about me. And it was refreshing. I couldn’t wait to see him.

Several days later, after a long and snowy six-hour car ride, with me gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white, I found myself at Dave’s parent’s house on Christmas Eve. He greeted me with a long hug, as did his parents, his ninety-three-year-old grandmother, his three older sisters, their spouses, and their multiple kids. I found myself overwhelmed. I smiled and made small talk, but I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. There were so many people. And so many Christmas decorations. And so many representations of Jesus and his various relatives.

We sat down to dinner. There was a large ham. There was turkey. There were about fifty side dishes. I picked at the sides and made small talk about my classes. Dave and I held hands under the table. I felt the pressure of his thumb stroking my inner palm, and it soothed me. Every time one of Dave’s parents would ask me a question, they would look at each other and smile after my answer. After dinner the children ran off to play games that small children play.

“Okay, guys,” Dave’s dad said, looking at all of us adults expectantly. “It’s time to take communion!”

Oh, no. Was he really serious? Is that something you do at Christmas? Was I expected to do this, too? I imagined if I actually took “communion” some Jewish child would lose his Hanukah gelt.

“Pssst, Emily. Over here.” I looked over to see John, Dave’s oldest sister’s husband, gesturing to me. “You look scared,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m Jewish, too.”

“Do they know?” I asked, alarmed.

“Of course. Listen, since we’re Jews, I’ve come up with our own special ‘communion’ that only we can do. Join me.”

“Okay,” I said, looking over at Dave, who gave me an encouraging smile from across the room.

“Take this Ritz cracker. I want you to eat it, say ‘shalom’ and kiss me on the cheek on the count of three.”

We did. It seemed to make John incredibly happy. I’d forgotten how good Ritz crackers can be. Probably much more buttery than a communion wafer. I also wondered if John would just perform this ritual with himself before I came along. That must have been really weird.

“Now go back to the Christmas stuff,” he said, as Dave came over. We sat in front of the fire and looked at their Christmas tree. It was huge and leaned slightly to the right. The ornaments were plentiful, some homemade, and didn’t match.

“We add new ones every year,” he began to explain in great detail, as if I had not only never celebrated Christmas before, but as if I was also autistic.

“Nice,” I said. It was really a very good idea, those Christmas trees. Kind of like a shrub of memories.

“See this one?” Dave said, pointing to a small ornament that looked like a movie camera. “My parents gave me that one when I started college and I decided to be a film major.” Dave was now in his junior year and I was a sophomore. We had met while working on the school newspaper as Features editors. We were just like the movie Up Close and Personal without the excitement or Robert Redford.

It was getting late so we got in our pajamas. I had packed the most flannelly pajamas I owned, not wanting to alarm Dave’s parents. If I could have found footie pajamas, I probably would have brought them. I was surprised to find out that I was sleeping in the same room as Dave, him on the floor and me in the bed. That would not have been cool at my house. Of course, a Christmas tree wouldn’t have been cool either.

“Well, my sisters are so much older that my parents probably aren’t even thinking about us being in the same room. That or they’re really glad I finally have a girlfriend,” he said, smiling shyly. He seemed almost giddy. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. It felt weird doing it here, but kind of exciting, like I when I used to smoke pot in my parent’s basement.
We said our goodnights to everyone and went to bed. Spooning me from behind, he whispered in my ear, “I really am glad you came up.”

I was glad, too. I wondered why I hadn’t always made life so easy for myself by dating someone free of drama. Sure, it wasn’t always nonstop excitement, but it was comfortable. We started to kiss, when he stopped and looked deeply with his navy blue eyes right into mine. “I want this to be the night,” he said.

“Are you sure? You’re ready?”

It wasn’t me I was worried about, it was Dave. He might have been older, but I was more learned in the ways of the sex. And by more learned, I meant I’d slept with one other person.

“No. I want to do it,” he said, blushing furiously. “I’m glad I waited for you to come along.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” I said, laughing. And we went to it. Or at least we tried to. Dave had a little, how shall we say, performance anxiety. So after trying for a while, we gave up and fell asleep, still content to be next to each other.

The next morning we woke up to Christmas. I got a sweater from the sisters, sans Christmas tree (‘we weren’t sure you’d like that,’ said Carole, the middle sister) and I ate more cookies than all the kids combined, most likely because there was no one there willing to stop me. I headed home later that day, with a container of more cookies and ham (I couldn’t say no) in my backseat. While I was slightly irked by my lack of booty, overall, it had been a memorable experience.

Dave and I kept dating for a few months. It was nice but fizzled out. We never consummated the relationship, despite quite a few attempts. That probably didn’t help things either.

A couple years after college around Christmas I got an email from Dave. “Here's a surprise about my life,” he wrote. “I'm in medical school up here in Buffalo! I finally got in this past summer! Additionally, I am dating someone. Her name is Tracy and it is going really well. Give me a call if you get a chance, I’d love to catch up.”

So I contacted him. And he emailed back. And soon it became clear why he had really contacted me. “So I really like Tracy,” he wrote. “And I think we’re ready to sleep together. And I know that we didn’t, but we got pretty close. I don’t know how to say this, but, you didn’t have any diseases, did you? I mean, I’m sure you don’t but I just figured it would be good to know these things before I take the plunge. Okay, thanks and glad to hear you’re doing so well! Best, Dave.”

I stared at my computer. Dave thought I was whore. And Dave was in medical school, so unless he was studying some new disease, I’m not sure what diseases he thought I might have given him just by making out. (I do not have herpes. My lips are just chapped.) I responded with a terse “No, I’m clean.” So much for catching up.

So This Rabbi Walks into a Bar

I was told once that I seem to have "some issues" with being Jewish. Honestly, I don't. I just have some issues with the negative stereotypes that are associated with them.

I grew up in an area that wasn't exactly the mean streets. (Lower Merion, outside of Philadelphia, son!) I knew a lot of Jewish kids who were nice people, but spoiled rotten. Who grew up among privilege and whose parents never managed to cut the purse strings. I'm sorry, but if you're over 25 and you still have a credit card that goes to your parents, I see that as a problem. And if the most important thing that you're looking for in a husband is that he's Jewish, despite the fact that you were never bat mitzvahed, I have an issue with that.

But there's also a lot I appreciate about my religion. I like that our families are tight knit. I like that we have traditions that we gather to share. And I love the sarcastic snarky wit that travels from generation to generation; God knows we wouldn't have Sophie Tucker, Fanny Brice, Joan Rivers, or Judy Gold without it.

And there's the debate as to whether Judaism is a religion or a race or both. Many argue that there is no land called Jewishtan (apparently they’ve never been to South Williamsburg). Then again, I feel like if you have a disease just for your own people—Tay-Sach's anyone?—then maybe that allows you to pull the race card. Then again, maybe it just means that if there aren't too many Jews around, you might want to consider marrying the neighbor that isn't your cousin.

But while I have mixed feelings, I don't seem to be the only one. They say the Jews run the entertainment industry, and I think there are indeed a few of Heebs in the biz. But if we're so proud, why change our names? Why isn't Jon Stewart still John Leibowitz? Why isn't comedian Jeffrey Ross still Jeffrey Lifshultz? Why doesn't Slash from Guns and Roses go by his first name, Saul? (What? A guy named Saul can't rock out?) Sure, at one time it was to be able to work, but if a guy with a name like Barak Obama can run for president of the United States, why is there the need to hide your background?

I was hit on by a guy after a show recently. He walked right up to me and said, "I'm not Jewish, but I do have a big nose." Is he going to tell me next that he's also cheap and a mama's boy? Maybe it bothered me so much because I'm afraid that people take a look at me and those are the stereotypes they see. Then again, maybe they just see the sarcastic, funny delicious Jewy center.

Caught Between a Joke and a Hard Place

This piece is based on a true story. While some of the characters have been tweaked for extra amusement, my general embarrassment and the lose of my pride is one hundred percent true.

I love doing comedy. I absolutely, flonking love it. Whenever I do a joke and the audience likes it, I just want to do a happy dance complete with the running man. And if it doesn’t go well, I can go home, cry a little and gently rock myself to sleep in the fetal position. No big deal.

So when I booked a show in Springfield, Massachusetts, doing 45 minutes of material for a Jewish benefit, I was thrilled. I had even properly schmoozed the booker, Larry. When I warned him that I didn’t have forty-five minutes of material solely on “being a Heeb” he said, “that’s okay, just do your thing.”

“Great! I have about 45 minutes of bestiality and pedophilia jokes that always do well!” I said sarcastically.

“I like you, kid. You’re gonna go places,” he said.

And the deal was sealed.

I had three months to prepare myself for the show. I wrote jokes, rewrote jokes, got onstage as much as I could and prayed that I wouldn’t forget all of my material halfway through the performance and have to fill the remaining amount of time by stripping.

I also learned as much as I could about Springfield, Massachusetts, because when in Rome, you should write jokes about the place so the audience feels like you’re connecting. Did you know, for instance, that basketball was invented in Springfield by Canadian James Naismith? (What are you going to tell me next, the Japanese invented baseball?!). Or that it’s the home of Theodore Geisel, aka Doctor Seuss? Or that there’s a picture book museum in the area, because apparently libraries don’t do the job? And it’s even the home of the Titanic Museum. (I know, I didn’t think there were any icebergs in them there parts either.)

Every couple of weeks, Larry the booker would check on me, to see how things were going: did I get my deposit, had I booked my hotel? And I began to learn more and more about the event. Like the fact they’d never had a comedian before, but last year they had a hypnotist and the group just ate it up. Comedy is kind of like hypnotism, right? [laugh nervously]. And that I was actually performing because the benefit was an auction and they needed some entertainment during dinner so they could tally all the bids. So, okay, maybe I’m not the main draw but I can be the E Street Band to their Bruce Springsteen.

Finally the day arrived. And I was ready to create comedy magic. I got to the subway station, giving myself plenty of time to make my train to Massachusetts. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And then I started to panic. And then I tried to calm myself down. And then I waited some more. And then the subway finally came, and I made my way to Penn Station and I arrived…exactly one minute after my train to Massachusetts had departed.

And as I cursed the MTA demons, I began to wonder, is this God’s way of telling me, “eh, shayna punim, it was a good try, but not to be.” (Yes, I imagine that God would sound like Mel Brooks). But I managed to catch another train that got me to Springfield thirty minutes before the performance.

Larry (who is a delightful bear of a man) pulled up to the station in his long black Cadillac, and after we greeted each other like old friends, he dropped me off at the hotel, which ended up being kind of, how shall we say, minimalist. I get to my room, change while trying not to be irked by the smell of stale cigarettes in my nonsmoking room and the hole in the comforter.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m heading with Larry, his wife, and his Cadillac to the benefit. We enter what looks like a banquet hall with gaudy chandeliers, elaborate Persian well-tread carpets, and lots of lots of Jews. And I soon find out that I have three hours to kill before I’m on and nowhere to go. I was in a room full of strangers in the middle of a silent auction, where the best prizes I could possibly win was a week of soccer camp for my kids or some precious contemporary Jewish artwork.

“Go ahead,” Larry said. “Go work the room, try to win something.”

I then spent the next few hours hiding from the guy who ran the JCC sports camp who took a fancy to me (nice guy mind you, but there’s something about a fella who wears a sport jacket, jeans, bolo tie, and sandals with socks that doesn’t do it for me), and being introduced to other strangers, one of whom invented some kind of newfangled teapot and thought I would be a good person to explain it’s workings to in detail. I also refrained from drinking myself under the table at the bar.

We sat down to dinner two hours later, as Larry or Larr Bear, as I called him to myself at this point, had made sure I was well fed, bless his heart. I sat down at a table with him and his friends. All the women were so painstakingly made up that you could see the line around their jaw where their makeup ended. All the men seemed to have stopped caring about their appearance several years ago, as exemplified by their rumpled bellies and receding hairlines that were combed to mask the effects of time.

“So, Emily, it must be so exciting to be a comedian,” one of the women said. “Have you been on any television shows I might know?”

“I’m working on it,” I said, sighing, as my ego headed south for the winter.

“And are you married,” one of the men at the table asked.

“No, but I have a boyfriend,” I said.

“Is it true, you know, what you wrote on your blog? You know, about him being black,” Larr Bear almost whispered.

“Yes,” I said, smiling, as the table tried their best not to collectively gasp in horror. It was just like a family dinner. All I needed was for my grandmother to show up and ask me, why “if my boyfriend isn’t Jewish, why can't he at least be white?” to really complete the picture. The conversation then turned to everyone’s kids, when each couple’s pool was opening, and how much they had gambled away the weekend before at the casino. As I have no kids, no pool, and no money, I smiled, picked at my food, and continued to go through my set list in my head.

Dinner was finally finished and I thought I was finally up, but no. Now there was a live auction. And then there was the tallying of the silent auction bids. And then they were all announced. And then roughly 220 of the 250 people in the audience got up to get their coats and head home.
And then I heard “And now for your entertainment. She has been trapped in a self-cleaning toilet…” And my heart sank. Because now I had to try and entertain thirty people, spread out all over a banquet hall that fit 300, most of whom were talking, and all of whom had no interest in watching comedy.

I walked to the stage, which was actually just a podium, and asked,” So who here is single, in her twenties, and lives in New York? No one? Fantastic.” And the few people left looked up at me and smiled and continued their conversations with whoever was nearby.

I’d get a chuckle from the audience here and there and when I told a joke that indirectly dealt with sex I got an “ooooohh,” from one of the audience members. (I guess the woman had never had sex before.) And it was exactly that unpleasant for the next thirty minutes, until Larry signaled I could wrap it up. I walked offstage amazed that I hadn’t fled and hitchhiked back to NYC, as my brain had compelled me to.

“I am SO sorry, Emily,” Larr Bear said, rushing over. “I don’t know why they put you up after they were done everything else. You never had a chance. And you’re really funny, we were laughing the whole time,” he said, gesturing to our table of sympathetic smiling faces.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling like I just had one of those nightmares where you’re naked and telling jokes, except in this case, everyone could actually see me. “I’m just going to be over at the bar.” And I had just gotten a drink when Larr Bear grabbed me to drop me off at my hotel. And I figured, no big deal, I’d just hit up the hotel bar, like a good lounge lizard.

Larr Bear dropped me off, with another sympathetic look and my check, which helped a little. “Really, Em, don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll have you as the entertainment when I open up my pool this summer.” Ah, yes, any reason to drag myself back to Springfield. I half expected him to cuff me on the shoulder like some kind of movie pep talk as a single tear made its way down my face and the credits began to roll.

I walked into the hotel and realized there was no hotel bar. No, that would be in a classy hotel. And I was in the middle of nowhere, did I mention that? I’ll just hit my minibar, I figured. I shuffled over to the fridge, opened the door, and sighed once again. The fridge was completely empty. Eh, next best option, I’ll just watch the Lifetime Network and cry. It has the same effect, after all.

And at that moment, I realized two things: I was never coming back to Springfield, Massachusetts and Billie Holiday was right when she said, “there’s no damn business like show business—you just have to smile to keep from throwing up.”