Chanukah smackdown

Perhaps in the truest spirit of Chanukah, a fellow Upper West Side Bloggette has called my partially Spartan Greek self (genetically residing in my eyebrows and temper mostly ) out.  

"Tastic", as she called up here in the Pussy Precinct (so named by neighborhood cops), is aside from being a writer and antagonizer of innocent semi-Hellenes, a b-girl, an ex-pat Orthodox woman of the Jewish persuasion, and occasionally a very nice person.  For the purposes of this post, I rename myself Feta and will strike a warlike Athena pose.

Let the smackdown commence.

Apparently, Tastic and friends were discussing over a lovely shabbat meal, the Jewish laws of Harchakot, which state a man must keep a healthy distance from a woman if she is bleeding.  Not exactly challah talk, but anyway.  Basically, and I'm still very much a student, this rule means no sex for once a month for 7 days or so.  However.  It also can mean for the wildly observant, the prevention of a husband/soon-to-be-dad to be in a delivery room of his wife/soon to-be-mother of his child. The question arose: if it's a no- sex rule, why in GdashD's name would a couple be screwing in the Delivery Room?  

Good question.  It was decided by the shabbatniks that, if that were to happen, it would be the ultimate Oedipal triangle.  Dad on Mom on Newborn.  Remember, I had no part in this discourse.

The challenge is this: To find something more Oedipal.   You're Greek, said she.

Here's the deal, I've racked my proudly depraved brain for all eight days of the festival of Light.  A holiday, which essentially celebrates the rededication of the Holy Temple, but not before kicking some serious Greek ass for making Jews get their Zeus on.  Enter irony stage right.

But while I'm getting historic about it, there was a time when ancient Jews and Greeks coexisted fairly sanely, before the crazy King Antiochus had to go and pull the idol worship stuff.  But I digress, hellenically.

In short, I cede to my Jewish counterpart, my little Miss Maccabee, on the last night of Chanukah, just as it was done some 2,ooo plus years ago or so.  You definitely have the sicker mind. My people never thought to make it a menage-a-trois.  We've progressed, I promise.

So to all of you, from Feta, a partial Spartan who has lit her very first menorah this year, Happy Chanukah, all 18 ways you spell it.  Exit irony stage left.

Code Tasti

We live in an age of alerts.  

There's the color coded terror kind.  There's the Amber Alert child abduction variety.  Then there's that weird, jarring, old school t.v. broadcasting alert which makes one wonder: What would/will happen if for once it said, "THIS IS NOT A TEST".  

In short, there aren't many warnings that do anything but inspire hording a water supply, grabbing a flashlight, and hiding the children.

But then came Tasti D-Lite.

Just when you thought frozen dessert couldn't get any easier, Tasti has announced Flavor Alerts.  Got a favorite flave- no problem- let them know and you'll be notified via text when it's featured.  Want to know what's on tap at your local frozen paradise?  Just check your email.

Forget that these alerts are like the crack dealer who knows where you live and buzzes you to see if you need more rock, I love it.  Tasti is my rock and I look forward to the text that reads:

CHOCOLATE NY CHEESECAKE & PEANUT BUTTER FUDGE. XO TDL

Malachy's Blues

I got an incredible case of the Malachy's Blues tonight.  

It was less of the classic mournful rainy day sing into your Guiness kind that the joint is famous for.  The place is a gem, albeit in need of a polish, and is one of the last great Irish with a capitol I, Erin Go Braugh, dives on the Upper West Side,  There's a bartender named Fenton with a bonafide brogue, if you know what I mean.

It's like Cheers only dirtier, and if Sam Malone was a mean, barking brogue speaker who teaches Catholic school during the day,  and I played both the parts of Carla and Diane.

Back to my blues, since this is my narcissistic blog.

I was pouring two  thick pints of Guiness somewhere around 8- an activity I generally find really Zen- and waves of something kept rising in me.  Nothing was wrong.  I felt okay, but the tears were beginning to brim.  So much so in fact, that I did that dumb thing you do when you're about to cry- open your eyes bigger and bigger with the hope that if the eye socket is big enough it will somehow stop the sob.

Maybe I'm becoming Irish.

I am prone to ethnic osmosis.  In the dark days of Williamsburg, I assumed a very cracked out Puerto Rican persona.  In the East Village I was especially bitchy in that Ukranian way.  And the Upper West Side, my current locale, has provided the neurotic/natural fit of the  Jewishish writer/actor, who scribbles notes about her misery in dark dank pubs called Malachy's.

Maybe it was the jukebox barrage of classic NYC suicide songs that had me down.  There's only so many times one can hear, "New York State of Mind."  Or perhaps it was the same old sweet, slightly pathetic crowd of career alcoholics that line the bar.  Everyone has their unofficial assigned seat and if someone is missing, it goes noticed,  This bar is their living room, life, and their family.  

But probably it was just the sometimes overwhelming feeling that life is relentless and I too am relentless and tired and I wish to never serve another pint of anything for the rest of my life.

  Then again, it could just be hormones.

Whate'er it be, I've got the Malachy's blues.  Oh yah.