Shit is just too fucking real now.
My survival plan for the next four years is this: when they go low, I get high.
Also, I watch Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. They are my secret Jewish shame. And - as my friend Monique pointed out - secret feminist shame. Those women. My God. All they want is a man. And they don't nab one by languishing, unwashed, in bed, watching TV, getting high and cursing at reactionary motherfuckers. Although that's totally how I got my man.
Getting high and watching Hallmark Christmas movies has got me thinking. This is the time of year when Mother Mary, if the pregnancy calculator app was right, was full into her third trimester with Jesus. And if Mary's pregnancy was anything like mine, she was probably in a pretty crappy mood by November; bloated and gassy and wishing Joseph would just keep the fuck away unless he was going to give her a non-sexual foot rub or bring her a mango smoothie and the remote.
I bet Jesus was an active baby in the womb, what with all that stones into bread practice. And turning water into wine, which probably freaked out poor Mary when she peed. I remember once I ate beets for dinner and the next morning I was sure I had uterine cancer. I woke up Robin and made him take me to the ER.
A trip to the ER by donkey was probably a long, hard day for Mary. Not made easier by third trimester hemorrhoids, amirite, ladies? Preparation H was probably only Preparation A back then.
I feel a kinship with Mary. We both raised Jewish boys, and that's a lot of pressure. Accomplishment is very big with our people. You can't just say, "so long as he's healthy and happy..." to your family. The barre cannot be that low. You have to start with the enrichment classes, the gifted programs, the violin lessons. No turning on "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" to let Him veg out in the afternoons while you nap on the couch. God forbid he blows the SAT and only gets into his safety school. Although that could be an important parable.
Also, Mary? Come over here, closer.
Girl, I don't exactly remember getting pregnant, either. There was wine and, I think, some musk massage oil in play and the next thing I knew, I was barfing up breakfast. Now I didn't claim immaculate conception - you had already taken that one- but, truly, anything could have happened that night. I was pretty wild back then. Between you and me, sometimes I look at my son and worry that he looks like our hot neighbor back in LA who used to mow the lawn wearing overalls and no tee shirt.
Of course, Mary's boy sweeps first place when it comes to accomplishment. No contest. He preached peace, even in the face of hate. He was courageous and committed to spreading the word about love. And he inspired a jewelry line of WWJD accessories.
I'm not competing with you, girlfriend. You raised an amazing man.
My boys, however, aced their SAT's and got into their first choices. Just saying.