A 50-year-old Israeli man has just been granted his eleventh divorce--BBC
I don't like RSVPing to bar mitzvahs. And I don't like bar miitzvahs. And I don't like my nephew Sammy. So you RSVP to Sammy's bar mitzvah. You get this goddamned, oversized series of gaudy envelopes off the mantle where it's been for the past 35 minutes and you RSVP no to Sammy. And don't send a gift.
I like a hot platter. I don't mean tepid and I don't mean warm. If there's lettuce, parsley, or other garnish on that plate, I want to see it wilt. I want to see those cherry tomatoes pop. I want that plate so hot it not only burns your hand and singes the hair on your wrist, I want you looking like Johnny Tremain by the time you get to the table. I want you scared, nervous, and deformed.
I, however, do not like to anxiefy. You know what makes me anxiefy besides oversized, gaudy bar mitzvah invites and tepid platters? Expensive, unworn boots. If I see a pair of boots that cost more than 240 shekels in your closet and I realize I have not seen you in those boots in public within the last four weeks, I will anxiefy.
If I anxiefy, you will not have a birthday this year. Your birthday will be cancelled. You will spend it waxing my back with a hard-to-open tin of Turtle Wax. So help me God, do not have me anxiefy six months to either side of your birthday or you will regret it.
Two sharpened pencils. At my desk. Every morning. Different pencils each day. Do not sharpen the same two pencils or even the same pencil two consecutive days or I will put you out in the gazebo copying the Torah by hand. On a grain of rice.
A cup of hot coffee. Not tepid, not warm, not room temperature. Scalding. Coffee so goddamned hot watching its surface brings to mind Pompeii. Place the coffee to the right of my pencils. Why? None of your business why. Your business is to make sure you're seen in public in those 242-shekel boots within the next four weeks, to sharpen my pencils, and to RSVP to that bar mitzvah. But don't use my pencils.
Don't touch my things. Don't touch my manicure scissors, my nail clippers, my Mason Pearson brush, my stapler, or my driving gloves. Don't touch my ashtray, my shuffleboard cue, or my Turtle Wax.
Don't move things. Including yourself. Don't stand in my light, cast a shadow, block my sightlines, obstruct, obfuscate, or hinder in any manner. Keep out of my way. If you're in my way I--don't interrupt--I anxiefy.
Treat me with respect. Honor me. Be true. Loyal. Faithful. Fidelity is all. Do not let your hand linger over that Tel Aviv greaseball of a parking attendant's when he gives you the car keys. I saw. I am not blind. Honor your vows or out comes the Turtle Wax and the grain of rice.
My balls. Care for my balls. Make sure the mesh protector in my bathing trunks is adequate to house me. Do not let my scrotum be exposed to Ben, his wife, and their neighbor for a full half-hour as it was last summer at the pool while we discussed the Holocaust.
My dietary requirements are few but they are, as the word implies, required. I eat cereal with my hands; have never liked a spoon. Corn Flakes, Shredded Wheat, Alpen: all with my hands. Up to the knuckles. Particularly Alpen. Also hot cereals: Maypo, Wheateena, and Cream of Wheat. To be eaten with my hands. No spoons. Make sure the Cream of Wheat is hot. Sizzling.
I will not swim in a pool alone or in a pool occupied by more than three others. For this reason I was reluctant to join Ben, his wife, their neighbor and you in the pool last summer. I only joined to hide my scrotum.
No drive-thru windows. Never, ever, ever ask me to accompany you through a drive-thru window, be it at a bank or fast-food franchise. I drive through nothing. Including a Sequoia in northern California.
If you couldn't hold a pencil under one of your breasts the day I married you (and you couldn't), then I expect you not to be able to hold a pencil under one of your breasts after a dozen years of matrimony. Don't use one of my current or previously-sharpened pencils.
No FAO Schwarz. I hate that place. Those kids jumping on that foot-activated, floor-sized, Day-Glo keyboard making idiotic music and smiling while unwittingly advertising a product no one in his right mind would ever buy makes me despair. Keep me away from FAO Schwarz. Don't let me within eight blocks of it. Whatever it takes: physical restraints, GPS, hypnosis. Keep me away or else. Now get me my pills.
