Flight of the RefuJews

“What you mean he don’t eat no meat? Oh, that’s okay. I make lamb.”

For those just joining the program, my husband and I are playing host to a few of Hurricane Wilma’s refugees from South Florida. His aunt and uncle had enough of the boys’ endless questions. (Oldest son: “Why do you walk so slow?” Youngest son: “Does ‘old’ mean you’re going to die soon?”) They took a cross-country flight to California this morning. That leaves just my mother-in-law, my attitude, and my hair trying to share one house.

Actually, I jest. I’m a jester. Nothing but mad love ‘round here.

I feel so comfortable with Jews that converting several years back was simply a foregone conclusion. They’re like my Irish relatives – minus the drunk-before-noon habit. Both ethnic groups are obsessed with food, talk/breathe/chew loud enough to hear from Guam, and participate in discussions only to bring every topic back to themselves. No matter the subject.

“My ass is killing me.”

“Oh, don’t get me started, darling. Once, my sphincter was in such turmoil…”

Good times. But seriously, I’ve learned a lot from having elderly Heebs in the hizouse.

--First of all – once a shiksa, always a shiksa. (“Pronounce Simchat with more of a choking sound, bubella. It hurts my head the way you say it.”)

--New Orleans doesn’t know from disaster. Dead bodies floating in water and the displacement of thousands is nothing! (“Tamarac is like a war zone! Trees are down, Mah Jong tournaments got canceled. Don’t tell me about suffering.”)

--Speaking of South Florida, according to real authorities – Condo Commandants calling my house every ten minutes – here’s the true story: “The governor hates Broward County because we’re Jews and Democrats. Hispanics in Miami? They get the lights!”

--File under Complete Waste of Time – looking for nutritional value in daily dinner of blintzes, sour cream and jelly. Ever suggest broccoli to a bunch of Yiddish-speaking crazy people? It’s a wonder I’m still alive.

--Note to self: Screaming inside head causes laryngitis just like screaming out loud. Who knew? Now I cannot speak and everyone is pretending to be quite disappointed. This morning, one son suggested throat clearing as my “squeaks” bothered his ears. Another son points the remote control at me to “raise the volume”, but nothing works. Husband thanked God several times.

Authorities say power might be out until the end of November. Is it a sin to pray for a coma?