Why I'm a Bad Person and a Worse Jew
I love everything about my brother's kid, and I love being an uncle. As the unofficial motto goes, uncledom gives me all the joys of parenthood without any of the responsiblity. That's pretty much been my life story as America's Guest, so that works for me.
After playing with the nephew and my cousin's girl this weekend, I think I'd enjoy being a father right now. For serious (I really love the phrase "for serious"). But as much as I think I'm ready, I'm not nearly mature enough to be a husband. So I'm totally backwards, the opposite of how most men see their lives in their late 20s. I wouldn't mind a kid, but I would mind a wife.
That questionable mindset led me to offhandedly declare at Saturday's wedding that I now hope to meet and marry some good-looking girl with great genes and intellect but poor birthing hips that will lead to her tragic death after childbirth.
My parents would love to help me raise the kid, and I'd probably get tons of sympathy sex. Maybe (s)he'll grow up poorly without a mother, but I think I can help him or her adjust. As long as (s)he doesn't think I killed their mother intentionally, I think we're golden grahams. Anyway, is that the stupidest and most mischievous train of thought I've ever expressed out loud? Up for debate, but I think so. Terrible.
I also might be the worst Jew in the world. It's not like I'm actively rooting for Hezbollah or anything, but I'm just a bad Jew in general. One of my best friends bestowed an amazing honor me this weekend, asking me to sign his Ketubah, which for all the goyim out there is a marriage contract between a husband and wife. And like Ron Burgundy, the ketubah is kind of a big deal.
We had to sign our Hebrew names on the ketubah, which posed a small problem. I have no idea what my Hebrew name is (not terribly uncommon). Strike one, says the Rabbi presiding over the closed-door session. I tracked down my vacationing parents and got my Hebrew name, and I hung up. "What's your father's Hebrew name?" asked the Rabbi. "Your name is your name AND your father's name." My mother's phone was somehow off when I called right back, so I had to pretty much had to make up my full name. No, not "pretty much," I fully signed a fabricated name. Strike two, says the Rabbi.
Then I became the ultimate Jewmoron...the Rabbi wrote out my Hebrew name on a Post-It note for me to literally copy onto the ketubah, as he did for the other signees. He then said "Why don't you take some practice on the paper before you sign it for real?," and I thought that was a great idea. I started with the first letter on the left and thought I did a fantastic job.
The Rabbi looked at me with a burning look of incredulity. "Okaaaay, but how about now you try writing from right to left like we do in the Jewish religion?" Strike three, jew are outta there.
Those years of Hebrew school really paid off...I can't even remember how to fucking read and write correctly. Well, maybe I'm not such a bad Jew in toto, maybe I'm just an illiterate Jew.