That's Life

Dear That’s Life,

Numerous yiddishisms have become part of a New Yorker’s everyday vernacular regardless of affiliation. You don’t have to be a member of the tribe to use the word shmear in a sentence. This morning, a DJ on the radio exclaimed that the LIE was completely ‘fakahked,’ and he’s no Nachum Segal.  No one asks permission from the New York Board of Rabbis before they use the word ‘oy’ and when Mike Meyers became ferklempt during his coffee talks on SNL, the ADL did not object. Simply put, it is just part of life in New York.

Knowing that you don’t go to a mall on a Sunday between Thanksgiving and Xmas has nothing to do with being a New Yorker — it has everything to do with having a brain. A top ten list of places to avoid during those weeks has to include midtown Manhattan and the Roosevelt Field Mall. And when you go there anyway and cars are trolling the parking lots, and following shoppers to their car like stalkers, you should just turn around and go home. But of course, we didn’t. We headed in.

Roaming around, I headed in to one store where I successfully picked out a Chanukah gift for my mother. I went to the register, dodging hordes of people and attempting to not hit anyone with my double stroller.

I gave my information to the woman behind the counter, including the shipping address for my mother’s gift, and explained that I wanted to include a card.

“No problem,” she replied and I began to dictate.

“Happy Chanukah,” I began, but then stopped when I realized she was looking at me, needing direction.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but could you tell me how to spell that?”

I was a little surprised that she did not know how to spell Chanukah. Didn’t she live in New York? And was I the first Jew to buy and ship a present from this store in all of the time she may have worked there? I know how to spell ‘Christmas’ and  ‘Kwanzaa’ — surely she should know how to spell ‘Chanukah.’

I smiled. “Sure,” I said, and began to spell it out.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I have been spelling it incorrectly all day.”

And then I had an idea. “Would you like me to write it down on a piece of paper so you can refer to it in the future?” I asked.

After looking at me like I was crazy (and, yes, I’ve seen that look before) she quietly handed me a pad of Post-it Notes and a pen. I smiled, wrote ‘Chanukah’ down on the paper and handed everything back to her.

“Thanks, this will come in very handy,” she said. I told her it was no problem.

“But let me just ask you,” I added. “You haven’t been writing ‘Happy Christmas’ instead of ‘Happy Chanukah’ by accident — have you?”

MLW

Dear That’s Life,

Last week I stopped at a Waldbaum’s in Levittown on my way home from my job at New Island Hospital in Bethpage. After placing my items on the checkout counter, the female cashier asked me what parish I am from. Not sure that I heard her correctly, I asked, “What did you say?” She asked again what parish I was from. I realized then that she must have thought I was a priest because I was wearing a navy blue full zipper fleece sweatshirt with the neck slightly open, showing part of a white tee shirt underneath. On top of the sweatshirt I was wearing a jacket.

I turned slightly so she could see the kippah on my head. She turned red in the face and apologized profusely for the next two minutes. I said that she would have a good laugh about this later, and I told her that she must think I am the rabbi of Levittown because I am probably the only person who ever set foot in this store wearing a kippah. She then inquired, “Are you a rabbi!” I said that I was not, but that I talk frequently to clergy. “What do you do?” she asked? I’m a doctor at New Island Hospital, I explained. “What type of doctor are you?” she wanted to know.

“I am an anesthesiologist,” I said, “and I hear confession before people go to sleep and many times when they wake up.”

I then paid my bill and was on my way.

Lewis Stein M.D.

Lawrence

Dear That’s Life,

Late one morning several weeks ago I walked into The Jewish Star newsroom bearing my customary 20-ounce cup of 7-Eleven coffee and a pack of apple-flavored fruit pies that I’d never gotten around to eating in the car between phone calls. Assistant Editor Michael Orbach followed me into my office eying the fruit pies very doubtfully.

“You really shouldn’t eat that,” he informed me.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t eat that,” he repeated. “They’re bad for you.”

Michael is prone to bouts of health-foodiness so I politely thanked him for his apparent concern for my well being but proceeded to eat my not-terribly-healthy breakfast while I listened to some voicemail messages.

It wasn’t until late that night that I briefly checked into my Facebook account, as Michael knew I eventually would, and noticed his extremely candid update from earlier in the day:

“Michael Orbach is working on a way to steal his boss’s (Mayer Fertig) fruit pie.”

Mayer Fertig