Category Archives: Family Life
I recently received some feedback from someone whose opinion I highly respect. She’s not happy with the name I call my husband here in Miriyummyland: Ju-Boy. To quote:
You’re spelling it differently (and maybe this is a post-modern way of reversing the meaning of a term), but “Jewboy” was used as a derogatory appellation, usually preceding a fight…
This is not the first time someone has commented on my choice of nickname (blogname? blognomer?). But his name comes with history. My husband was first called Ju-Boy back in his Carmel College days. In the tradition of English public schools (the equivalent of North American prep schools), almost everyone had a nickname. J had quite a few, and Ju-Boy was given to him by one of his best friends.
Yes, I can see how my perception can irk people the wrong way, and I apologize. So does the man in question. I am relishing the moment, it’s not often that he apologizes, even though it’s not really an apology at all. Read and decide:
Summer. Yes, it’s hot out there. Summer in the Middle East, really hot out there. Summer in Ra’anana, hot, muggy and uncomfortably hot out there. So what are the two things that relax me the most in the summer? I like to slave over a hot stove, I like to bake things in the oven, and I like to knit and crochet. Granted, the AC needs to be working. Without the AC my favorite thing to do in the summer is to lie supine in bed, in a coma. Wake me in November.
I grew up in New York City. The Bronx, to be specific. Freezing cold winters, hot and shvitzy summers. My parents, like most of the New York Jews of the 50s, 60s and 70s, would pack up a small version of their entire house, pots, pans, bedding and birdcages, and shlep up to the Catskill Mountains for over two months of fresh air and the chance to experience a unique sub-culture.
It’s Friday morning and I’m puttering around in the kitchen starting to cook for Shabbat. Ju-Boy is off talking to God, Chip is snoring away after a late night out. Didi would love to be snuggled deep in bed after a late night out, but she’s off early for her National Service gig. I’ve got the kitchen all to myself, Barry White is on the stereo (you all should know, Barry is excellent for cooking, while The Boss is the best music for cleaning), when I hear a noise on the stairs. Shy-Boy, despite the fact that he went to bed late last night after a marathon of X-Boxing, shuffles into the kitchen, helps himself to a bowl a cereal and utters the magic words, “Can I help?”