Mayrav Saar

Season's Greetings from the Land of Subtle Seasons

Per a sweet request from Anne Mulkern, I'm posting this very oldie (but hopefully goodie). Enjoy:

I'm back from New York, back from inhaling that telltale scent of pending rain. From gazing across undulating acres of red and gold leaves that turn common prairie into extravagant spectacle. I'm back from the crisp autumn air that pulls vapor ghosts out of your mouth. From a land where buildings are so old, there might be real ghosts inside. I'm back from a place with ``real seasons,'' and I have to say: I'm not impressed.

Yeah, nature's pretty and all. But it's also cold. And cold sucks. I don't know or care how many sparkly lights you put on your roof to illuminate the darkened sky, or how many Oreos you use to decorate your snowman: If it's cold, you're miserable. And if you're not miserable, you're faking it.
I've lived in Chicago, Virginia and Kentucky. I've traveled around the country, braving snowstorms on dinky highways. I know from seasons. And I know that there is a reason I live here now.

I'm originally from here, from a land where people play tennis in shorts. At night. In December. When I was a kid, we'd take day trips to ``visit the snow'' in Lake Tahoe. I thought it glorious. I thought it magical. I thought it vastly unfortunate that I didn't live in a place with ``real seasons.''

But I have come to realize two things about Southern California: 1. It is filled with Midwest and East Coast transplants who bemoan the lack of snow while slapping on sunscreen; and 2. It does have seasons.

Beauty Is A Beast

I haven't been great about moving my columns to this here site, but the recent shooting at a LGBT facility in Tel Aviv made me feel compelled to put this puppy up. It's a bit dated, but enjoy...

It’s been a month since Donald Trump let an ugly bigot parade around as a beauty queen, and I still haven’t been able to rid my mind of the grotesque sight.

Gay hatred scares the biblically correct nipples off of me. As an American. As a human. And, particularly, as a Jew.

The insidiousness of homophobia, the casual acceptance of it, reminds me so much of how some of the Muslim world (and larger and larger pockets of Europe) talks about Jews. We’re vilified and dehumanized. Told we should be wiped off the face of the Earth. No offense.

An Open Letter to My Mother

Get off Facebook.

True, Facebook allows you to reconnect with former co-workers. It lets you and your girlfriends share pictures (those who have figured out how to upload pictures, anyway). And – yay! – you now have a forum to tell the world exactly how you feel about Michael Jackson. 

But, Mom, please find another way to do all this. Get a cable access TV show. Host coffee klatches. Staple flyers to utility poles. Whatever you do, stop using social networking sites. (You may still use e-mail, but please keep forwarded messages about killer tampons and men who hide under women’s cars at night to a minimum.)

My Dirty Little Secret

Here's a dirty secret: I haven't washed my hair in five days.

I would. I have nothing against shampoo. But I can’t wash my hair because I no longer know how. 

At some point during puberty, my nice, normal wavy locks took a twisted turn. I woke up one morning to find a mass of matted, frizzy poodle fur atop my yiddishe kop, and I had no idea what to do with it.  

Naturally, I did everything wrong: I brushed it. I blow-dried it. I applied product after product to it to make it look less… less… Jewish. But nothing worked. Like a bat mitzvah present I couldn’t return, I was stuck with it. 

Kids being the tolerant beings that they are made me feel totally comfortable with my new look by endowing me with such loving nicknames as “Cave Woman” and “Yeti.” 

Look Who's Shoving For Dinner

Among the childhood episodes Zev will likely recount to his inevitable future therapist, I imagine “the thing at the diner” will come up a lot.

“I’m sitting there between my mom and dad,” he’ll probably begin. “And mom’s furiously cutting up a goat-cheese and Kalamata omelet on my plate while dad is trying to shove half a buttermilk pancake down my throat.”

“Uh-huh,” the therapist will say, her mind wandering off to visions of fabric swatches and yacht interiors.

“And they’re each piling it on, Mom with her lox scramble and Dad with his sugar-coated blueberry muffin.”

“Hmm.”

“My mouth is opened and stuffed like a garbage disposal, grinding away all these incompatible flavors while my parents battle for the bragging rights to cultural dominion.”

After Hubby converted, we thought we had worked out all the ethnic kinks: Any kids we had would, of course, be raised Jewish. All trans-Atlantic travel would include a stop to Israel. And, it should go without saying, no Christmas trees.

But there are subtleties to mixed marriages that we had never considered – bittersweet subtleties that play less on our ideologies, and more on our tongues.