I was purposefully tacky last night. It was a combination of three things:
1) Me feeling that I needed to check in with myself, having been taking my job and my "research" a bit too seriously as of late
2) My friend was being uptight. So, in essence, she was pretty much asking for it
3) Being woken up by a gaudy "Nuestra familia de la Fatima" parade at 9 a.m. yesterday morning. Seriously, I looked out my window and saw a group of guys dancing around—in unison, no less—dressed in the same outfits as the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. This alone is enough to make anyone ornery.
I met up with a bunch of my friends for drinks at a place called Stanton Social. Rachel*, who is a member of my go-to group of Jewish friends, was also there. She had just finished Sukkot dinner. I remember reading about this holiday in the Jewtopia Book and pinning it as one of my favorite in a line of Jewish "make believe" holidays (noun, Jewish holidays that require followers to reenact scenes from their ancestors' lives). I still can't tell if people really do make little huts and sleep in them or if that's an old tradition that's been selected against by the evolutionary process. Anyway, I didn't know how to pronounce it so I kept on calling it "Suck it" all night...more for effect than out of sheer ignorance.
Rachel is a very good Jew, so to speak. She corrected my pronunciation immediately ("Soo Coat"), but I liked my version better. "Suuuuuuukkkooooot," I challenged, drawing out the word for miles. Yep, my version was more original, and plus I was somewhat pleased with my cleverness (read: drunkenness). Needless to say, this irritated her. Still, I blathered on, making the holiday's name the butt of many an unspeakable pun:
"Oh, Rachel, don't be a sour puss. Sukkot up and be a good sport."
"You should have the cooks puree the French onion dumplings so you can sukkot all up through a straw like soup."
In response to our friend Sara's comment about a George Clooney look-alike's bulge: "Ah, Sara, you wanna sukkot, don't you?"
This comment, in particular, set Rachel off. And admittedly, I guess it was for good reason.
"You know [Not Chosen], I really thought you were making progress there for a minute. I guess what they say is true: You can take the something out of a something, but you can't take the something out of a something." —Where "something" was some tired Italian stereotype.
"You done?" I asked her.
"Ahh. Yes, I feel much better. Wanna shot?"
"Sure, that's what I've been getting at all night. We'll get some vodka, make a toast to the holiday and sukkot down, no chaser."
*Name changed to protect the innocent who would never use an Italian stereotype unless it was in reference to me. We're cool like that.