Mayrav Saar

I Love My Hairy Monkey

Leslie wanted to know how I did it. How I could possibly look my husband in the eye, tell him some horribly insulting thing and still stay married.

"For instance," she said, "if I were to say to My Man, 'Your teeth are so small, they look like corn nuggets,' he would divorce me. But that's something you say to your husband all the time."

I also tell him he has more forehead than face. And, in my more loving moods, I call him my "hairy monkey."

I say these things because they are true, because they make me laugh and because, if I didn't say them – or if I didn't feel as though I had the space in my marriage to say them – I would lose my mind.

The inner workings of other people's relationships will always be shrouded in mystery. But I honestly can't understand how couples who don'tengage in marital mockery stay together.

So asked one of them.

"Sesame Street" Is On The Wrong Side Of Town

Mom asked me if I had heard the news. Of course I had heard the news. I was just hoping that she hadn't heard the news, because I really didn't want to talk about it.

In case you haven't heard: Season One and Two of "Sesame Street," which aired in the early 70s, is now available on DVD – except, it's been deemed unacceptable for preschool children. That's right: Adults only Muppets.

Seems the censors had second thoughts about exposing toddlers to misanthropes, over-eaters with weird junky-like tendencies, closeted couples and 7-foot-tall talking birds who hallucinate about hairy, earless elephants. Go figure.

I Dress For My Man. My 2-Year-Old Man

 

I left the house the other morning in a Thumper thermal under a Hello Kitty T-shirt, shoes bearing embroidered monkeys and boy shorts covered in pink French poodles that poked ever-so-slightly out of the top of my jeans. I was – as I realized way too late – ridiculous-looking.

Ten years ago, when everyone was dressing like children, with barrettes and Mary Janes, my duds would have been adorably en vogue. But in this era of elegant circle dresses and skinny jeans, I looked like an oversized Muppet who had lost her way. A big doll that had somehow stumbled out of a kid’s playroom and staggered into the street.

Of course, that’s exactly what I am.

We women always dress for our men (or our women, depending on our orientation – but you get the idea). If the person we’re trying to impress mentions a passing fancy for purple, we’ll raid a Prince reject sample sale just to supplement our wardrobe. Tell us we look good in animal prints, and we’ll start hunting our own pelts.

Unfortunately, the “man” I’ve been trying to wow with my wardrobe thinks the height of haute couture is not soiling your Elmo underpants. Consciously and not, I have built up a wardrobe of cartoon-festooned clothes meant to impress my toddler.

In Vegas, And All In (The Family)

 

Mom has tried her best to make us all feel like a family. We’re a blended mishmash of adults – children who each lost one parent at too young an age and watched with tempered happiness as our remaining parent remarried. So it hasn’t always been an easy fit.

For several years, Mom and her husband have encouraged all of their children to sit respectfully at each other’s tables, gathering for religious holidays and all five of our babies’ birthdays. She has set us up on evenings out together, encouraged us to seek advice from one another, facilitated the trading of hand-me-downs. And over time, I have to say, we have gotten to feel much closer.

Still, when faced with yet another Thanksgiving crammed into Mom’s dining room with my 16-person “family,” I contemplated mainlining tryptophan and sleeping through the whole ordeal.

Thanksgiving was difficult enough before Mom remarried. For a few years, the traditional turkey side dishes included tongue. There never seemed to be enough room at the table, and Mom usually spent more time thinking about the centerpieces than the actual food.

Last year we got out of Thanksgiving by spending it with Zev’s best friend, Aidan, and his parents at a restaurant. No mess. No fuss. No marshmallow yams. This year, we one-upped ourselves and headed to Vegas.

Happy Holidays. Here's A Big Box Of Nothing.

Before my birthday one year, my grandmother sent me a brown paper package containing a present and a note. I can't remember what was in the package, but I remember the note quite well. In it, she told me that this would be the last birthday gift I would ever get from her.

I was a teenager, too old to be getting birthday presents, she explained. Besides, she had so many grandkids (and was starting to have great-grandkids) that it was just no longer reasonable for all of us to expect lovely brown paper packages each time the Earth spun around the sun.

That's it. Store's closed.

She worded it quite sensibly, and I didn't take it personally. But I do remember thinking that I was being penalized for the fact that I had so many cousins – something that was really beyond my control. Why not just scale down our presents – scarves instead of sweaters – rather than do away with them altogether? I didn't get it.

Now I do.