It’s not easy being a Jew:

I’m not Jewish.  I’m really not anything.  But I am seriously dating a Jew and I have many Jewish friends.  And I must say, my hat is off to you folks and what you are forced to endure every time the Catholics celebrate one of their pagan holidays.    What an incredible pain in the ass it is to accomplish anything for you and I should say “us” now, on such holiday’s, of which you don’t even get to celebrate.   I’ve never really “celebrated” Easter anyway so I went into yesterday, thinking “this will just be a nice normal Sunday”.  Below is a timeline of how myself and my girlfriend’s day went yesterday. 

Saturday April 23^rd, 3:00 PM:

As I do almost every Saturday, I dropped my dirty laundry off at the local Laundromat to be picked up later that day. 

Saturday April 23^rd, 7:00 PM:

We meet up with some of my girlfriend’s crew to celebrate one of her friend’s birthdays.  I planned on being there for maybe a couple of hours, having a nice dinner, and going home after retrieving my laundry from the Laundromat.   Instead, the party turned out to be a blast, and I drank two Martini’s and two Bombay and Sprite’s.  On the way home we forgot to pick up my laundry but I did remember to pick up a chicken sandwich meal and a peanut buster parfait from Dairy Queen.  We then, went home, watched Ghostbusters and passed out.  Never for a minute, did I think about my laundry situation.

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 9:00 AM:

I rouse from a long, dreamless slumber in my usual pajama pants and tee shirt.  I roll out of bed and immediately notice that my usual stack of clean clothes is absent from my floor and closet.  At that point, I remember what I had done and that it is Easter and there is a good chance that the Laundromat will be closed and I will be unable to pickup my laundry.  Now over the years, I have become a virtual Gold Glover in regards to making my “second unit” clothing items work for a day or two or three.  But the day before, I made a conscience effort to pack as much shit into my laundry basket as I could to be cleaned.  This included my starting rotation of clothing items as well as a good percentage of my bullpen and third unit items.  I was left with nothing but the stuff that I would have a hard time getting Good Will to accept. 

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 11:00 AM:

My girlfriend and I decided to go out for lunch and eventually hit the driving range as it was a gorgeous day outside.  So I marched into my bedroom and put on my stoned washed Levi Jeans and a graphic, muscle tee-shirt with a huge football helmet on the front of it.  I looked like a man who wasn’t sure if he was going to a tryout for the 1985 Philadelphia Eagles or to a Motley Crew Concert.  I didn’t even remember that I owned this particular pair of jeans.   I can’t imagine why I would have ever purchased them or when they were ever “in style”,   they had more holes in them then the US Healthcare System, and were tight enough in the crotch area to be widely considered, socially unacceptable.  Especially since all of my underwear was at the shackled Laundromat.  I was forced to pair them up with the always popular muscle, graphic tee made famous by ripped UFC cage fighters, not so much overweight 30 year old men in the midst of a mean hangover. 

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 11:30 AM:

We decided to go for lunch at my friends bar in Lincoln Rhode Island.   Surely Dave would have his bar open on Easter.  After a 30 minute drive we came to an empty parking lot in front of his bar and found a note from Dave on the door stating that the bar would not be open for two hours and when it was, there would be a “limited” menu.  So we didn’t feel like waiting two hours for whatever sort of limited menu Dave had to offer.   This really put a strain on my ego.  Now I would be forced to go to some other public place to eat looking like Joe Dirt’s fatter brother. 

We continued deeper into Rhode Island, all the while choosing different places we would like to eat.  One by one, they dropped off the list like flies.  Johnny Rockets – Closed, Chipotle – Closed, Pisano’s Pizzeria – Closed, Panera Bread – Closed.  The only thing that was open was the always delicious Boston Market.  So I ended up sitting in a Boston Market, in Cranston Rhode Island, eating Turkey, Mashed Potatoes and Macaroni and Cheese for lunch, looking like some kind of Cinderella Super Fan who had been hit by a car.  

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 12:15 PM:

We leave Boston Market and get back into my truck and head to the driving range.  Surely, the management of the driving range would not allow the facility to be closed on such a beautiful spring day.   Well they were closed.  My frustration had been mounting all day.  On the way out of the parking lot, I yelled, and I quote, “Fuck my Life!” , prior to realizing that my window was down and that there was a carload of old ladies directly next to me.  They were none to pleased.

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 12:30 PM:

After a solid hour and a half of driving around being repeatedly disappointed we decided to go throw the football in the park.  Luckily the park was open and we had a great time playing catch.  Unfortunately my fun was short lived because I stepped in dog shit and then stepped into a pile of wood chips, which stuck to the dog shit and coated the bottom of my shoe.  So I found myself walking home, in my holy, stoned washed Levi’s, my graphic muscle tee and my shoe covered in dog shit. 

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 4:30 PM:

At this point, I had a chance to unwind and for some reason was stricken by an extreme hankering for Honey Bunches of Oates.  Anyone who knows me knows that this particular cereal is a mainstay in my pantry.   But I had run out the previous week.  Surely the grocery store would be open, it wasn’t.  We pulled into the grocery store parking lot at the same time as what must have been another Jewish couple.  My girlfriend got out and verified that the store was indeed not open.  When I saw this, I slammed my fist into the steering wheel and yelled some sort of expletive.  At nearly the exact same time, the other Jewish couple also realized that the store was not open and in their frustration yelled “Fuck” at the top of their lungs, which reverberated through the parking lot like a gun shot.  I found this situation comforting.  It let us know that we weren’t alone in our dissapointment.  There were probably hundreds of others, just like us, struggling to enjoy their Sunday. 

Easter Sunday April 24^th, 5:00 PM:

I’m still wearing my graphic muscle tee shirt in which I look like a 5^th grader who swallowed a penguin.  I still have my 80’s rocker, nut hugging jeans on, of which my reproductive system will never be the same and now I had my backup skateboarder tennis shoes on because my Cole Han’s are now at home covered in dog shit and wood chips.  And I am walking into a CVS Pharmacy to buy Honey Bunches of Oates.  Luckily they were running a sale on cereal and I made it out of there with 3 boxes, milk and a quart of ice cream. 

We went home and enjoyed our cereal and ice cream and watched Pretty in Pink.  And that was my Easter.  Thanks a lot Catholics.