Sunday Brunch...

This past weekend my family gathered in Palm Beach for the unveiling of my Grandma's headstone.  For those of you that are unfamiliar with the Jewish religion, this is an event that takes place about 6 months after the initial funeral.  I loved my grandmother, however, as we were her "step" family (my grandfather got remarried when my father was in law school), she never really quite felt the same about my sister and me.  

Growing up, my mother made it a point to take the hour long drive to Palm Beach to have Sunday Brunch with my grandma and grandpa.  I remember thinking that my grandparents were very fancy as we ate on fancy china and a real table cloth- my house has paper plates and plastic cups. There was a catch with brunch, you should never tell my grandma that you liked a certain food item, because for the next 10 years, that item would be placed in front of you in a crystal bowl (this was my fate with cottage cheese-which I later grew to detest) and you were expected to eat an entire pint of the vile item.  Birthday's at grandma's involved cakes filled with fruit layers and some low-fat frosting...no 10-year-old wants to see fruit chunks between layers of vanilla and chocolate, not to mention the frosting, gross.  Overall, the brunch was a time to sit around and talk about what was going out with "the kids."  These brunches sort of lost their appeal once I was old enough to start having to help clean up.  Now I realized why we use paper plates in our house.

A day at grandma and grandpa's wouldn't be complete without swimming at the pool (with its dinosaur-sized lizards and a lively 70-85  year-old crowd) and an early dinner of KFC chicken buckets.  Started off the day as the Waltons' ended it like the Cosby's. 

After my grandfather passed away (thats another story involving a very religious Jew in a Catholic nursing home), our trips to my grandma's slowly ended as did my grandmother's health.  Outliving her care giver (I am not kidding) my grandma put up a great fight, and finally at the age of 100, she decided it was time to go.  On a side note- my father forgot to mention to my family that Iris, the care giver who lived with my grandma died, typical. 

At the funeral my grandmother's "blood" relatives came out in full force- as they and everyone knew, they would be getting her life savings and the place in Palm Beach.  My grandparents had opted to be buried in a terrible neighborhood- this was consistent with my grandmother's frugalness.  Prior to the funeral, like typical Friedman fashion, we had to use the restroom, dressed in our Sunday best, we stopped at a McDonald's that was decorated with Black History memorabilia.  When my family walked in every single head turned and stared as the four white Jews making a b-line to the restroom.  I did learn that air conditioning was created by an African American, so the trip was not a complete wash.

I never really liked audience participation in shows or events, and the idea to go around and say a memory about my grandmother made me nervous.  I wanted to think of something deep, yet memorable- when it was my turn, all I could think of was "She always had the food I wanted at brunch."  That wasnt going to be written on her headstone.  I was a bit perplexed because her "blood" relatives were talking about how she took them to Mexico, on cruises, paid for their nose-jobs and kept on mentioning her famous pie- um who the hell were we talking about- all she gave my sister and I were banana's, Nips and Kennedy half-dollars.

So now back to this last weekend, my family (and my grandma's side of the family) made their way back across the wrong side of the tracks  for her unveiling (you really do cross a train track- entering the bad part of town).  After hearing round two of how my grandma paid for this and that and how amazing her cooking was the stone was uncovered.  To set the scene, my grandma's entire family is hysterically crying, while my parents are standing there probably wondering if someone is in the process of taking the rims off of their car.  Looking at the headstone, my mother noticed that the year was incorrect- my grandma died in 2008- not 2003...curious, her head looked at the name to the left of hers- Leo?  Then it hit her, causing her to laugh- the entire ceremony (complete with music provided by portable speakers with an iPod) was conducted over the wrong bodies.  For nearly an hour, Leo and Sylvia Friedman were being told stories and sung to by complete strangers.

They eventually found the correct headstones and proceeded to do an abreviated service (dont worry the music was repeated) over my grandparents.  I know that somewhere they heard the entire service...probably eating that gross cake with a side of cottage cheese.

Clean it up kids,

Dan

Spring Break...

In college, if you were in a fraternity or sorority, wore Abercrombie and Fitch or a Nike headband with gelled up hair or owned a Prada black purse; Spring Break mean't one thing- Acapulco. Prior to my trip my grandmother passed away and my parents allowed me to go to Acapulco for my senior year as a way to "celebrate her."  This is what my parents said as I signed my life away on documents that stated that the travel agency was not responsible for my life if lost while mourning my grandmother.  Ironic.

After going to the gym for a month- I had to look big for the loads of hot girls-the big trip had arrived.  Starting out on a low note- I managed to leave my ATM card in the ATM.  Always a great start to a week-long trip to a foreign country.  Then I figured that I would probably lose it in Mexico, regardless; College Park, Maryland seemed like a safer place to lose a card.  After arguing our way into First Class, we arrived in Mexico wasted and fed.  The Hyatt (who had a page on Friendster at one point-silly) would be our home for the next week.  After checking in it was down to the pool.  

Claiming lounge chairs at the pool was an art.  Much like crazy teenagers that wait for Harry Potter Books in the freezing rain or as those of us that went to Maryland remember, waiting for Basketball tickets in the snow at Cole- getting a chair required you to get to the pool by the crack of dawn.  In an effort to outsmart and secure the best seats (terrace level facing the ocean), we decided to come home from the clubs, change and use our towels as blankets.  Who needs to sleep in the room you are paying $300 per night for...idiots.  

The highlight of our days at the pool arrived promptly at 5 (this was a very strict policy) and ended at 6, on the dot. However, in the 59 minutes making up this hour, chaos ensued.  It was here that I decided to become the MC for the pool area, taking command of the microphone doing a stand-up routine (where I basically made fun of those at the pool who were not binge-drinking).  At the end of the week,  I was known as the "guy from happy hour," my grandmother would be so proud.

At night, it was pretty much the same- however, the lounge chairs were replaced with $2000 tables with bottles.  I could not tell you what the names of any of these clubs were- but like those that came before me, I did "Dance with the Devil"  (who rumor has it is gay) and watch the sunrise through the clubs large windows.  This "Devil" character was a man painted with silver who stood on a large podium - really got the japs going.  I have a feeling Elmo could be standing on a podium and we would have gone equally insane (who even knew what was going on).  I dont remember much about those nights, but I do know that everyone was taking some sort of prescription sleeping pill that to be honest I think my grandmother was taking prior to her passing (Again ironic).  The highlight of the evening were the fireworks that streamed down from the ceiling, which I am sure would have broken many fire codes back in the US.

I dont want you to think that I was not able to take in the scenery of Mexico, aside from the Hyatt and the random nightclubs we stumbled into like drunks.  While lounging at the pool, my body sent me a message that it was over my vacation of tequila, vodka and quesadillas.  I proceeded to throw up what I thought was blood.  My quick thinking (and my wasted condition) led me to my "little brother" from my fraternity...after asking him if he could speak Spanish, we were off to the hospital.  

My little brother was not the brightest bulb; he often left his keys in his car, and frequently went days without showering, but he was perhaps the nicest guy I knew- and the thought that he didnt speak Spanish never crossed my mind.  Upon entering the hospital, which resembled a makeshift lab featured in the movie "Saw", I found myself playing a game of charades with the doctor...or man dressed in a white coat playing doctor, who knows.  After no tests or coherent exchange, I was given pills and determined that the "blood" was really my happy hour margarita, ole, oh vey.  

I will always remember my time in Mexico...I know this because I brought my video camera to capture the seven days of binge-drinking of me and my friends.  In addition to running around the hotel slurring my words, jumping in girls showers and filming hours of incoherent life altering conversation- I managed to film myself sitting on my bed doing nothing, talking to myself for two hours.  This movie will certainly not earn me an Oscar nod, but I do have some great footage for studies on alcohol and teenagers.  Wouldn't my grandmother be proud.

Clean it up Kids,

Dan

 

Food Stamps, Part 2...

I remember when I got the letter than I technically had been working 13 years for- the letter of either acceptance or rejection from the University of Maryland.  Of course, I had to have my mother call the minute that the letter arrived.  There I was in debate, stealing quarters from the debate candy closet (see previous blog) and I was called to the phone.  Looking back- it all seems like Beverly Hills 90210, how did my mother have the number to the debate room's phone?  

It's funny how you find out that you are in college in October of your senior year...like I dont get the point of the rest of the school year?  My senior year was a series of dumb acts- Melissa dared me to take off my pants in AP History (I did it), going to house parties and drinking alcohol that were in bright pastel colors (seems thats not so normal), reading Cliff notes instead of the actual books.  Not sure who this Cliff character is- but he certainly had a smart idea.  Once I got into college, I quickly dropped out of my Honor Physics and Math courses...lets be honest, I was in, and I was not going to be a scientist or mathematician.  I switched right into "Volpe World."  Where the tests involved coloring and re-taking tests that you did badly on (using the same version of the previous failed test).  A retired non, Mrs. Volpe was perhaps the friendliest and dumbest teacher on earth.  We used to literally run into the class, sign in, and then proceed to run out the back entrance of the classroom.  Good Times.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand.  Food Stamps.  I have to say that while I really learned a lot from applying for food stamps, I found the entire process very annoying.  So today, the second most important letter I would receive arrived- the decision regarding my food stamp situation. On a side note, the postage was only $0.34 cents- no wonder why the Postal Service is having a hard time, the government that runs it is stiffing them on postage.  Unlike my acceptance from years before, Daniel Friedman's "January 28th, 2009 request for food stamps...NOT APPROVED."  I appreciated how they took time to bold this decision.  My dreams of running through Whole Foods as if I was on Supermarket Sweep were over.  I could take the matter to the next level and request a fair hearing, but that involved a lot- and the office is not located near my apartment.  

Since the government didnt find me needy enough to warrant food stamps, I will stick to my weekly Chipotle lunches subsidized by my friend Sara.  A pound of beans, chicken, rice, lettuce topped off with an absurd amount of sour cream and cheese makes anyone forget about the lack of a job.  

Clean it up kids,

Dan