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A Story in Honor of Lucille Ball's Birthday

I grew up watching a lot of TV. A LOT. There were five people in my family and there were four TVs in the house. My sister and I were lucky enough to have our own B&W white Panasonic in the small bedroom we shared. We'd watch TV movies of the week about teen prostitutes and drug abuse, afternoon specials about freaky kids who lived in closets, Dark Shadows, and of course I Love Lucy. Out of all the shows on the air, I could relate to Lucy the most. The Brady Bunch kids were too goodie-goodie, the kids on ZOOM could do things with their arms that I could never master but Lucy fucked up all the time. My kinda lady.

As a Jewish kid I was always looking for Jewish characters to relate to, but there weren't any in primetime television (this was before my personal goddess Rhoda came into the picture.) I could relate to Lucy. The way she consistently got into trouble was what made me like her. She got in jams that were totally all her fault and blamed other people. I got in jams that were totally all my fault and blamed other people. We were so alike! Except for the, you know, whole believing in Jesus thing.

I dreaded Christmas episodes of any TV show because they made me feel really left out. I don't recall an I Love Lucy Christmas special (and if there is one, please don't tell me as I prefer ignorance.) But just because Ball and Co. never did a Christmas show didn't mean they were like me. Jewish, that is. A Big Jew. But what if Lucy, Ethel, Ricky and Fred were of the persuasion? How would that have changed TV? Think about it. Instead of Lucy going to a chocolate factory with Ethel, she could go to a matzo plant and get her wig caught in the machinery (because of course, she'd be Orthodox.) Imagine the hilarity. Or maybe Lucy could force Ricky to get a circumcision. He could change his patented Aye Aye Aye to Oy Yoy Yoy. They'd need more than 22 minutes for that one! And little Ricky? How about a bris episode complete with animated gefilte fish (not to mention a Hanukkah special where he lights the whole apartment building on fire when kindling the candles.) Also, Fred and Ricky could go to a whorehouse during Lucy and Ethel's unclean times and what amusement that could be.

I believe that Lucille Ball would have made an excellent Jewess. She has the shopping gene. She has the hair dying gene. And I bet she has the kick ass Bat Mitzvah gene. What I would've given to see the flashback episode of Lucy's Bat Mitzvah complete with her torah portion, sung off-key.

What exuberance.
What delight.
What good television.

The weirdest thing about being pregnant is not the fact that I am starting to resemble a Weeble more than my usual 100 pound self or that all my 1950s sundresses don't fit or that my boobs have finally risen from their pre-teen state. It's the smells. At first I couldn't stand the smell of coffee, but I've since gotten over that and have a cup every morning (stop looking at me like that.) And there was a time that I made Doug eat his nightly treat of peanut butter on bread on the floor of our bedroom at least eight feet away from me. But now, it has escalated to "other things." Like our neighbor's stinky perfume which permeates our hallway. How do you tell someone they smell like an old lady (especially when there are an old lady?) I've tried gagging loudly outside of her door, but it doesn't seem to work.

One of my pet peeves has always been carpeted restaurants. The stink factor is just too great. And now that I have a human being growing inside of me? Well, you can imagine what's it like going out to dinner with me. (Scenario: we walk into a place, sit down, I take a sniff and before Doug can pick up the menu, we are out of there, me waving my hands around the air as if I just didn't care.) It hadn't really gone beyond that. Until this past weekend....

Going to a country house sounds so good, doesn't it? Fresh air, woods, quiet. Yeah, I wanted all of that as well as a dip in the pool. I should've seen the foreshadow on Thursday though when I went looking for a bathing suit. Since nothing fits me the same way anymore -- or at all, I attempted, (unsuccessfully) to try and find something, anything, to swim in. No luck. Too small for maternity clothes, too large for boys swim trunks. Dang it, I'd wear my underwear -- I didn't care.

So we get to the place and it's lovely. And the people are lovely. And boy, does it feel good not to hear workers drilling outside of your window (Brooklyn is just so quiet. Do you know what "brownstone neighborhood" means? It means CONSTANT RENOVATION ALL AROUND YOU.) However, as I tried to take a nap before dinner, it hit me. That ol' country aroma. You know, regular country smells that people go to the country for in the first place. Throw in some mildew, humidity, a spider in the bathroom, a cranky pregnant lady, and my old friend nausea and guess who couldn't sleep all night? (and wouldn't let her husband sleep either.) I'm sure if I wasn't pregnant I only would have complained a little (YEAH RIGHT.) But here I am with child (I plan to use this excuse for as long as I can) and I just couldn't breathe. I could actually taste the country and it was making me go all vomity! Mommie! (Yes, we left the next day and I slept for 12 straight hours that night.)

I know. It'll be interesting to actually have a baby when I'm the one acting an infant. How will that work, do you think?