I’ve been saved!

Look, I’m Jewish. I have no identity problems. I’m not self-loathing (at least not for my religious preferences). I was raised Conservative with one set of Orthodox grandparents. We keep kosher, fervently observe all Jewish holidays and celebrate Shabbat every week.

But I have to confess something. I find tremendous comfort in Christian rock music. Whenever I say that out load, my Jewish friends, family and colleagues are shocked and dismayed. “You’re kidding, right?” is the most frequent response I encounter. But it’s the truth and I’m not afraid to say it.

Sure there are plenty of songs to which I don’t relate. I check out at the explicit Jesus references and any talk about “our father who died for our sins.” But most of it is completely aligned with our own Jewish spiritual philosophy. Songs about “hanging on,” “believing,” “never giving up,” I can’t see those as heretical or anti-Jewish in any way.

My affinity for Christian music bothers by family — a lot. I try to play it in the car sometimes when I’m shuffling the kids to and from clubs, appointments and Hebrew school. I think the positive, uplifting messages will seep into their unconsciousness and improve long term coping skills as they inevitably meet with obstacles and disappointments in life. That’s all well and good until an unsuspected reference to our savior and king surfaces. Then the jig is up. “Mom, will you stop with the Christian music. It’s just weird, OK?”

Then they inevitably remind me of my 2007 trip to Sedona when they were 7 and almost four. It was New Year’s Eve and I was driving with the boys to meet some friends for the holiday. It was cold and snowy but I had plenty of daylight and I knew it was a relatively short trip. Of course once it started to get dark, I realized I’d been driving for over three hours and that I might have made a bum turn or taken a wrong exit.

When I finally found a safe spot to pull over, I was slightly hysterical and began sobbing into the steering wheel. As we sat there in the cold car somewhere on the side of a road, me weeping and the boys growing ever more anxious, there was a sudden tapping on my window. I looked up and saw the kindly countenance of a woman motioning to me to roll down the window. I did so and she asked me if I was okay. I admitted between whimpers that I was not. “I’m trying to get to Sedona,” I sniffled. “But we’re lost, and I have no idea where we are.”

She took my hands into hers and said, “May I pray to Jesus with you?” My boys watched with wide eyes as I emphatically said, “Yes!” Then she offered up a prayer to the big guy asking for him to help us find our way and to protect us on our journey. She pointed me towards a neighboring town which I later learned was Strawberry, AZ and with renewed hope and vitality I set out to find our path to salvation.

I was able to get us turned around and back on the road and managed to successfully make it to our cabin in the woods just slightly late for dinner. But the more people to whom I related my redemption tale, the more I was met with uncertain stares and stifled laughter. “What?” I said to friends and family whom I could tell were holding themselves back from full throttled chortling at my experience. “I got where I needed to go. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

As we move ever closer to the holiday season this year, I encourage all to count blessings, believe in miracles, and stay open to inspiration, from wherever it may come.

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You’re every bit as old as you feel!

Jack Johnson at Cricket Pavilion last week

You know those moments when you’re suddenly, and painfully, aware of how old you are? Well, they’re coming more frequently these days and let me say, they suck! My most recent realization came Sunday night at the Jack Johnson concert at Cricket Pavilion. I know, it’s just asking for embarrassment to go to a rock concert as a middle aged mother of two. But we really like Jack Johnson. So we forged ahead, certain that there would be a healthy representation of baby boomers and gen-xers mixed into the youthful audience melange.

We’ve actually gone to several concerts this year. We saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in Prescott this winter. It was part of their Arts Center season and we were by far the youngest in the audience. Then we went to Vegas to see Garth Brooks. Yes, I admit it. I LOVE HIM! But there too, there was a plentiful number of, shall we say, mature audience members.

Last night I felt like that old brown banana in the fruit bowl, you know the one nobody will eat because it’s too mushy. It just sits there forever, until you bring home a new bunch of hard green ones from the store and finally decide to toss it or use it as compost.

It started when we got there a bit before 7. Well, that’s what time our tickets said the concert began. Can you say “out of touch?” We actually told our sitter that we’d be home around 10 thinking three hours was more than enough time for a thorough sampling of Jack’s greatest hits. We were a bit surprised by the plethora of empty seats surrounding us. Finally, after 2 hours of warm up bands, we remembered that stars like Jack Johnson don’t open their own shows. The wise youngsters in the house arrived a few moments before 9:30 when Jack finally stepped onto the stage. We seriously contemplated going home before he even began. Life is definitely more limiting when you wake up between 4 and 5 a.m. every morning.

We were happy we stayed. The concert was amazing. We even spotted a few families with young kids in the pit. That helped soften the sight of thousands of college coeds spreading out in all directions. And I guess we should be happy that not a single one asked us to buy them an adult libation, an act I remember performing on several occasions when I was a mere underage student looking for an alcohol buzz.

But my question is this: why does life have to stop when you hit middle age? Why weren’t there more people in our age bracket at this concert? His music is mostly mellow, has a great message, is beautifully arranged and artistically impressive. Why don’t middle aged people go to concerts? They’re fun. You get to dance and sing and let go for a few hours. That’s got to be healthy. I feel like we all run around tied up in knots, worrying about our work, our kids, our finances. It gets old, and so do we. We need to have more fun.

That’s it. I’m starting a red hat club for middle agers. Only we’re gonna wear togas, one of our generation’s most identifiable party icons, as an homage to John Belushi and “Animal House.” We will stop feeling out of place at nightclubs, poetry slams and concert venues. We will eat at “beautiful people” restaurants, and buy our way into VIP back rooms at all of the hottest clubs in town. We will play frisbee on the beach, drink more than we ought to, and gulp down a few Red Bulls to get through the work days after our wild and exotic nights of debauchery. We will make-out in public, show our bellies, pierce our noses. Middle agers of America, join with me in taking back fun. After all, we invented it in the first place, didn’t we?

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I hate Mario Kart!

It’s not the typical mom against video outrage that a plethora of parents express every day in this country. I don’t really mind that my kids enjoy it. Nor do I feel that it’s rotting their brains, leading them towards obesity or peppering their psyches with too many images of death and destruction. I hate it because it’s not fun.

Frankly, it makes me tense. Every time I try to play it I become both anxious and aggressive at the same time. My ugly competitive spirit rears its head. I begin cursing like an old sea dog. And within 30 seconds of the first race I start sweating like Albert Brooks in “Broadcast News.”

“Get away from the tv!” I scream as my innocent children try to point out the arrows on the track that I can actually see but can’t seem to follow. “Here, mommy!” they shout in helpful unison. “Don’t talk to me! I see them.” I shriek like a cornered hyena.

Naturally I come in last nearly every time I play. I wouldn’t care about that except my kids seem so deeply disappointed in my failure. “Don’t worry, mommy. You’ll get better,” they try to sound encouraging. But I can see the sadness in their droopy eyes. Again I’ve let them down. Dejected, I turn the wheel back over to them and make my way to the laundry room to fold yet another load of laundry. Ah yes, this is where I belong; here’s something I’m good at.

“So why play it?” I’m sure you’re asking. Because I don’t want to lose my children. Now I realize this may sound ridiculous to some of you. But where does it stop? If I don’t share their interest in Mario Kart, what’s next? I don’t care about the NCAA championship. Okay, no harm there. I’m not really interested in Harry Potter. That’s fair. But do you see where this is leading? Suddenly, I can’t stand their music, don’t like their friends, don’t know anything about what interests them. They become goth, start smoking cigarettes to be cool, go off to college, get a slew of body piercings, bad grades, and stds and I have only myself to blame.

No. I’m not willing to lose them. I will learn how to play Mario Kart. I will not give up because it’s an inane game that makes me dizzy, depressed and nervous. I will practice while they’re at school until I earn a damn medal. I will make them proud of their mommy. I will learn how to throw mushrooms and banana peels and make everyone else small. I will not give in to my inner adult.

I’m actually serious about this. I truly believe that we, as parents, have to stay in tune with the things that matter to our kids. I see so many families that just drift apart because parents are too busy doing their own thing to pay attention to the hobbies and interests of their children. It’s not dissimilar to any relationship you want to keep vibrant and strong. I try to pay attention to the things my husband cares about. I read the business news, listen to political talk shows, watch which wines are earning a perfect Parker 100. Why wouldn’t I do the same for my boys?

Sure it’s one more thing on my “to do” list. But the way I look at it, who can’t take a little time out of their day to spend a few minutes palling around with Donkey Kong, Koopa Troopa, and Wario? Besides, if I get really good at it, I’m hoping to learn how to splat ink over all those obnoxious 101 drivers who cut me off when I’m trying to merge onto the 51 on our way to school in the morning.