The Intricacies of the Jew-fro, S-Club 7 and Other Pearls of Wisdom

While Max rated the adopt-ability of various ethnic babies last week, I got to thinking a lot about parenthood. While I know exactly where my baby will come from (it will spring from my loins in a mess-free, 30-second delivery while bluebirds sing on the windowsill and I glow both with new motherhood and the Evian my husband will be liberally misting over my once-again taut body) I've also been thinking about the raising of said little peanut. However, before I can even think about rearing a child (ha. rearing.), I must look to myself and my wisdom of 27 winters.

As a moderately adult woman, I've experienced my share of rises and falls, one-strap overalls, show choir trophies and good old fashioned setbacks. I am a result of my childhood and the result is an unconventionally attractive Jew who makes up for her lack of toned muscle with a winning sense of humor and a small amount of street cred amongst Southeast Asian gang hopefuls. However, in order to achieve this delicate balance, I had to chart some murky, murky waters. 

I've learned some valuable lessons in life, love and personal grooming, but at what cost? I resembled a frizzy paperclip with internal organs until the age of 21 and appreciated the song stylings of S-Club 7 for just a little too long. My adolescent turmoil could have been helped had my parents known what to do with a tragically un-hip daughter being raised in the middle of Lowell, Massachusetts, home to crack dens, Bloods and tween moms. It was the late 90s and everyone was high on Crack Street...but not me, I was high on Stephen Sondheim and Life as a non-huffing, undeveloped gal.

Now that I've learned my lessons, things my own parents couldn't possibly have seen coming, I plan on ingraining them into my daughter's mind before she has even a second to contemplate cornrows (very brief. two days. sleepover with my cousin. OKAY?!) My father's greatest lesson to me was how to make pancakes. My mother's was how to tweeze my eyebrows at the age of 7. My lessons to my daughter are as follows:

1. Hair management is key to your survival

We're Jews. The lord giveth and he taketh shit away. We'll get to the giveth later but by far, the greatest setback my daughter will ever experience is the unfortunate and unavoidable nature of her hair. The Jew-fro is not something to be dicked around with. After years of flat-ironing my soaking wet hair with a curling iron (knowing by the crack and sizzle that it's working) and maniacally brushing out curls, I know a thing or two about what not to do with Jew hair. The number one thing not to do? Don't pull it back into a tight ponytail, soak it in hairspray and apply a skunk-stripe of gold hair mascara to the right side of your head for the entirety of 8th grade. Don't do that.

I didn't learn how to do a proper blowout until I was 24, my kid will have it down by 3. 

2.  Put your tits away, you tart

So when the lord tooketh the Jews' good hair, he gaveth, like, a really good rack. Despite the late-blooming, yet flawlessly perky genes, I'll make sure my daughter knows that your early 20s are not the time to make up for lost training bras. Cleavage to your neck is redundant. I spent the majority of my adolescence praying for my boobs to grow as big as the pregnant 8th graders at my school. They never did, mostly because those gals were on an unnatural diet of Jolly Time soda, Funyuns and sperm. Seeing as I thought penises were located somewhere near the belly button, I definitely wasn't meeting any of their dietary requirements. 

My boobs grew overnight and it took about five years to stop parading them around like blue-ribbon flotation devices. They now reside under tasteful blazers and understated sheaths, making the occasional cameo when I'm feeling unremarkable. My daughter will immediately recognize her Jew-given gift and will treat her birthright with respect.

3. Don't quote musicals in your 6th grade history class, even if it's relevant

Yeah, there's a musical called 1776 and it's about the signing of the Declaration of Independence. This is still not an okay thing to casually reference. Trying to convince your classmates it's cool by telling them Mr. Feeney from Boy Meets World is in it does not to much to help your cause. These kids are hardened criminals, that Paul kid has been to fucking juvi. He's not interested in the melodic intricacies of "He Plays the Violin."

4. No matter how starved you are for male attention, that kid you're dating from drama/show choir/acapella/dance class is gay. GAY GAY GAY

Aah, the romantic trappings that ensnares even the savviest of theater girls. He's stylish, he's thoughful, he irons his jeans and gives you oddly on-point fashion advice. My daughter's gonna have to watch out for this one since I'll be raising her on a strict, kind of gay diet of The Birdcage, Gene Kelly and minimal carbs. 

Seeing as I went to the middle school equivalent of 50 Cent's Get Rich or Die Tryin' the boys weren't too into holding hands with the girl who got faint at the "how to insert a tampon" video in health class. And so, when I joined the high school theater scene, I fell for some gays. It's a rocky road to go down and can only be remedied by dating only handsomely rugged men henceforth who will not hit on your brother or make you question their sexual inclinations during a George Clooney movie.

And now we'll speed this up a bit:

5. Kicking your third grade crush in the balls everyday with your purple cowboy boots will not make him like you. It will most likely render him infertile with an inexplicable taste for S&M. You will never be able to find him on Facebook to apologize

6. Tying your windbreaker around your waist will not trick people into thinking you're shorter

7. Titanic remains the greatest love story ever told.

8. Juicy Fruit doesn't make your run faster 

9. Rollerblading down your street pretending to be Scott Hamilton is weird

10. S Club 7 was a really good band

So good, in fact that I'm not allowed to embed their videos on this blog. You'd have to go to Youtube to watch it, which would mess with my flow and fuck S Club 7 anyway, who do they think they are?? 1776 was able to be embedded and that shit's a Broadway classic! I bet it was Jo's idea. Fucking Jo.