Some signs of Spring could not be more welcome.
My favorite flowers are out and about…
Other are less welcome. Spring = Passover, which = an inordinate amount of preparation for eight days of unceasing constipation. I actually like the holiday. A lot. I just don’t like the feeling of dread that precedes it.
That feeling began last week. I was lying in bed, still in the clutches of the stomach flu, when Bennett came home from school and asked me two questions, neither of which put me at ease:
1. Where do you keep the flour?
2. How hot does the oven get?
It turns out that someone had taught them how to bake matzoh at school. He knew there were two ingredients – flour and water – and that the ratio was 2 to 1. I told him I thought it was likely that the two parts were flour. (This represents the beginning and the end of my baking expertise.)
Minutes later I was presented with this::
Spring apparently also = baseball, which is not a sport given much shrift chez nous. This is quite fortunate because it’s about as compelling as dry rot. But it seems that Spring in NYC means I have to see a lot of these:
Yankee fans — what’s with this oversized bumper sticker? Do you really need to be LARGER than all the other bumper stickers? I even saw one on the back of a Mini Cooper and the thing took up the ENTIRETY of the rear window. Is it really worth sacrificing safety to alert everyone in a two mile radius that you are a fan? Are we compensating for something that I don’t know about? (I have no allegiances, but I have noticed that these enormo-decals are on the backs of the cars driven by some of the more obnoxious NYC drivers. Discuss.)
I want to smack the parent of every child I see in one of these. Really? Do they need to see signs of your affluence from space?
I envision a Venn Diagram of all owners of the bumpers stickers and polo shirts. Other than wankerism, what’s the common ground?