Read Online Odyssey In A Teacup by Paula Houseman - Free Book Online
Authors: Paula Houseman
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root.’
Oh, I so hated the word ‘root’ used in this context. It just felt like a perversion of my name (Miri had laid the groundwork years earlier). ‘Crying Ruth’ on the silver screen had also degraded it, but having my name likened to vomit was a little more palatable than having it likened to, well, a root. I needed to up root myself from this situation, to think laterally.
‘Um, yeah ... I was hoping for that too—’
‘Mmm mmm —’
‘But something’s changed. I, er, really, really wanna enter the convent.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ve found my true calling. I want to be a nun.’
‘Oh ... well, that’s a waste of a looker. Um ... ’
There was another long silence. This was an opportunity to end the call. ‘Okay then—’
‘Hey, you wanna try rootin’ before ya do, seein’ as you’ll be gettin’ “ nun” ? Get it?’
Yes. But you’re not going to. Did the original Adonis proposition his love interest like this? Probably, but then he was killed by a wild boar. Hmm ... died of boardom; I felt his pain. Seems Phelan got the hint, though, and he backed off. He was surprised to see me at Swinger two weeks later.
‘I thought ya were a nun.’
‘Um, these things don’t happen overnight, you know. Er, er, I need to read the scriptures for a while, and find the right religious community and all that.’ Never mind that I’m Jewish and there are no Jewish nuns.
‘Oh.’
Clearly, it was time to switch discos, so the following week, Maxi, Vette and I started patronising The Castle, a suburban club. It was here, a year later, that I met my ‘first root’.
CHAPTER FOUR:
NOT WITH A BANG BUT A WHIMPER
Glen Jones—and thank God it was Jones, not Johnson—looked like Paul McCartney in his neat, bearded, long-haired phase. Glen’s brooding eyes suggested he was a deep thinker, and he was. His mind was constantly in the gutter. Even though his dialogue was loaded with innuendo, which was strangely appealing, at least he was capable of having a conversation. Glen was also a carpenter and he had small feet. What more could a girl ask for?
Sylvia didn’t like Glen (‘Surprise!’ yelled suburbia). He was a tradie, a Methodist, and from a working class background. None of this suited her Jewish, middle-class sensibilities. But Glen pointed out there wasn’t such a great cultural divide between us: I had a ‘working class mouth’, and he had a Jewish trait—like all Jewish boys, he was circumcised, a snippet of information best not mentioned to Sylvia in his defence.
Though she was wary of any non-Jewish guy I went out with, Sylvia couldn’t stop me from dating Glen. Still, she imposed a ludicrous curfew.
‘He’s not Jewish, so you get in at midnight.’ But if I went out with a Jewish boy, I was allowed to stay out till one o’clock.
‘Why?’
‘ Oeuf! Because I said so, pest ! And Norma agrees with me.’
‘That’s not exactly an adequate reason. I want to know why.’
‘Because they’re only after one thing!’
No shit. Sylvia was such a prude, I’m almost certain she was born fully clothed.
Ralph and I discussed her loony mandate at length, trying to find logic in it.
‘Superstition!’ he declared.
‘What about it?’
‘You know what the witching hour is, don’t you?’
‘Isn’t that when witches and demons and ghosts supposedly show up?’
‘Yes. At midnight. It’s when they’re at their best. And it’s when they weave their magic. Black magic. So they can make you do all sorts of evil things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as influencing a good girl to behave like a nice girl.’
‘Ah!’
Because both Sylvia and Norma vetoed premarital sex (or tried to), they assumed that all Jewish mothers did as well. So in their opinion, a Jewish boy wouldn’t try anything because he would want to preserve his virginity until his wedding night. What horseshit! As far as Ralph was concerned, his ‘demon’ wasn’t constrained by religion, delusion,
Oh, I so hated the word ‘root’ used in this context. It just felt like a perversion of my name (Miri had laid the groundwork years earlier). ‘Crying Ruth’ on the silver screen had also degraded it, but having my name likened to vomit was a little more palatable than having it likened to, well, a root. I needed to up root myself from this situation, to think laterally.
‘Um, yeah ... I was hoping for that too—’
‘Mmm mmm —’
‘But something’s changed. I, er, really, really wanna enter the convent.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ve found my true calling. I want to be a nun.’
‘Oh ... well, that’s a waste of a looker. Um ... ’
There was another long silence. This was an opportunity to end the call. ‘Okay then—’
‘Hey, you wanna try rootin’ before ya do, seein’ as you’ll be gettin’ “ nun” ? Get it?’
Yes. But you’re not going to. Did the original Adonis proposition his love interest like this? Probably, but then he was killed by a wild boar. Hmm ... died of boardom; I felt his pain. Seems Phelan got the hint, though, and he backed off. He was surprised to see me at Swinger two weeks later.
‘I thought ya were a nun.’
‘Um, these things don’t happen overnight, you know. Er, er, I need to read the scriptures for a while, and find the right religious community and all that.’ Never mind that I’m Jewish and there are no Jewish nuns.
‘Oh.’
Clearly, it was time to switch discos, so the following week, Maxi, Vette and I started patronising The Castle, a suburban club. It was here, a year later, that I met my ‘first root’.
CHAPTER FOUR:
NOT WITH A BANG BUT A WHIMPER
Glen Jones—and thank God it was Jones, not Johnson—looked like Paul McCartney in his neat, bearded, long-haired phase. Glen’s brooding eyes suggested he was a deep thinker, and he was. His mind was constantly in the gutter. Even though his dialogue was loaded with innuendo, which was strangely appealing, at least he was capable of having a conversation. Glen was also a carpenter and he had small feet. What more could a girl ask for?
Sylvia didn’t like Glen (‘Surprise!’ yelled suburbia). He was a tradie, a Methodist, and from a working class background. None of this suited her Jewish, middle-class sensibilities. But Glen pointed out there wasn’t such a great cultural divide between us: I had a ‘working class mouth’, and he had a Jewish trait—like all Jewish boys, he was circumcised, a snippet of information best not mentioned to Sylvia in his defence.
Though she was wary of any non-Jewish guy I went out with, Sylvia couldn’t stop me from dating Glen. Still, she imposed a ludicrous curfew.
‘He’s not Jewish, so you get in at midnight.’ But if I went out with a Jewish boy, I was allowed to stay out till one o’clock.
‘Why?’
‘ Oeuf! Because I said so, pest ! And Norma agrees with me.’
‘That’s not exactly an adequate reason. I want to know why.’
‘Because they’re only after one thing!’
No shit. Sylvia was such a prude, I’m almost certain she was born fully clothed.
Ralph and I discussed her loony mandate at length, trying to find logic in it.
‘Superstition!’ he declared.
‘What about it?’
‘You know what the witching hour is, don’t you?’
‘Isn’t that when witches and demons and ghosts supposedly show up?’
‘Yes. At midnight. It’s when they’re at their best. And it’s when they weave their magic. Black magic. So they can make you do all sorts of evil things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as influencing a good girl to behave like a nice girl.’
‘Ah!’
Because both Sylvia and Norma vetoed premarital sex (or tried to), they assumed that all Jewish mothers did as well. So in their opinion, a Jewish boy wouldn’t try anything because he would want to preserve his virginity until his wedding night. What horseshit! As far as Ralph was concerned, his ‘demon’ wasn’t constrained by religion, delusion,
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