I didn’t realize that tonight is Eruv (night of) Rosh Hashanah when I assigned MizBohemiatoday.
It is fitting as she is one of the most ecumenical, least prejudiced, though with strong opinions about everything, people that I know
I first got to know MizB around the time the in-laws came for a visit. And stayed, and stayed…I couldn’t help loving this Danish/Iranian San Franciscan who is currently living in Spain with her husband, the kids, a girl and boy, and a never ending assortment of relatives who either stay with her or live nearby.
I was thinking of doing a Venn diagram, as it used in therapy, to show the different relationships, but hey read three posts and you will be hooked also. I actually have to change browsers to read her posts, but they’re like reading a Freudian soap. So it is more than fitting that she writes about Dynasty.
And to everybody who is Jewish, L’ Shana Tova. Doesn’t translate well literally but means “a sweet year.”
When I was 8 years old I used to watch Dynasty with my grandmother. She really loved it… the affairs, the backstabbing, the sheer drama was all very exciting for her… and even more so for me. I did not enjoy watching it in my grandmother’s company, however. She felt morally responsible to denounce all said affairs, backstabbing and drama and I was more likely to hear her lectures rather than any actual dialogue.
Oh my god BoheMia! That woman is a whore… A WHORE! She should never sleep with other men when she is already married! And that other one is a dirty, slut of a bitch! My god! You should know that friends should never speak to each other so, least of all beat each other like that! And as for him, he is an evil son-of-a-bitch! Men like that must be AVOIDED! *GASP* What happened? Did she just kiss him? Oh my…. *Momentarily is drawn into the drama but regains her composure shortly after* See? I told you she was A WHORE!!! What she did was wrong! Try never to be a whore!
I think a little intro is in order.
Grandma BoheMia was married off when she was 16. She had a son soon after. She never speaks of her past but from what I have been able to gather she left her husband because he beat her. She earned a living by doing odd jobs, I assume… it is all too murky… and though she says she taught foreigners Farsi I later learned from my mother… (who was once disowned by Grandma BoheMia for supposedly revealing her deepest, darkest secret which, it turns out, she never did because she never knew it as Grandma BoheMia had told a family friend instead of my mother and said family friend eventually told my mom in order to confirm that my mother in fact did not know the secret which now, well, she did, and even though my mother was sworn to secrecy she told me and well, I never promised to keep it and so here I am)… that she was a housekeeper… yes, the deep, dark secret revealed… back then referred to as maid, and met my Danish/Icelandic grandfather on the job, fell in love and married him…
But it doesn’t end there… oh no!
She had many affairs, or at least one very raunchy one with her cousin, and so my Uncle O, who kinda reminds me of Bill Cosby, came to be. It is said that we have a black ancestor somewhere down the line, which would explain why said Uncle O reminds me of Bill Cosby and why I have an afro, which really adds to the comedy of it all as said dark uncle speaks English with a Danish accent and considers himself a Dane though he has not one drop of Danish blood in him… and no, it is not acknowledged that my grandfather, who adopted my grandmother’s first born from her abusive marriage, is not his father.
Grandpa BoheMia does have two biological children with my grandmother, those being my Uncle V and my mother and so yes, at least I am as full a mongrel as I claim to be.
It is evident from pictures of days of yore, that my grandmother has had a nose job. She claims she fell down the stairs and broke her nose and had surgery because of it but the truth of the matter is that my grandfather caught her fucking around and punched her and hence, the broken nose… My mother remembers my grandmother bringing her cousin-turned-lover-home as they kissed, flirted and fondled away in front of my mother who was then a child…
My mother has been married five times.
Her first marriage yielded a son… my now deceased brother who would have been 40 this year but died when he was 21 instead. She then married a very old man and planned to use that marriage to escape my grandmother’s household but it did not pan out… her third marriage brought yours truly into the world as well as my younger, and very jittery, brother who went from living in my mother’s skirt to living in his pregnant American wife’s, who-actually-does-love-him-very-much, skirt… her fourth marriage to a Swedish man I thought was my father (until I found out an Iranian man who was coming down from Iran one of the many times my mother left the Swedish husband was in actual fact my real father) yielded my younger sister who got raped at 12 but is now shacked up with a sweet loser whom she has a child with… and last, but not least, her fifth marriage… this one was to a geriatric American whom she informed me, when I was merely 14 years old, she was marrying for money and a greencard and when she got as much of both as she could he divorced her, but to their credit they remained friends until he died years later in Hawaii…
No one in my family, other than us offspring, has been married only once.
My eldest uncle has been married three times. His first wife beat my cousin D, his only child, with clothes hangers and was good at abusing her until she was eventually abandoned by both parents and delivered into the hands of my mysoginistic Grandma BoheMia who made sure to raise her with all the emotional abuse that is traditionally bestowed on all female offspring in the family though she was kind enough to spare her the physical abuse she had grown accustomed to. Uncle P remarried a woman with no personality and many lovers later… lovers whose pictures my Grandma BoheMia would knowingly store for her first born… divorced Wife #2 and married Wife #3 who is a keeper, even though she once beat up my grandmother, because she stood by her man and visited him every day when he spent two years in a German jail for being, allegedly (HAH!), involved in a drug deal and yes, lucky him for never being caught with plans to deliver weapons to Iran back in the days of Khomeini because god knows what jail that would have landed him in. Now he is free and is always way too relaxed and methinks I smell the sweet smell (if it is sweet, because if it is or no I would not know but it sure sounds nice to say it is so and I will do just that) of opium in the air…
Uncle O… yes the Bill Cosby lookalike and bastard child of the cousin-turned-lover… has a child, cousin M, with Wife #1 who no longer speaks to him nor anyone else in the family for that matter. I ran into her last year, much to her chagrin, and though she looked great her prunish mother, my ex aunt, looked quite like a wrinkled duck with her injected lips and badly botoxed face… Wife #2 gave Uncle O two children, my beloved cousin A (who was the only one other than my siblings to witness my own emotional abuse and unlike my siblings actually stood up to my mother and cared enough to defend me) and ex-drug-addict Cousin S who is now most likely a Hare Krishna… but Wife #2 was not good enough so Uncle O cheated on her with current money-grubbing Wife #3 for 14 years before divorcing Wife #2 and that only happened because Wife #2 found out about the affair and sold everything she had under her name, got herself some humongous tits with Uncle O’s money as well as a lover… whom she is married to now… to make use of said humongous tits with. Oh and yes, Uncle O has yet another daughter, cousin R, with money-grubbing Wife #3.
Uncle V is a simple man and his story is a normal one in the land o’ BoheMia. He fell in love with an awkward and slightly antisocial Danish woman whom he had a child with, cousin A, whom we recently found out has Asperger’s. He became Mayor of Copenhagen and served two full terms becoming one of Denmark’s most beloved and popular Socialist mayors. They eventually married, which is very unusual in Denmark, only to divorce shortly thereafter. He later met the love of his life whom he is not married to and with whom he has two amazing and sweet sons, cousins S and M, who carry their mother’s last name because a) Uncle V is a feminist and b) his lover and mother of his boys has no brothers to carry on her family name and so the honor has been bestowed upon their sons… and MY GOD could it be? Technically he has only been married once!
Much to my grandmother’s chagrin, I did not grow up to be a whore. My decisive and bohemian ways irk this colorful family as well as the fact that my husband loves me, treats me well and is not planning on leaving me… but that is not to say we have not had our share of problems or that talk of breaking up has been nonexistent…
The first time Loverboy vowed to leave me I was very pregnant with Lil’ BoheMia… overwhelmed by life and by the new me… who was no longer anorexic and so then who the hell was I… I fixated my OCD on my beloved Fiestaware set which somehow kindled an argument that soon became a vicious fight in which I belittled Loverboy and spewed forth horrible and cruel lies aimed at hurting him… which they did… and hence his vow to leave me.
We have always known that we will never in actual fact break up though, back then, we were very good at crying wolf which is why the second time Loverboy vowed to leave me I did not take him too seriously though my tearstained face and shrieks told a very different story… overwhelmed, fresh off the boat from San Francisco here in Spain, we fought in the car only to arrive at our temporary lodging to race each other, each with a kid in tow, to see who got their grips on Loverboy’s passport first. Loverboy won, and passport in hand, vowed to abandon me and the kids as he ran towards the door which I slammed shut and locked, Lil’ Mischief in my arms…
The third time Loverboy vowed to leave me I found him in our bedroom, hitting himself on the head as he screamed How the fuck was I so stupid to marry the likes of you? What was I thinking? What the FUCK was I thinking? repeatedly… when told of my soon-to-be divorced status I wrestled him unto the bed and told him that he could not live, let alone breathe, without me and that I wasn’t buying his bullshit anymore… my cockiness must have been attractive because here he is still and here we are, with new survival tactics for those overwhelming days, of which there are plenty of in life, especially if it takes place in inefficient Spain… and no, he no longer vows to leave me although in our darkest moments he may declare that he is doomed to a miserable existence and an early death because of me…
… but I can live with that… well, not really but it sure makes for a great sounding ending and so, there you go.