I Promise this is the Last Post on ABBA
Until I start drinking again

I am writing about post-Holocaust Yiddish theater and listening to ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me”. When Anni-Frid sang “my love is strong enough to last when things are rough,” I don’t think that she was talking about Jozef Szajna’s Replika. Like an overly-friendly pre-teen girl who eats her feelings, I can’t help myself. I love ABBA. I recognize that ABBA is not a band for all seasons. There is nothing sadder than “Mama Mia” playing as mascara runs down my face and I reach for the last truffle in the box. However, I have to admit that “Dancing Queen” on my iPod serves as the perfect celebratory soundtrack, with a little AC/DC “Back in Black” thrown in for good measure. I seem to have a thing for capitalized four-letter band names.

Below is a completely unrelated sampling of photos documenting my ultra-sober holiday:


I try to exude a light biz-case style at all holiday functions. Note how my mother chose to go in a different direction and threw on her best French-stripe and scary-teeth ensemble.


Just in case you forgot who the only child of the family was, my shiny name is the highlight of the Christmas tree. Bella does not have an ornament yet. However, I’d say my parents are just a few years and a couple dog sweaters shy of purchasing a special tree just for her, complete with tinsel-covered bones and a sparkling bull terrier topper.


Jovial family banter is a lot more fun with Manhattans. I have nothing witty to say.