Shabbat is for Shtupping

By Aliza Hausman

From Friday night to Saturday night, I observe Shabbat, you know the Jewish Sabbath, most stringently. No Twitter. No Facebook. No Blackberry. For 25 hours I am sucked into, what I like to call, a technological black hole. My friends call it “Hell.”

My friend Carrie screamed me out the first five times I ignored her calls on Friday night and refused to hang out with her on Saturday. Finally, I asked her, “Well, why don’t we hang out on Sunday.”

She said, “No way.”

I asked “Why not?”

She said “Because on Sundays, I rest.”

No, Carrie does not believe in Jesus, she believes in Haagen daz and TiVo.

I am a New York neurotic. Relaxing is not in my vocabulary. I get through life the same way I get through driving which is by gripping the wheel until my arms get all scary and veiny and it looks like I’m ready to rip the steering wheel off. Tao of Aliza: Relax when you’re dead.

I started observing Shabbat because I realized that the only way I could convince myself to take a day off is if I told myself G-d was making me.

So on Shabbat when G-d says “pray,” I pray, when G-d says “hang out with my friends,” I hang out with my friends, when G-d says “overeat,” I do it with enthusiasm. Because people tell me on Shabbat you don’t gain weight. But I find that this only works if you wait until 3 days after to hop on the scale.

Yes, there are a lot of weird rules surrounding Shabbat that were all derived from some Jewish sources I don’t completely understand. Something like G-d rested on the seventh day, do like G-d. I don’t worry my pretty little head about it though because I’m a “because G-d says so” kind of girl.

So when G-d says I shouldn’t be tearing toilet paper on Shabbat, I use Kleenex tissues (only the best) to wipe my butt for 25 hours. Who am I to question G-d in His/Her infinite wisdom?

While you’re tooling around with your Blackberry Friday night, G-d says I get points in heaven on Friday nights for shtupping my husband. I can’t read my ketubah but apparently it promises food, shelter and orgasms. What does yours say?

Of course, no one tells you that the 24 hours before Shabbat are completely, TOTALLY FREAKING INSANE. You’re cooking three meals in advance, scrubbing the toilet and worst, even WORST than all that, IRONING. All at the same time. It’s a completely horrible 24 hours that you couldn’t get through unless you knew you were going to spend the next 25 chilling with your latest copy of People magazine.

What? I cannot get through Shabbat without seeing a new picture of Brad and Angelina.

I know, now you understand why my husband doesn’t let me out of the house. Oy vey.

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