Springtime with Hitler in Germany - 2005 Broadway Version
Don't get me wrong - I LOVE winter! That's the time when it's nice and quiet for I live in a summer resort town chock-filled with Hasidim, second-homeowners, Russian bungalow colonies, camps and tourists.
When Spring comes around, all 3 days worth before the scorching heat incinerates the ground, the summer people flock here in a flash clamoring, yelling, screaming, shouting with their fucking attitudes, treating this beautiful place as a dysfunctional Club Med.
Did I happen to mention how much I LOVE winter?
I despair because my sanctuary is no more. I gotta deal with these motherfuckers. And Spring is the debut.
That's when I kick off my mountain biking routine. Customarily, I mountain bike six months a year, 10 to 20 miles daily unless inclement weather or I pull out my back or a combination of the two. Been doing this for the past 20 years or so to the point where my body yearns for those six months.
Spring's also the time when I get off that 15lb of winter hibernation fat and tone my body. No mean feat for my age. Still, I'm quite vain and proud of how I look and nothing will stop me from looking my best in tiny shorts and frilly dresses.
However, this Spring's different than last year because of my tattoos. I added several new ones on my arms and legs right before last summer (and recently). When I mountain biked last summer, I belatedly realized that tattoos in the Hasidic community meant I was a hooker. Then again, every woman's a hooker when dealing with that cult. The only two words a Hasidic man has to say to any Shiksa (non-Jewish woman - although I'm Jewish, they don't perceive me as such) is: How much? At least, I can pedal away from their SUVs as they pull up alongside me, sometimes clipping my bike in the process.
My neighbors aren't too thrilled with the new tattoos as well. "You know, you may change your mind when you get older," they insist to me, a woman nearing 60.
"I can only imagine," I respond. "When I'm 85 should I live that long, I'll smack my forehead and scream, 'Ach, the foibles of youth!'"
In the summer, on my deck, on my dock, the Hasidim, similar to zombies when smelling live flesh, spot my tattoos from across the lake and zoom over in their rental boats, 20' from shore and yell, "HOW MUCH?" It's quite a ruckus and involves daily interventions from the boat rental agencies and police.
My only question is do they pay from Federal Funds sponsoring their lives, social welfare or unreported income?
At any rate, this Spring I've a new tattoo, a half sleeve of cherry blossoms on my right arm. Right now, it's too chilly to expose any of my limbs. But, Summer's around the bend.
I just can't wait to hear those two words like music to my ears, "How much?"
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