So I married a goy. It’s fashionable these days, right? And anyway, it hardly matters, ’cause I’m a terrible Jew in most respects: I don’t speak any Hebrew, I was never Bat Mitzvahed, I don’t know my high holidays from my Lohmann’s, and I never met a lobster I didn’t eat.
I am, however, quite a respectable bargainer. When I go to a street fair, bazaar or market anywhere in the world, when I enter a store or a gallery, whether I’m browsing for earrings, a toaster, a carpet, or a new car, I don’t expect the price to be, you know… the price. I expect a little leeway. If I don’t get it, so be it, but at least I tried. I’ve been known to gasp theatrically in sticker shock at an inflated price tag, make horrified comments under my breath, etc. (Equally in hopes of receiving a counter-offer or shaming the merchant; I don’t really care which.) In the end, I sometimes save as much as 30-50%, but I don’t always look like an angel doing it.
This embarrasses my blond, blue-eyed, strapping Alaskan husband.
Oh, boy, does it.
The other day we’re walking through the Union Square Farmer’s Market, trying to get some greens and be all healthy ‘n’ stuff. We see a vendor who’s got these amazing-looking organic microgreens in every variety. They’re glistening with nutrients, practically glinting with vitamins, laid out in vibrant rows of fresh-picked goodness. So I drift over to poke through the merchandise. Then I notice the prices. Instinctively, I screech (sotto voce), "Twelve Dollars for a QUARTER POUND of DANDELIONS???? Are they out of their MINDS?"
Hubby turns bright red and drags me from the stall. "I am so embarrassed," he mutters. "Guess we’ll never be able to shop there."
Like I ever would. Paying $12 for a fistful of weeds would send the angry ghosts of every ancestor I ever had shrieking from out of their graves.
The truth is, I’m not so sorry he pulled me out of there. My hondle-radar told me I wouldn’t have been able to bargain with those dudes; their pricing chutzpah simply out-chutzpahed my haggling chutzpah. Still, I enjoyed getting in my little dig.
My beloved goy-boy doesn’t get it. He may gamely try to pronounce ‘mensch’ or use ‘farkackte’ in a sentence, but he’d rather pay through the nose than make a stink. Must be those WASP genes.
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