Be careful with that menorah. Credit: Getty Images
It's rough being married to a man who's always right. At the beginning of our marriage, I fought the concept like heck. We had a running argument: who's smarter, him or me? Now, it was a lot of chutzpah for a college drop-out to argue on that score with a lawyer sporting a Masters in International Law from Harvard, but when I was young I was all about chutzpah.
Take my conversion to Judaism, for example. Never mind that my husband had been raised old-timey New Jersey Orthodox -- when it came to observance I always knew better than he. True, he'd forgotten a lot in his slouch towards secularism, but I thought it my duty to remind him. Often.
There was that early Hanukkah back in the day when I was flush with a convert's passion. We were in Delray Beach visiting his parents, staying at a cool Art Deco hotel on the intra-coastal. His parents were meeting us for dinner at a fish restaurant on Atlantic Avenue. I'd spent a lot of time that night fussing with my hair and all because I didn't think his parents were quite sure of me yet and I wanted to impress. Stephen was impatient. Hurry up, says he. They get testy when they have to wait to eat. I told him to wait just a few minutes, I had to light my Hanukkah candles. It was fourth night. Don't do that! he said. You don't light candles and leave a place. You'll burn the place down! You can skip a night.
I insisted. I'd put the candles on the edge of the bathroom sink and lay the menorah on a damp towel. What could happen?
He left to get the car, muttering and shaking his head. I started to bench licht when I remembered Hanukkah candles are meant to be placed by a window, to be seen from the outside. I put the damp towel and menorah with its five candles, shamash and four nights' worth, on top of the air conditioner underneath the window and opened the curtains a little bit. I rushed through my prayer, admired the beautiful colored light, and left to meet my husband in the car.
At dinner, I felt suffused with righteousness. My mother-in-law kissed me in greeting and said: I lit my electric menorah for us all tonight before I left. I kissed her back and said: I lit candles, too. How could I not? My husband raised his eyes to heaven. We proceeded to have a delightful meal of schrod for my in-laws and me, with baked shrimp for my husband, the heathen. When we'd all said good-night, made plans for the following day, and Stephen and I were driving back to our hotel, I couldn't help lording my superiority over him. You see? I said as we pulled up to the hotel. Not only did I fulfill my obligation when I lit the candles, but it made me closer to your mother. What could be better?
Well, those firefighters could be leaving someone else's room, he said.
He was right again. I'd nearly burnt the joint down. The air conditioning had blown the candle flame into the gently lapping curtains. Happily, once the curtain lining caught fire, the fireproof material it was attached to only smoldered and most of the damage was smoke damage, if you didn't count the sprinkler system activating and drowning all our possessions.
It took a long time to live that Hanukkah down. My smarter-than-you argument lost a lot of steam. Eventually, I gave in. Yes, dear, I'd tell him. You're smarter than me.
But I'm more talented.
