Mrs. Maisel’s Observations

Staring at my acer. I’ve been binge watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. The Jewish humor speaks volumes to my vacant comedic outlet. I am intimidated by the comedic artistry that prevails in the standup comedy routines. The raw authentic comedic outbursts fill my laptop senses. If only I could approach my five-minute comedy with the brutal honesty of Midge Maisel. I’m fearful of using my husband as the butt of jokes like Mrs. Maisel.

I hate binging. Although I don’t think I have an addictive personality, Marvelous Mrs. Maisel has taken hold of my life. I’ve swallowed 11 hours in two days. It’s my drug of choice. I can’t even clearly explain why. My television watching is limited to six hours a week. But this concoction speaks to each fiber of me. I want to live in their world. Their opulent Manhattan apartment of endless square footage is breathtaking. Each detailed fabric on the furniture cries out luxury. Their maid answers to each of the character’s whims. This heavenly mirage takes me out of my routine. I want to follow Alice in Wonderland down a hole where the world of Marvelous Maisel flourishes. And don’t get me started with the enticing use of Streisand’s obscure classics peppered throughout the series.

The lightning speed dialogue keeps my brain engaged. I don’t have room for distractions. I focus on my laptop screen.

The episode about the Catskills killed me while I watched. Before my dad died in 1965, we had traveled to the Catskills in the summer. A poignant destination for Jews to remove themselves from the summer humidity. North of Manhattan brought a bit of breeze relief.  We stayed at The Bader’s- a second rate version of top of the line Grossingers. But we  had three meals a day and a social director. The American plan meant all our unlimited meals were included. The five of us squeezed into a bungalow. Mom, Dad, Grandma, me and my sister. This last vacation had to stick to my ribs. The cancer eating away at my father’s spine was in the closet.

Who mandated that I watch the series? Hounded me for months. They stripped away any excuses. They led me astray to this neverland of television hypnosis. I fear for my sanity. Can I exist without Mrs. Maisel?

Then a concrete wall hit me. Who knew that the one time I didn’t read the Los Angeles Times that my changed world might have to be unchanged. Mrs. Maisel is being lambasted for spreading Jewish stereotypes across the streaming world. Who knew? This family that I adore. This frame of mind alteration could bring a rise in anti-Semitism. Please tell me I am dreaming. Was I so blindsided by the stand-up comedy premise?

Talk about awkward moments. I only have four hours left. Should I cut the cord? Cancel my thirty-day amazon prime trial period? What if word gets out at my temple? Will I be put on the wall of shame?

I’ll make a promise that after this binging The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel will never enter my psyche again. No matter what I hear. Even if the creators abandon their wicked stereotypes. I will banish Mrs. Maisel. I can compartmentalize the 18- hour viewing. It will be a distant dream. A hocus pocus act at the Magic Castle. A spell that wipes clean any memories of this awkward life changing event. I’ll travel back in time. I can sing Barry Manilow’s song “I Made it Through the Rain” with pride.


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