Guy: You are-a Mexican?

Me: (thrown off by the weird way he chose to start a conversation) Sorry?

Guy: You are from Mexico?

Me: Well, my grandparents are, yea.

Guy: You no speak-a Spanish?

Me: No.

Guy: Someone told me you be-a from Mexico.

Me: My grandparents are. I’m actually from Indiana.

Guy: Ah, you are Indian.

Me: No. Indiana. The state.

Guy: Ah, you are from the United States.

Me: Yes. Yes I am. I am from the United States.

Um….’Nuff said.

So, of course, after the show as we were shaking hands in the lobby an old woman came up to me and whispered, “A friend of mine has a daughter who’s dating….a Jew!” Please note that the phrase “a Jew” was dripping with disgust, as if she was saying someone fed her a glass of Metamucil with poop in it!

I also got a few “Not bad for a Jew” comments which are becoming surprisingly – and unsettlingly – common. I responded to one old man, “I’m not sure how to take that,” and he just laughed and laughed.

Of course, I also get my fair share of Jewish people who come through the line and make it a point to let me know that they know I’m not Jewish. One lady, who sounded exactly like Mike Myers’s Linda Richman character, said to me in all of her New Yawk accent, “You don’t sound Jewish to me.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that comment and I always find it intriguing since none of my Jewish friends sound like the stereotype I can only assume she was talking about (and sounded like herself) and the only people who tell me I don’t sound Jewish are people who tawk like this, as they tawk about cawfee and dawgs and dawtahs.

Finally, a woman came through the line and asked if I was Italian. I told her I wasn’t, and she got a look on her face like I just punched her in the spleen. I don’t know if she was offended, disappointed, or just surprised that her profiling-by-looks had failed her.

Either way, it was a blogworthy day.

“No, I’m not,” I answered, to which he immediately responded,

“Ah, you’re a real American!”

Huh? What?

What the flip, old people?

The not-so nice thing about Facebook is when those people start sending you weird, creepy, poorly-written private messages. And then, when you don’t respond, the messages keep coming, each one getting more and more unsettling. You know, like these:

“Use it if you want?”

Whatever, creeper. I’m happily married. More than happily married.

So you can go wait by your phone for me to not call if you want. Or just fall in a hole. Whatevs.

*PS. The phrase “you were always my director for play time” refers (I think) to a class play I directed in Mrs. Bickley’s 5th grade English class. I especially enjoy how she managed to give that sweet memory a gross, icky connotation.

What? Only 10% of them have been claimed? That’s crazy!

Of course, I don’t now if I’m more amazed by the fact that they still make and sell VHS tapes or that Marty McFly is here from 1985 and getting a bargain on some “Standard Grade” Maxells.

The first came from an old guy who exclaimed as he shook my hand, “Aw, you Jewboy!”

The second compliment came from an older gentleman who gave me a knowing wink, as if he were in on a big secret. “Not bad for an Italian!” he smiled.

Never in my life have I heard so many borderline (and not so borderline) racial slurs directed at me that had nothing to do with my actual ethnicity.

I think this is gonna be fun.