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With the grace of hindsight, I realize that none of this was about me. At the time, however, I was deeply hurt that she drunk pee didn't drunk pee like me, that she was uninterested in getting to know me. I wanted her to like me for the qualities it seemed we shared: interests in feminist health, travel and good books. This was all much more relevant than my ties -- illegitimate at that -- to the last kaiser of Germany. For me, the books piled next to one's bed, the articles cut from the paper, drunk pee speak legions; where or if one worships says relatively little. But my world spins on a different axis than hers. So I shifted my attention to a more superficial, yet still winning, list of traits for which I might gain her approval: a balanced checkbook, respectable culinary skills, post-collegiate degrees and child-bearing hips all ranked high. Besides, I argued, it wasn't as though Andrew had been dating a long line of nice Jewish girls and then I'd come along to sully matters. His mother seemed oblivious to the fact that many of her Deadhead, old-time-musician son's recent dalliances had been saturated in patchouli oil, ensconced in beads and toting a mountain dulcimer on their way to a square dance.
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