A Brutally Honest Fictitious Persons Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to my mother-in-law is purely coincidental
Hello readers! This story came to me after a handful of friends and family read my draft novel. Each of them attempted to guess who in my real life they saw reflected in my characters. It was absurd to the degree that one friend was like, oh I bake sourdough! That’s me, right?
It’s annoying. Maybe some of you can relate.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental…
Except for that scene at Ben & Jerry’s. The one where the Scooper asks the main character, “Back again?” and the main character responds, “No, it’s my hologram, genius.” That actually happened. It was humiliating. I’ll be the first to admit I had a problem for a while. I can’t bring myself to return there.
I did steal their cow print stool and the acned Scooper did chase me all the way down Main Street. I wasn’t in my right mind. I’m sorry.
I’ll return the stool.
Okay, well actually in the spirit of honesty, the only reason I was serial dining at Ben & Jerry’s is because my Mother-in-Law was making me crazy.
It’s not like I meant to write my own MIL into the story. It started out as a generic meddling Jewish MIL, but then I needed to build up the tension between the main character and the MIL and that time she threw out all of my pumped breast milk because it “smelled wrong” was perfect for the scene.
Listen, Cheryl, if you’re reading this, I swear the rest is fiction. Especially the part when the son makes the main character say he’s sick whenever she invites them for dinner. That’s not us.
He said to tell his mother he was working late. Which we did — which we do. Cheryl wouldn’t have believed him to be sick every Shabbat. She knows I only feed my family organic. The rest is fiction though.
And her matzo balls are always moist. Very.
They just disintegrate right there on the spoon.
My MIL did say that my generation has it so much easier than hers. But it’s not like I throat-punched her in real life. Obviously, I would never do that.
I just put a wee bit of extra salt in the gefilte fish.
That dramatic heart attack scene, the one where the MIL says that her son should have married his high school girlfriend Hannah because she blessed her family with twin boys when I only gave them girls never happened. Not like that anyway.
She said it in the recovery room after she knew she was going to live.
And obviously Hannah’s name was changed.
My MIL never bought me a ThighMaster, that was just a joke to underscore the MIL’s capacity for cruelty. No, my MIL bought me a scale. And a membership to Weight Watchers. And when I graduated from my Master’s, a custom apron.
Okay, so that apron bit in the story was real. But she didn’t find it at the Value Village and confront me.
My MIL wouldn’t be caught dead in a thrift store.
I don’t hate my MIL. Cheryl, I don’t hate you. I could never. I know there’s that dramatic scene near the end where the main character shrieks over and over again, “I hate you, Shirel” after the MIL tells her that her two-year-old daughter’s ankles are getting fat and that she should take her to the doctor.
I had strong feelings about that one, but I worked through it in therapy.
Of course my therapy is my writing.
But I could never hate you.
I don’t hate anyone.
The thing is, the memoir market is saturated. I queried this one for ages and couldn’t land a publisher. Fiction just seemed like the right move for me professionally. And it gave me a fun sandbox to play in. And after extensive re-writes, this thing just took off.
My MIL always wanted her son to marry someone successful. Well, he did.
Turns out, he married a New York Times Bestselling author.
Of course I would never kill my MIL. That is unfathomable. Well, okay, I fathomed it. Once. With the manicurist who comes to her condo to do her nails every week. It was just an elaborate joke. We had a good laugh over it.
And it did inspire the final scene in the book. But it was just that — a joke.
That’s what we Jews do, we turn trauma into comedy.
Like I said, Caught Dead in a Thrift Store is purely a work of fiction.
This story originally appeared in Jane Austin’s Wastebasket.
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