Every Tuesday night, well except for last week, I venture into the old Jewish area of Seattle known as Seward Park to take classes. These are real Jewish classes, not the pop culture, phony-assed Madonna Kabbalah bullshit. Tonight we discussed Jewish history, and with the Hanukkah holiday upon us, the topic inevitably turned to the Maccabees.
Here is a quick and simple lesson about Hanukkah for those whose knowledge of the Jewish holiday doesn’t go past that weird little spinney, top thing, and that way cool candle holder. The holiday of Hanukkah started when the Greco-Syrians conquered the land of Judea, many, many moons ago. The Maccabees, led by Judah Maccabee, decided not to deal with the Syrians and their shit, so they fought a big, victorious battle and reclaimed Judea. In the time that the Syrians had Judea, they totally trashed the sacred temple, so when the Maccabees took over, they had to clean and rededicate the temple. The candle holder is significant, because there was this special blessed oil that they used to dedicate the temple, but there was only enough to burn for one day, and since Wicks ‘n’ Sticks wasn’t around back then, they didn’t have the means of obtaining more oil. In the end, they said “fuck it” and decided that one day’s worth of oil was better than a temple filled with Syrian stank, so they did their deed and one day’s oil burned for eight crazy nights (hence the miracle).
Fast forward a few thousand years to now where Hanukkah has become the Jewish Christmas. My non-Jewish friends are often surprised when I tell them that this little candle lighting festival is actually a minor holiday. We don’t stop working or eating, and we do a prayer, but it’s a little one. In Israel and other non-U.S. countries, Hanukkah is just all about lighting some skinny candles, and maybe getting a new pair of socks.
I sat back thinking about the current status of Hanukkah as a godless orgy of consumption, where the real story, much like Christmas, gets told, but the words seem to lack any real meaning. I began to ask myself: What Would Judah (Maccabee) Do?
First of all, Judah and his Maccabee sons were hardcore, right wing Jews. They make the Israeli Chassidics (you know the guys with the long, curly sideburns and beards from hell) look like drunken fraternity brothers in a Saturday night game of naked, Crisco Twister. If Judah saw the way modern Jews were celebrating the occasion where he and his kids fought with all of their blood and soul so that a temple could be preserved, yet most of the people lighting candles don’t even go to the modern day temples, he would get pissed. I’m not talking mildly pissed, like when the annoying family member makes off-color remarks at dinner and laughs at their own jokes, I’m talking ‘cut off your head, spit down your neck pissed.’
I continue to ask, “what would Judah (Maccabee) do” about the raging consumerism. Again, he would get pissed, because after fighting a battle, he and his children had to reclaim a land that had been officially pillaged. We don’t see much pillaging nowadays, but almost everyone has had something they loved stolen from them, and we know how angry it makes us. Imagine having a whole country’s worth of valuables stolen, and you want a new Xbox 360! ‘Better you should give that money to people who really need it.’ Judah would say. Given the fact that most American Jewish kids aren’t exactly hard up for anything, I would have to agree with the warrior patriarch.
In my final examination of the holiday that Hanukkah has morphed into, I asked “what would Judah (Maccabee) do” about some other Hanukkah details such as the annoying as hell “Dreidel Song,” the fact that Hanukkah has at least 500 different spellings, and my fruitless search for a low-fat, low-calorie latke (potato pancake) recipe. At this point, I think he would look at me, shake his head, and wonder why modern day Jews are such idiots. Then he might spend the rest of the night yelling at G-d, much like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, asking him why he drug his children into such battle when all future Jews would be obsessed with was spinning tops, eating foods that didn’t exist during his time, and buying gifts for each other.
I can empathize with Judah Maccabee, and I have decided to spend this year’s Hanukkah exhibiting the same kind of pride in my people as the patriarch did when he waged the uphill battle against the Syrians, and to prove it, I’m definitely going to fashion those blinking blue and white lights into a Star of David on my front lawn.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Thanksgiving: The Gluttonous Food Orgy
Of all of the holidays I dread the most, Thanksgiving is at the top of my list. There are many reasons that I don’t particularly care for the November holiday: my mom died two weeks before Thanksgiving last year, all of the stores skip the horn of plenty décor and go straight for Christmas crap, and no matter how diet conscious you attempt to be, there is no escaping the food.
We were down in Southern California this year for Thanksgiving, which was great from a weather point of view. I’ve found that the warmer you are, the less you eat, which is why people in the mid-West tend to be on the hefty side, while those on the warm, West Coast are a little svelter. It could also be that the West Coasters are vacuous and care more about their looks than their health, but that’s another story. My in-laws claimed the weather was chilly, but they shiver when it dips below 70 degrees. I was just fine, and spent nearly the entire turkey holiday without a jacket.
I still am not sure why any activity remotely related to family seems to center around food, but I’m thinking that if I had been orphaned at a young age I could have spent my teenage years doing something productive like writing poetry or publishing my own magazine instead of trying to use the pliers to zip up my jeans, while one of the Christinas measured my hips. I know most people out there can empathize, after all, is there another house you ever go into, besides your own, where the first thing you do is look in the fridge or cabinets for something to eat?
On turkey day, I began by drinking at least two cups of really strong coffee, while my husband, up at least two hours before me, was studying the ads like they were the Torah. Coffee usually takes my appetite away, and I wanted to save all of my points for the actual meal. I spent most of the day dancing the fine line between trying to help my mother-in-law prepare dinner and staying out of the kitchen to avoid diving into the cheese and crackers. I did pretty well most of the day, until as usual; my brother-in-law and his wife were their mandatory 30 minutes late holding everyone in the family room salivating while the buffet in the kitchen teased us with its fantastic scent.
While we all waited, a great crowd of family and friends was on hand to talk with. I had spent the day before coaching myself to lay off anything alcoholic, but as I said before, it was a crowd of family and friends, so wine helped me enjoy the scenario without going out of my mind. How many times can you really talk about various family members’ illnesses before you want to kill yourself?
When the actual meal did finally take place, I spied the selections carefully avoiding anything with more than two cups of sugar or fat in the recipe. Thank goodness white meat turkey is one of the best meats you could eat. I loaded up on that stuff, despite knowing that I would be in that weird Thanksgiving turkey coma a mere 55 minutes later. I skipped the stuffing and the Jell-O mold; the stuffing to avoid the fat, the Jell-O mold, because they always freaked me out just a bit, and don’t ask me why. My meal basically consisted of veggies and meat, but it was great and I didn’t feel so guilty about it.
It’s kind of strange to think about what this particular holiday evolved from. In school we learned that it was a fun feast between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans, which when I went to elementary school were still referred to as Indians. In college, the real story came out that the meal was really a ploy to give the Native Americans (which is what they were referred to by the time I went to college) diseased blankets, so they would get sick and die, and the uber-religious, hypocrite Pilgrims could take their land. It must seem so justifying now to the Native Americans that the decedents of those same swarthy, lying bastards are now in their tribal casinos every weekend losing an assload of money. What can you say, payback is truly a bitch!
After two days of turkey leftovers and dining out, I hit the food wall on Saturday night, so hard; I didn’t even eat the cookie the nice flight attendant offered me on the plane ride home. Gluttony may be a fun thing to do in one short, yearly spurt, but if you carry it on for any length of time, you begin to feel like that poor, severely obese guy on tv who had to be carried to the hospital on a horse gurney.
I’m glad Thanksgiving is over, and I can once again return to my normal eating and workout schedules. I’m also glad that I’m only a third generation American, so none of my relatives had anything to do with the raw deal those pious, English schmucks gave the Native Americans. However, I’ll still gladly support their casinos.
We were down in Southern California this year for Thanksgiving, which was great from a weather point of view. I’ve found that the warmer you are, the less you eat, which is why people in the mid-West tend to be on the hefty side, while those on the warm, West Coast are a little svelter. It could also be that the West Coasters are vacuous and care more about their looks than their health, but that’s another story. My in-laws claimed the weather was chilly, but they shiver when it dips below 70 degrees. I was just fine, and spent nearly the entire turkey holiday without a jacket.
I still am not sure why any activity remotely related to family seems to center around food, but I’m thinking that if I had been orphaned at a young age I could have spent my teenage years doing something productive like writing poetry or publishing my own magazine instead of trying to use the pliers to zip up my jeans, while one of the Christinas measured my hips. I know most people out there can empathize, after all, is there another house you ever go into, besides your own, where the first thing you do is look in the fridge or cabinets for something to eat?
On turkey day, I began by drinking at least two cups of really strong coffee, while my husband, up at least two hours before me, was studying the ads like they were the Torah. Coffee usually takes my appetite away, and I wanted to save all of my points for the actual meal. I spent most of the day dancing the fine line between trying to help my mother-in-law prepare dinner and staying out of the kitchen to avoid diving into the cheese and crackers. I did pretty well most of the day, until as usual; my brother-in-law and his wife were their mandatory 30 minutes late holding everyone in the family room salivating while the buffet in the kitchen teased us with its fantastic scent.
While we all waited, a great crowd of family and friends was on hand to talk with. I had spent the day before coaching myself to lay off anything alcoholic, but as I said before, it was a crowd of family and friends, so wine helped me enjoy the scenario without going out of my mind. How many times can you really talk about various family members’ illnesses before you want to kill yourself?
When the actual meal did finally take place, I spied the selections carefully avoiding anything with more than two cups of sugar or fat in the recipe. Thank goodness white meat turkey is one of the best meats you could eat. I loaded up on that stuff, despite knowing that I would be in that weird Thanksgiving turkey coma a mere 55 minutes later. I skipped the stuffing and the Jell-O mold; the stuffing to avoid the fat, the Jell-O mold, because they always freaked me out just a bit, and don’t ask me why. My meal basically consisted of veggies and meat, but it was great and I didn’t feel so guilty about it.
It’s kind of strange to think about what this particular holiday evolved from. In school we learned that it was a fun feast between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans, which when I went to elementary school were still referred to as Indians. In college, the real story came out that the meal was really a ploy to give the Native Americans (which is what they were referred to by the time I went to college) diseased blankets, so they would get sick and die, and the uber-religious, hypocrite Pilgrims could take their land. It must seem so justifying now to the Native Americans that the decedents of those same swarthy, lying bastards are now in their tribal casinos every weekend losing an assload of money. What can you say, payback is truly a bitch!
After two days of turkey leftovers and dining out, I hit the food wall on Saturday night, so hard; I didn’t even eat the cookie the nice flight attendant offered me on the plane ride home. Gluttony may be a fun thing to do in one short, yearly spurt, but if you carry it on for any length of time, you begin to feel like that poor, severely obese guy on tv who had to be carried to the hospital on a horse gurney.
I’m glad Thanksgiving is over, and I can once again return to my normal eating and workout schedules. I’m also glad that I’m only a third generation American, so none of my relatives had anything to do with the raw deal those pious, English schmucks gave the Native Americans. However, I’ll still gladly support their casinos.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Greener on the Other Side?
My husband’s favorite expression, mostly when I’m bitching about him and the kid, is “the grass is always greener on the other side.” He says this snidely, like I’m going to stop mid-bitch and realize that despite the fact that he is on the computer looking up shit for his business while Rachael’s wet diaper is sagging on the floor leaving puddles on the carpet, I have it good and should appreciate his inaction. Of course this never works, and I complete the bitching flawlessly.
Today, his “greener on the other side” theory got put to the test. I sent him and the girl to the airport this afternoon to fly a day ahead of me to California for the big family Thanksgiving. I felt a surge of elation as I dropped them off realizing that, for the first time since Rachael’s birth, I was on my own for 24 hours. It felt like I was single again, except when I went to the can and ended up staring at the faded, tiny stretch marks on my belly. I was on my own for an entire day to do as I pleased.
I contemplated all of the ways I could spend the next 24 hours. First off, I would have to finish my workday at The Facility. Thankfully, my supervisor and boss took off early, so I did too. Then I was off to fulfill an important task: getting my nails done. I ended up in downtown Renton early, so I popped over to get gas and a slice of goopy, cheese pizza. This is my guilty pleasure when I have enough points available to indulge.
I spent a quick hour in the nail salon amid the flurry of Vietnamese-speaking nail techs and children running excitedly through the tiny shop. For a moment I sat in my car thinking I should call and check in, but then I remembered that I was free for the night, and accountable to no one.
I blew off my Jewish studies class, which means I’m on lox and bagel restriction for at least a month, and headed to the mall. Although I knew there would be Christmas music blaring as far as the ear could hear, and that I was never that fond of shopping, I loved the idea of going somewhere and not having a time restriction.
I spent two hours perusing the shops, and getting pissed that I’m down 30 pounds and the new fashion seeping into all the stores like toxic mold is Boho. I don’t want to dress like a hippie. I don’t want to dress like an earthy hippie, a rich hippie, or a stylish hippie, therefore I can only hope the style changes within the next ten pound loss, because I’m not dressing like a fucking hippie. The sad thing is that the Boho look has creeped into everything: jewelry, purses, and shoes. It really sucks!
The positive thing that came out of my mall experience was that I learned I’m down another size, which is good especially since I’ve hit a weight loss plateau for the last two weeks, and Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow.
Jeff finally called to check in with me while his mother gave Rachael a bath. He was probably going to get together with one of his more interesting friends tonight, and I was off to pick up some sushi. The rest of my evening will be spent folding laundry, lounging while I watch bad tv, working out during Law & Order: SVU, and staying up until the wee hours of the night playing a mindless, computer game. Best of all, I won’t have anyone asking me when I’m coming to bed, or why I’m playing ridiculous computer games instead of finishing my book.
I do miss my little munchkin. She was in a happy mood today, and her smile is a bit addictive, but I can forego a sloppy, toddler kiss until tomorrow afternoon. Although I have to work tomorrow, I get to leave early, and enjoy a solo flight for the first time in three years. I get to sit down in an aisle seat and read a magazine. Oh, the small things in life we find ourselves grateful for.
The next few days will be spent in sunny California, which will be a nice break from the freezing cold fog that has consumed Seattle. The only downside will be the natural drama that seems to happen every time anyone group of loosely related people come together, do some drinking, and attempt to do something stupid like enjoy a holiday. Nobody can ever seem to do the Cleaver Family thing properly, but at least I’ll be in the right mindset. The grass may not be greener on the other side in the long run, but I’m happy to spend a day or two on the lawn.
Today, his “greener on the other side” theory got put to the test. I sent him and the girl to the airport this afternoon to fly a day ahead of me to California for the big family Thanksgiving. I felt a surge of elation as I dropped them off realizing that, for the first time since Rachael’s birth, I was on my own for 24 hours. It felt like I was single again, except when I went to the can and ended up staring at the faded, tiny stretch marks on my belly. I was on my own for an entire day to do as I pleased.
I contemplated all of the ways I could spend the next 24 hours. First off, I would have to finish my workday at The Facility. Thankfully, my supervisor and boss took off early, so I did too. Then I was off to fulfill an important task: getting my nails done. I ended up in downtown Renton early, so I popped over to get gas and a slice of goopy, cheese pizza. This is my guilty pleasure when I have enough points available to indulge.
I spent a quick hour in the nail salon amid the flurry of Vietnamese-speaking nail techs and children running excitedly through the tiny shop. For a moment I sat in my car thinking I should call and check in, but then I remembered that I was free for the night, and accountable to no one.
I blew off my Jewish studies class, which means I’m on lox and bagel restriction for at least a month, and headed to the mall. Although I knew there would be Christmas music blaring as far as the ear could hear, and that I was never that fond of shopping, I loved the idea of going somewhere and not having a time restriction.
I spent two hours perusing the shops, and getting pissed that I’m down 30 pounds and the new fashion seeping into all the stores like toxic mold is Boho. I don’t want to dress like a hippie. I don’t want to dress like an earthy hippie, a rich hippie, or a stylish hippie, therefore I can only hope the style changes within the next ten pound loss, because I’m not dressing like a fucking hippie. The sad thing is that the Boho look has creeped into everything: jewelry, purses, and shoes. It really sucks!
The positive thing that came out of my mall experience was that I learned I’m down another size, which is good especially since I’ve hit a weight loss plateau for the last two weeks, and Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow.
Jeff finally called to check in with me while his mother gave Rachael a bath. He was probably going to get together with one of his more interesting friends tonight, and I was off to pick up some sushi. The rest of my evening will be spent folding laundry, lounging while I watch bad tv, working out during Law & Order: SVU, and staying up until the wee hours of the night playing a mindless, computer game. Best of all, I won’t have anyone asking me when I’m coming to bed, or why I’m playing ridiculous computer games instead of finishing my book.
I do miss my little munchkin. She was in a happy mood today, and her smile is a bit addictive, but I can forego a sloppy, toddler kiss until tomorrow afternoon. Although I have to work tomorrow, I get to leave early, and enjoy a solo flight for the first time in three years. I get to sit down in an aisle seat and read a magazine. Oh, the small things in life we find ourselves grateful for.
The next few days will be spent in sunny California, which will be a nice break from the freezing cold fog that has consumed Seattle. The only downside will be the natural drama that seems to happen every time anyone group of loosely related people come together, do some drinking, and attempt to do something stupid like enjoy a holiday. Nobody can ever seem to do the Cleaver Family thing properly, but at least I’ll be in the right mindset. The grass may not be greener on the other side in the long run, but I’m happy to spend a day or two on the lawn.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
The Music of the Christmas Season
I can’t tell you how many years I’ve hated Christmas music. It’s one of those annoying things that you don’t think about until one day, usually as early as October, you are in a store, and there it is: “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…” All that runs through my head at that point is; oh fuck, it’s that time of year again!
I know most will think my loathing of the Christmas season is because I’m Jewish, but hopefully you are more original, and hate idiots who go for the obvious. I’ve never liked Christmas. As a kid, when the big reward in our house was putting the star on the top of the Christmas tree, I would retire to my room and let my sister or brother have the honor. Putting up the tree was always a big pain in the ass. I grew up in a completely non-religious household, because my stepdad didn’t want to play “G-d’s ballgame,” and my mom was one of those freaky, hippie types that were way more “spiritual” than religious. We did the Christmas morning with all the presents thing, and the tree, but I was never into it.
As I got older, I kind of grew to resent Christmas, because as with anything in this country, the soul behind the true meaning gets thrown away in favor of blatant, rampant commercialism. My mother’s birthday was on October 26th, and one year I went out in the middle of the Halloween month only to be confronted by tons of faux pine trees and big, red, velvet bows. I complained to the store manager, but he said he got the orders to display the Christmas shit the first week of October.
Thank goodness for the internet! With the invention of this little shopping paradise, I’m able to avoid the “holiday shopping rush” completely. It’s not that I don’t love sales or buying for others, in fact I would rather buy a complete stranger a gift than have to shop for jeans for my fat ass; I just hate the Christmas music. Is it a requirement that those songs be annoying? Has anyone written a cool Christmas song only to be told by the powers that be that they can’t release it, because the chorus just doesn’t grate on someone’s nerves quite the same way as “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”? I love Bing Crosby’s voice, but if I have to hear him sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” for the 500th time, I’m going to go completely ape shit.
Hands down, the only Christmas song I don’t feel down right wretched about hearing is Elvis’ “Blue Christmas”. That man can sing anything, and thankfully, his Christmas song is starting to become popular, so if I have to brave a store, I can count on hearing it at least once.
I don’t mind classical or musak, give me all of the Christmas elevator you’ve got, but please keep Christina, Brittney, and Mariah’s versions of “our holiday favorites” out of my aural range. They don’t add anything to these tunes, except more annoyance, and since most stores probably have a loop of Christmas songs that get updated about every ten years, there’s no point in adding any of these pop divas, because these broads don’t have a combined ten years left in their careers.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a good alternative to Christmas music to offer the general public. Adam Sandler did a bang-up job on putting out the “Hanukkah Song,” and I appreciate his ambition in releasing a new and updated version of it each year, but one can only listen to it twice a day without going insane. Our other Jewish holiday song is the “Dreidel Song,” which is about as bad as an Ashley and Jessica Simpson duet of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” As for Kwanza or Diwali (the Hindu, end of the year holiday), I’ve never heard any of those holidays’ theme music, so if they have something catchy and nice, they should step forward and offer it up. Our society is so freaky about being P.C. that I’m sure the more “cultural” holiday music would manage to make its way into a few of the average malls’ holiday music lexicon before some conservative, white guy pitched a fit.
In a few weeks, I’ll host the hors d’oeuvres part of the Neighborhood Progressive Dinner, and everyone will just have to be satisfied with some good ol’ classical. Maybe, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll whip out the London Royal Symphony’s version of The Nutcracker. Otherwise, I’ll take it upon myself to enlighten our multicultural, non-Jewish neighborhood dwellers with an hour of Israeli music, while running 8 Crazy Nights on a constant loop on the tv up in the family room. Either way, you can be damn sure “Let It Snow” and “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” will be no where in sight.
I know most will think my loathing of the Christmas season is because I’m Jewish, but hopefully you are more original, and hate idiots who go for the obvious. I’ve never liked Christmas. As a kid, when the big reward in our house was putting the star on the top of the Christmas tree, I would retire to my room and let my sister or brother have the honor. Putting up the tree was always a big pain in the ass. I grew up in a completely non-religious household, because my stepdad didn’t want to play “G-d’s ballgame,” and my mom was one of those freaky, hippie types that were way more “spiritual” than religious. We did the Christmas morning with all the presents thing, and the tree, but I was never into it.
As I got older, I kind of grew to resent Christmas, because as with anything in this country, the soul behind the true meaning gets thrown away in favor of blatant, rampant commercialism. My mother’s birthday was on October 26th, and one year I went out in the middle of the Halloween month only to be confronted by tons of faux pine trees and big, red, velvet bows. I complained to the store manager, but he said he got the orders to display the Christmas shit the first week of October.
Thank goodness for the internet! With the invention of this little shopping paradise, I’m able to avoid the “holiday shopping rush” completely. It’s not that I don’t love sales or buying for others, in fact I would rather buy a complete stranger a gift than have to shop for jeans for my fat ass; I just hate the Christmas music. Is it a requirement that those songs be annoying? Has anyone written a cool Christmas song only to be told by the powers that be that they can’t release it, because the chorus just doesn’t grate on someone’s nerves quite the same way as “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”? I love Bing Crosby’s voice, but if I have to hear him sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” for the 500th time, I’m going to go completely ape shit.
Hands down, the only Christmas song I don’t feel down right wretched about hearing is Elvis’ “Blue Christmas”. That man can sing anything, and thankfully, his Christmas song is starting to become popular, so if I have to brave a store, I can count on hearing it at least once.
I don’t mind classical or musak, give me all of the Christmas elevator you’ve got, but please keep Christina, Brittney, and Mariah’s versions of “our holiday favorites” out of my aural range. They don’t add anything to these tunes, except more annoyance, and since most stores probably have a loop of Christmas songs that get updated about every ten years, there’s no point in adding any of these pop divas, because these broads don’t have a combined ten years left in their careers.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a good alternative to Christmas music to offer the general public. Adam Sandler did a bang-up job on putting out the “Hanukkah Song,” and I appreciate his ambition in releasing a new and updated version of it each year, but one can only listen to it twice a day without going insane. Our other Jewish holiday song is the “Dreidel Song,” which is about as bad as an Ashley and Jessica Simpson duet of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” As for Kwanza or Diwali (the Hindu, end of the year holiday), I’ve never heard any of those holidays’ theme music, so if they have something catchy and nice, they should step forward and offer it up. Our society is so freaky about being P.C. that I’m sure the more “cultural” holiday music would manage to make its way into a few of the average malls’ holiday music lexicon before some conservative, white guy pitched a fit.
In a few weeks, I’ll host the hors d’oeuvres part of the Neighborhood Progressive Dinner, and everyone will just have to be satisfied with some good ol’ classical. Maybe, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll whip out the London Royal Symphony’s version of The Nutcracker. Otherwise, I’ll take it upon myself to enlighten our multicultural, non-Jewish neighborhood dwellers with an hour of Israeli music, while running 8 Crazy Nights on a constant loop on the tv up in the family room. Either way, you can be damn sure “Let It Snow” and “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” will be no where in sight.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Bigger, Faster, Better, More
I’m continually fascinated by our somewhat fucked up society. Like a demanding spouse or a nagging parent, nothing is ever good enough for us. In the ‘70s, the single family home was too small, and the sprawling rambler came along. In the ‘80s, regular models were no longer good enough, you had to have supermodels. In the ‘90s, you couldn’t just be pissed off; your life had to be completely angst-ridden, and now in the new millennium, although we bitch a lot, bigger is definitely better.
We all know that guy who will kvetch to no end about paying $120 every time he has to fill up his Suburban, and to be politically correct, he gives a great cock ‘n’ bull story about getting rid of it as soon as he can pull together enough scratch for a hybrid, but he’s full of shit and we all know it. The fact is, he loves the feeling of towering over the other cars in his way, and having two tons of steel at his control. Sure, he gets that horrible sense of foreboding as the gas gauge nears the “E”, but he will never give up his manly ride for something more efficient.
Less obvious to the naked eye is the fact that the “bigger, faster, better, more” philosophy has spilled over into the idea of family. A couple of years ago, the family movie of the season was Cheaper by the Dozen. The story of a nice, mid-Western couple who longs for the pitter-patter of a whole herd of feet, and wind up with a dozen adorable kids. He’s a football coach, she’s a successful author, and chaos does ensue, but when it’s caused by someone as cute as Hillary Duff, it makes for a great movie.
This year, a dozen wasn’t enough. I have been inundated with previews and movie posters about a man with eight kids who gets into a relationship with a woman with ten kids, it’s called Yours, Mine, and Ours, and it seems ridiculous. First off, after carrying and giving birth to ten kids, no woman is going to be that thin, unless she’s married to a plastic surgeon and has a surrogate on call. Secondly, I’m wondering when the movie about the people with 30 kids is going to be out. Perhaps it will be 2008, and will star Julia Roberts as a woman who just haphazardly gives birth to sets of triplets, and Jude Law could play a very fertile man whose seed seems to only harvest twins.
Despite the concept of the Brady Bunch on crack, its fiction, and even more, it’s Hollywood where reality doesn’t exist, and all reason is thrown out the window if there’s a chance to make a buck and sell merchandising rights for Happy Meal toys. Nothing like this multiple kid conundrum could ever really happen in our bigger, faster, better, more society, right? Think again; an Arkansas family who just had #16 and isn’t opposed to adding a few more new faces to their enormous brood. They have been featured on CNN, Primetime Live, and are the subject of a Discovery Health Channel special.
Apparently, the mother (a uterus with a bad ‘80s haircut) home schools all of the children, and laughs about spending $2,000 a month on groceries. They proudly bear bumper stickers on their minivan praising George W. Bush, and to make everything a little more confusing have made all their kids’ names start with the letter “J”. I, personally, don’t want to be there when the kids are behaving like perfect publicity robots, I want to be there when the mommy is sick of never having sleep or a moment to herself, and loses it locking all of the kids in the shed. I want to see the look on the dad’s face when he has to fain happiness as his wife tells him for the 17th time that she’s pregnant, which means they will be great grandparents before they ever have the opportunity to just be a couple again.
The most disturbing part of this “bigger family is a better family” is the fact that it only applies to certain families. If the family is a bit chaotic, cute, and Caucasian, everything is okay and it makes for a great, Hollywood movie. However, if you were to put Ice Cube and Jada Pinkett Smith in the lead roles, then I think your average American moviegoer’s comments would change rapidly. I know several wonderful Mexican families from my childhood in Idaho that were all about double digit kids, and they were called a “menace” and “irresponsible.”
Bigger, faster, better, more may work when it comes to cars, video games, and devices to store illegally downloaded music on, but when it comes to the good ol’ American family, you’d better leave it at two and a half kids and a dog. After all, in this society, the family becomes less appealing when the father looks more like George Lopez than Dennis Quaid and the mother is Rosario Dawson, not Rene Russo.
We all know that guy who will kvetch to no end about paying $120 every time he has to fill up his Suburban, and to be politically correct, he gives a great cock ‘n’ bull story about getting rid of it as soon as he can pull together enough scratch for a hybrid, but he’s full of shit and we all know it. The fact is, he loves the feeling of towering over the other cars in his way, and having two tons of steel at his control. Sure, he gets that horrible sense of foreboding as the gas gauge nears the “E”, but he will never give up his manly ride for something more efficient.
Less obvious to the naked eye is the fact that the “bigger, faster, better, more” philosophy has spilled over into the idea of family. A couple of years ago, the family movie of the season was Cheaper by the Dozen. The story of a nice, mid-Western couple who longs for the pitter-patter of a whole herd of feet, and wind up with a dozen adorable kids. He’s a football coach, she’s a successful author, and chaos does ensue, but when it’s caused by someone as cute as Hillary Duff, it makes for a great movie.
This year, a dozen wasn’t enough. I have been inundated with previews and movie posters about a man with eight kids who gets into a relationship with a woman with ten kids, it’s called Yours, Mine, and Ours, and it seems ridiculous. First off, after carrying and giving birth to ten kids, no woman is going to be that thin, unless she’s married to a plastic surgeon and has a surrogate on call. Secondly, I’m wondering when the movie about the people with 30 kids is going to be out. Perhaps it will be 2008, and will star Julia Roberts as a woman who just haphazardly gives birth to sets of triplets, and Jude Law could play a very fertile man whose seed seems to only harvest twins.
Despite the concept of the Brady Bunch on crack, its fiction, and even more, it’s Hollywood where reality doesn’t exist, and all reason is thrown out the window if there’s a chance to make a buck and sell merchandising rights for Happy Meal toys. Nothing like this multiple kid conundrum could ever really happen in our bigger, faster, better, more society, right? Think again; an Arkansas family who just had #16 and isn’t opposed to adding a few more new faces to their enormous brood. They have been featured on CNN, Primetime Live, and are the subject of a Discovery Health Channel special.
Apparently, the mother (a uterus with a bad ‘80s haircut) home schools all of the children, and laughs about spending $2,000 a month on groceries. They proudly bear bumper stickers on their minivan praising George W. Bush, and to make everything a little more confusing have made all their kids’ names start with the letter “J”. I, personally, don’t want to be there when the kids are behaving like perfect publicity robots, I want to be there when the mommy is sick of never having sleep or a moment to herself, and loses it locking all of the kids in the shed. I want to see the look on the dad’s face when he has to fain happiness as his wife tells him for the 17th time that she’s pregnant, which means they will be great grandparents before they ever have the opportunity to just be a couple again.
The most disturbing part of this “bigger family is a better family” is the fact that it only applies to certain families. If the family is a bit chaotic, cute, and Caucasian, everything is okay and it makes for a great, Hollywood movie. However, if you were to put Ice Cube and Jada Pinkett Smith in the lead roles, then I think your average American moviegoer’s comments would change rapidly. I know several wonderful Mexican families from my childhood in Idaho that were all about double digit kids, and they were called a “menace” and “irresponsible.”
Bigger, faster, better, more may work when it comes to cars, video games, and devices to store illegally downloaded music on, but when it comes to the good ol’ American family, you’d better leave it at two and a half kids and a dog. After all, in this society, the family becomes less appealing when the father looks more like George Lopez than Dennis Quaid and the mother is Rosario Dawson, not Rene Russo.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Whores Deserve Cancer
Did you ever hear something on television that was so outrageous it rendered you mute? This happened to me the other day, and I can tell you that it isn’t often that I’m stricken speechless. I was flipping through the channels, innocently enough, when I came across the wonderful news that there had been a bonafide cure developed for cervical cancer. Each year over 10,000 women in the U.S. and hundreds of thousands of women worldwide are stricken with this painful form of cancer. Now that there’s a vaccine, all is well…now for the dumbfounding part.
Apparently a conservative Christian group is fighting the release of the vaccine in the U.S., because they believe it will encourage women to be more sexually active. I guess they figure that the women who contract cervical cancer are slutting around, and end up with a more than normal amount of nastiness in the ‘gina region. Therefore, cervical cancer is just G-d’s way of punishing them for being women of lowly virtue, and if given the vaccine, they would be cured and would continue their loose lifestyle.
Two and a half minutes into this report, the speechlessness had left me, and I was spinning around the family room like the Tasmanian Devil stuck in Seattle rush hour traffic. Beyond pissed doesn’t even begin to describe my mood. Of all of the ridiculous fucking things that I’ve heard in my life, the idea that women should be allowed to painfully suffer and die of cancer, because they weren’t virgins when they got married made me really pro-nuclear at that point.
What continues to piss me off, days after watching this jaw-dropping news report, is the plain ignorance of the Christian extremist right. I realize that the women inflicted with the cancer will certainly be curtailing their sexual practices, but I doubt the women who receive the life-saving vaccine will change the course they are currently on. Also, what about the woman who was a virgin when she got married, and spent her life being faithful to her husband, yet contracted the disease, because he didn’t return the monogamy? Maybe these particular Christians, instead of banning the vaccine, should ask the government to approve a Whore Review Board.
Women afflicted with cervical cancer could go before all of the white, male, Christian ministers, and if she was found to have a chaste life, would be able to receive the vaccine as long as she signed a special contract agreeing to continue her virtuous lifestyle. If she violated the contract, she would immediately be injected with a quicker, more deadlier form of cancer as her atonement.
I may not be a Christian, but I have Christians in my family, and growing up in this American society has naturally given me some exposure to the teachings of Jesus. With the limited amount of information I know regarding the J man, I can safely say that I don’t think he would have approved of letting women suffer from cancer. I also think that other, more reasonable Christians should have these idiots who claim to represent them censored or excommunicated.
When I look at these bloated, Caucasian, baby boomer males talking about letting women suffer from cancer, images of darker skinned, Afghani males come to mind. Yes, that’s right, I am comparing the leaders of the Christian right who want to ban a cancer cure with the Taliban, because the only difference between the two is the Christians let their wives shop at JC Penney while the Taliban wives are cruising the sales racks at Abdullah’s Burqa Hut.
Anytime you have an unreasonable group of zealots who are willing to let innocent people suffer in order to advance their religious agenda, it’s just wrong, oppressive, and theocratic. I just thank my lucky stars that Bush is finally falling flat on his ass in the polls, and given the most recent elections, people in this country are beginning to come to their senses and realize that just because you don’t like an aggressive amount of sex on t.v. doesn’t mean that you believe women shouldn’t be given a lifesaving vaccine.
I’m not all that worried that the drug won’t be approved by the FDA, because if there’s one thing our government loves more than moral values, it’s money, and Merck is championing this vaccine, and they have a lot of money. Thankfully, by this time next year all of us whores will be eligible to receive the vaccine for cervical cancer, and maybe we won’t have to go before the review board.
Apparently a conservative Christian group is fighting the release of the vaccine in the U.S., because they believe it will encourage women to be more sexually active. I guess they figure that the women who contract cervical cancer are slutting around, and end up with a more than normal amount of nastiness in the ‘gina region. Therefore, cervical cancer is just G-d’s way of punishing them for being women of lowly virtue, and if given the vaccine, they would be cured and would continue their loose lifestyle.
Two and a half minutes into this report, the speechlessness had left me, and I was spinning around the family room like the Tasmanian Devil stuck in Seattle rush hour traffic. Beyond pissed doesn’t even begin to describe my mood. Of all of the ridiculous fucking things that I’ve heard in my life, the idea that women should be allowed to painfully suffer and die of cancer, because they weren’t virgins when they got married made me really pro-nuclear at that point.
What continues to piss me off, days after watching this jaw-dropping news report, is the plain ignorance of the Christian extremist right. I realize that the women inflicted with the cancer will certainly be curtailing their sexual practices, but I doubt the women who receive the life-saving vaccine will change the course they are currently on. Also, what about the woman who was a virgin when she got married, and spent her life being faithful to her husband, yet contracted the disease, because he didn’t return the monogamy? Maybe these particular Christians, instead of banning the vaccine, should ask the government to approve a Whore Review Board.
Women afflicted with cervical cancer could go before all of the white, male, Christian ministers, and if she was found to have a chaste life, would be able to receive the vaccine as long as she signed a special contract agreeing to continue her virtuous lifestyle. If she violated the contract, she would immediately be injected with a quicker, more deadlier form of cancer as her atonement.
I may not be a Christian, but I have Christians in my family, and growing up in this American society has naturally given me some exposure to the teachings of Jesus. With the limited amount of information I know regarding the J man, I can safely say that I don’t think he would have approved of letting women suffer from cancer. I also think that other, more reasonable Christians should have these idiots who claim to represent them censored or excommunicated.
When I look at these bloated, Caucasian, baby boomer males talking about letting women suffer from cancer, images of darker skinned, Afghani males come to mind. Yes, that’s right, I am comparing the leaders of the Christian right who want to ban a cancer cure with the Taliban, because the only difference between the two is the Christians let their wives shop at JC Penney while the Taliban wives are cruising the sales racks at Abdullah’s Burqa Hut.
Anytime you have an unreasonable group of zealots who are willing to let innocent people suffer in order to advance their religious agenda, it’s just wrong, oppressive, and theocratic. I just thank my lucky stars that Bush is finally falling flat on his ass in the polls, and given the most recent elections, people in this country are beginning to come to their senses and realize that just because you don’t like an aggressive amount of sex on t.v. doesn’t mean that you believe women shouldn’t be given a lifesaving vaccine.
I’m not all that worried that the drug won’t be approved by the FDA, because if there’s one thing our government loves more than moral values, it’s money, and Merck is championing this vaccine, and they have a lot of money. Thankfully, by this time next year all of us whores will be eligible to receive the vaccine for cervical cancer, and maybe we won’t have to go before the review board.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Airborne Cocktails and TB
I grew up in a household that was quite hypocritical when it came to health issues. My stepfather was inflicted with a genetic lung disorder that made him terminally ill at a young age, until he was able to have a double lung transplant ten years ago. Some of the rules in our house barred the use of Aquanet indoors, and given the hairstyle I achieved through enormous amounts of the toxic spray, should have extended the ban to include the town I lived in. We adopted disposable paper cups as our vessel of rinse when we brushed our teeth, and were asked to apply perfume at school. We were very careful and health conscious when it came to all issues of the lungs.
For everything else, we were miserable failures. Eating disorders, depression, low blood pressure, and a serious lack of exercise riddled the house of my youth, so when I went to college, I had a lot of catching up to do. I took nutrition and health classes, and adopted a rigorous exercise regimen that led me into the arena of bodybuilding for awhile.
I have always been a relatively healthy person, but since my daughter has come into the picture, I have experienced an irrational number of colds, flu bugs, and other weird bouts of ickiness. This shouldn’t be a shock since kids are basically walking disease boxes in Children’s Place clothing, especially those who attend daycare. They have no concept of cleanliness and think nothing of putting some other kid’s possessions in their mouth.
My husband is one of those paranoid hand washing people, and thankfully, he has passed this obsession on to my daughter, which does help the illness situation, but we still get the sick bugs running through the house.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing feelings of yuckiness, and no, I’m not pregnant. Since I’m not one who runs to the doctor at the drop of a hat, I have instead chose to dose myself with a nearly nightly cocktail of two Airborne tablets with a side of 1,000 mg of vitamin C and a multi. It has helped my yucky feeling, but it still makes me wonder if I’m one step away from starting the pandemic flu.
Since achieving Mommy status, I have been far more paranoid regarding health issues, which is normal for a woman, particularly a Jewish woman. I’ve done all the reading up on the Avian flu, and I am prepared to wall myself and my family up in my house until it passes. Rachael is current on all of her vaccinations, and whether my husband fears needles or not, we are all getting flu shots this year!
Lately serious health issues, aside from the pandemic flu, haven’t crossed my mind, until yesterday. As an employee of The Facility, I was required to get a skin test for tuberculosis. Okay, if you have half a brain, you’ve figured out that I work for some sort of health provider, but legally I can’t say which one, so don’t ask. Anyways, I went in faithfully and had a pea sized amount of TB injected into my arm on Monday. Tuesday, I had a red mark the size of a dime. Wednesday, it was the size of a nickel and slightly itchy. Thursday, when the nurse looked at it, she was sure I had a positive skin test. That’s right, all of my Airborne and vitamin cocktails, a regular workout schedule, and the absence of red meat from my diet and I’m taken out by something as relevant to our time as polio or shingles.
Thankfully, my bump didn’t measure up. In the world of the TB skin test a ten millimeter bump is a positive measure, I had a seven. I have to go back in for a follow up skin test next week. If it turns out positive, then comes the chest x-ray along with blood and urine tests. I went to the internet right away, and discovered that TB is completely curable. If any further tests prove that I have TB bacteria present in my body, I can begin a three month run of antibiotics that will wipe it away.
It just seems kind of strange that something like this could appear at this point in my life. I haven’t been around any coughers lately, traveled to Asia, Eastern Europe or South America for at least four years, and aside from a potentially positive skin test, I’m extremely healthy. It’s perplexing, and has now made me a bit of a nervous wreck.
I guess all I can do now is wait for the follow up test, which won’t give results until next Thursday; what a wonderful way to begin a Thanksgiving vacation! At least I’m not contagious. You have to be coughing in order to be contagious, so for now, I’m just walking around as a potential TB carrier. Perhaps I’ll try three Airborne tablets tonight; after all, it couldn’t hurt.
For everything else, we were miserable failures. Eating disorders, depression, low blood pressure, and a serious lack of exercise riddled the house of my youth, so when I went to college, I had a lot of catching up to do. I took nutrition and health classes, and adopted a rigorous exercise regimen that led me into the arena of bodybuilding for awhile.
I have always been a relatively healthy person, but since my daughter has come into the picture, I have experienced an irrational number of colds, flu bugs, and other weird bouts of ickiness. This shouldn’t be a shock since kids are basically walking disease boxes in Children’s Place clothing, especially those who attend daycare. They have no concept of cleanliness and think nothing of putting some other kid’s possessions in their mouth.
My husband is one of those paranoid hand washing people, and thankfully, he has passed this obsession on to my daughter, which does help the illness situation, but we still get the sick bugs running through the house.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing feelings of yuckiness, and no, I’m not pregnant. Since I’m not one who runs to the doctor at the drop of a hat, I have instead chose to dose myself with a nearly nightly cocktail of two Airborne tablets with a side of 1,000 mg of vitamin C and a multi. It has helped my yucky feeling, but it still makes me wonder if I’m one step away from starting the pandemic flu.
Since achieving Mommy status, I have been far more paranoid regarding health issues, which is normal for a woman, particularly a Jewish woman. I’ve done all the reading up on the Avian flu, and I am prepared to wall myself and my family up in my house until it passes. Rachael is current on all of her vaccinations, and whether my husband fears needles or not, we are all getting flu shots this year!
Lately serious health issues, aside from the pandemic flu, haven’t crossed my mind, until yesterday. As an employee of The Facility, I was required to get a skin test for tuberculosis. Okay, if you have half a brain, you’ve figured out that I work for some sort of health provider, but legally I can’t say which one, so don’t ask. Anyways, I went in faithfully and had a pea sized amount of TB injected into my arm on Monday. Tuesday, I had a red mark the size of a dime. Wednesday, it was the size of a nickel and slightly itchy. Thursday, when the nurse looked at it, she was sure I had a positive skin test. That’s right, all of my Airborne and vitamin cocktails, a regular workout schedule, and the absence of red meat from my diet and I’m taken out by something as relevant to our time as polio or shingles.
Thankfully, my bump didn’t measure up. In the world of the TB skin test a ten millimeter bump is a positive measure, I had a seven. I have to go back in for a follow up skin test next week. If it turns out positive, then comes the chest x-ray along with blood and urine tests. I went to the internet right away, and discovered that TB is completely curable. If any further tests prove that I have TB bacteria present in my body, I can begin a three month run of antibiotics that will wipe it away.
It just seems kind of strange that something like this could appear at this point in my life. I haven’t been around any coughers lately, traveled to Asia, Eastern Europe or South America for at least four years, and aside from a potentially positive skin test, I’m extremely healthy. It’s perplexing, and has now made me a bit of a nervous wreck.
I guess all I can do now is wait for the follow up test, which won’t give results until next Thursday; what a wonderful way to begin a Thanksgiving vacation! At least I’m not contagious. You have to be coughing in order to be contagious, so for now, I’m just walking around as a potential TB carrier. Perhaps I’ll try three Airborne tablets tonight; after all, it couldn’t hurt.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
People Who Need to Be Slapped
There are a whole lot of people out there who need a good bitch slapping. Corrupt politicians, bigots, blonde heiresses, and a president or two could all use a hard one upside the head. These are the obvious recipients. When we see them our hand kind of tingles, but there is limited access to these folks, so instead we just cringe when we see them and rely on Jon Stewart and Bill Mahr to bash them regularly on cable tv.
Most people in my day-to-day life are lovely. I am pleased to be surrounded by a good group of friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. Sure, every now and again I have to run like hell to the bookstore to avoid wanting to physically injure the man and child I live with, but that’s what happens when three individuals with unique and strong personalities decide to reside in the same house.
There are a select few people in my life right now that I don’t see all that often, but when I do see them, piss me off to no end. These are the people who I’m forced to deal with from time to time, and have to be polite to for the sake of making the occasional time I spend with them less of a hell, and no, they aren’t all relatives or in-laws.
One of the people whose head I’d like to go upside is a woman who attends the same class I do on Tuesday night. For the past few months I’ve been taking a Jewish studies course. Most of the people in the class are great. They are wonderful, thinking people with easy-going personalities who are always willing to make small talk and greet you with a smile, then there’s this bitch. Orthodox Jews who observe the Sabbath, and adhere to the laws of Jewish living are called frum. Sometimes, the women, who often dress modestly covering their hair, are crudely referred to, by less observant Jews, as frummies. I don’t know if the chick that annoys the hell out of me in my haven of Jewish study and thinking is going for the award of “Frummy of the Year,” but she’s pissing me off in the process.
Usually, I approach people who try way too hard to fit in with pity. I mean, how pathetic is your life when you have to go out of your way to be something in order to get acceptance. If you were meant to fit in with a group or be a certain way, it would just come organically and with little effort. This woman has crossed over from pity case to annoying, and the very tone of her voice makes me want to slap her a good one.
She was semi-polite to me until the night I walked into class wearing slacks. She kind of gave me a pissy look and went out of her way, in a very clownish and animated gesture, to hug another (more observant) Jewish woman who walked in the room behind me. I realize I may not be the fabulous fashionista I would like to be, and I don’t dislike this woman, because she doesn’t like my pants, I could give a shit less about her critique of my personal style. What chews my cheese is that she was judging me, and who the fuck is she to judge me!
It’s bad enough that I have to watch her kiss ass to every rabbi who comes in to teach, or that I have to stand in line to ask a relevant question about the lesson, because she wants the rabbi to know that she is inviting his wife over for coffee, to be judged by a woman who pairs Nikes with a long jean skirt, frumpy sweater, and a poly-cotton blended beret is just too much.
All of my experiences with members of the Orthodox Jewish community have been wonderful, so I can’t hold one bad seed against them, and I wouldn’t encourage anyone else to either. Unfortunately, assholes reside in every group and every circumstance.
There are those waitresses with chips on their shoulders who believe that what they do isn’t merely food service, but a personal favor to you - the lazy woman who didn’t want to cook for her family. There are the people in the accounting and IT departments who assume you are stupid and have to explain some lame ass process to you, even though you don’t care, because in the end, it’s their job, not yours. And, we must not forget those friends you don’t see very often who send you the conservative spam email completely forgetting that you are against George Bush’s war for oil and worked on the Kerry campaign.
Yes, for every ten people you meet in life on a day-to-day basis at least one needs a good, hard bitch slap. The kind of slap that’s done with feeling like every fiber of your being draws your hand to their face with one smooth gliding motion, and releases a tension the size of a good Mt. Saint Helen’s blast. Unfortunately, what you see as a favor to society, most local authorities see as assault and battery, so you just have to look at those sorry bastards and daydream about slapping them. After all, dreaming is free.
Most people in my day-to-day life are lovely. I am pleased to be surrounded by a good group of friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. Sure, every now and again I have to run like hell to the bookstore to avoid wanting to physically injure the man and child I live with, but that’s what happens when three individuals with unique and strong personalities decide to reside in the same house.
There are a select few people in my life right now that I don’t see all that often, but when I do see them, piss me off to no end. These are the people who I’m forced to deal with from time to time, and have to be polite to for the sake of making the occasional time I spend with them less of a hell, and no, they aren’t all relatives or in-laws.
One of the people whose head I’d like to go upside is a woman who attends the same class I do on Tuesday night. For the past few months I’ve been taking a Jewish studies course. Most of the people in the class are great. They are wonderful, thinking people with easy-going personalities who are always willing to make small talk and greet you with a smile, then there’s this bitch. Orthodox Jews who observe the Sabbath, and adhere to the laws of Jewish living are called frum. Sometimes, the women, who often dress modestly covering their hair, are crudely referred to, by less observant Jews, as frummies. I don’t know if the chick that annoys the hell out of me in my haven of Jewish study and thinking is going for the award of “Frummy of the Year,” but she’s pissing me off in the process.
Usually, I approach people who try way too hard to fit in with pity. I mean, how pathetic is your life when you have to go out of your way to be something in order to get acceptance. If you were meant to fit in with a group or be a certain way, it would just come organically and with little effort. This woman has crossed over from pity case to annoying, and the very tone of her voice makes me want to slap her a good one.
She was semi-polite to me until the night I walked into class wearing slacks. She kind of gave me a pissy look and went out of her way, in a very clownish and animated gesture, to hug another (more observant) Jewish woman who walked in the room behind me. I realize I may not be the fabulous fashionista I would like to be, and I don’t dislike this woman, because she doesn’t like my pants, I could give a shit less about her critique of my personal style. What chews my cheese is that she was judging me, and who the fuck is she to judge me!
It’s bad enough that I have to watch her kiss ass to every rabbi who comes in to teach, or that I have to stand in line to ask a relevant question about the lesson, because she wants the rabbi to know that she is inviting his wife over for coffee, to be judged by a woman who pairs Nikes with a long jean skirt, frumpy sweater, and a poly-cotton blended beret is just too much.
All of my experiences with members of the Orthodox Jewish community have been wonderful, so I can’t hold one bad seed against them, and I wouldn’t encourage anyone else to either. Unfortunately, assholes reside in every group and every circumstance.
There are those waitresses with chips on their shoulders who believe that what they do isn’t merely food service, but a personal favor to you - the lazy woman who didn’t want to cook for her family. There are the people in the accounting and IT departments who assume you are stupid and have to explain some lame ass process to you, even though you don’t care, because in the end, it’s their job, not yours. And, we must not forget those friends you don’t see very often who send you the conservative spam email completely forgetting that you are against George Bush’s war for oil and worked on the Kerry campaign.
Yes, for every ten people you meet in life on a day-to-day basis at least one needs a good, hard bitch slap. The kind of slap that’s done with feeling like every fiber of your being draws your hand to their face with one smooth gliding motion, and releases a tension the size of a good Mt. Saint Helen’s blast. Unfortunately, what you see as a favor to society, most local authorities see as assault and battery, so you just have to look at those sorry bastards and daydream about slapping them. After all, dreaming is free.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Just Finish the Damn Book!
I normally pride myself on not caring what people think; especially when it comes to something I do creatively. I’ve weathered criticism before, the worst being when I published a small indie zine in Idaho. The entertainment editor for Boise’s largest daily newspaper went on and on about what a sellout, shitty rag the zine was. Did I mention that other than being a complete dick he was also egotistical, and basically stuck in Boise, because he couldn’t get a job writing for a bigger publication anywhere else. Anyways, like I said, I take criticism like a lady.
My worst critic is (be prepared for a shock) myself. I’ve been writing this damn book for nearly six months, yet lately when I want to do just a few more pages, a little voice in the back of my head begins telling me that instead of writing a compelling story, I’m penning mindless, romance novel drivel that will contribute nothing to society and make me a complete laughing stock. I wonder if George Orwell had this same problem.
I went to visit some of my former co-workers, all of which know about the book, and they greeted me with enthusiasm asking me when the book would be finished. Even my dad, who admits he is not exactly the most astute person, has asked me when I’m going to be finished with my book. Jeff regularly inquires about my progress, and sometimes I take it as general concern as opposed to more nagging, but again, I’m overcome with this sense of insecurity.
Worst case scenario: I could finish writing the book, and the only publisher interested would be Harlequin and my book would come out as a romance novel and be read by only a thousand people. Harlequin would pass on the option for a second book, and I would be relegated to dropping the other three books in the series or self-publishing.
Even worse case scenario: I could also end up getting turned down by Harlequin and have to completely self-publish which would be like taking a second job given the daunting task of marketing. After self-publishing and working myself ragged marking the hell out of my self-published work, I would only end up selling a small number of books to my friends and family, and figure out that it wasn’t worth self-publishing the rest of the series. I guess, in the end, it’s all a big gamble.
The best case scenario would be that I would get a nice publishing deal with a small, but influential publishing house that would call my book “cutting edge” and “emotionally real”. They would begin a successful grassroots marketing campaign that would lead to an assload of press and national recognition. My book would work to a best seller and I would end up on Oprah giving her little nibbles of information about the “much anticipated” second book in the series.
For years I worked in the music industry, and always admired the musicians I met, because even though some were famous enough to fill arenas while others drew a modest club audience, they got out there every night and played like they were on fire. If they had any self-doubt or moments of fighting off that voice in the back of their head, I never saw it on stage. I should take a queue from them, just finish the damn book, and put it out there.
It is an interesting story, after all. I mean, what woman in her lifetime hasn’t wanted a passionate romance with a rock star, or been in a situation where the relationship feels so good, but it’s bad for your life. I’ve re-worked the character slightly, because after reading through the first 100 pages, I thought she was beginning to come off like a bit of a whiny bitch. I want her to be struggling with choices, but I don’t want each decision to be a Vagisil moment.
In the end, I worry less about whether I’m good or if I suck, and more about just being mediocre. I don’t want to be one of the writers that are easy to pass by on the bookshelf. I want what I do to grab people and make them read the inner flap. I want people to read my work, and be honest about what they think. When I say I want to sell a million books, I’m less concerned about making money and more interested in having a million pairs of eyes examining my words with interest.
I guess the voice in my head comes from trying to compare myself with the writers I love, and constantly asking the question of whether my work is comparable to theirs. This I will never know, until some asshole who writes for a literary review tells me that my work is absolute drivel. For now, I should buck it up and finish the damn book. Who knows, I could be the next Margaret Atwood, Pearl S. Buck, or at least a less pathetic version of Janet Evanovich.
My worst critic is (be prepared for a shock) myself. I’ve been writing this damn book for nearly six months, yet lately when I want to do just a few more pages, a little voice in the back of my head begins telling me that instead of writing a compelling story, I’m penning mindless, romance novel drivel that will contribute nothing to society and make me a complete laughing stock. I wonder if George Orwell had this same problem.
I went to visit some of my former co-workers, all of which know about the book, and they greeted me with enthusiasm asking me when the book would be finished. Even my dad, who admits he is not exactly the most astute person, has asked me when I’m going to be finished with my book. Jeff regularly inquires about my progress, and sometimes I take it as general concern as opposed to more nagging, but again, I’m overcome with this sense of insecurity.
Worst case scenario: I could finish writing the book, and the only publisher interested would be Harlequin and my book would come out as a romance novel and be read by only a thousand people. Harlequin would pass on the option for a second book, and I would be relegated to dropping the other three books in the series or self-publishing.
Even worse case scenario: I could also end up getting turned down by Harlequin and have to completely self-publish which would be like taking a second job given the daunting task of marketing. After self-publishing and working myself ragged marking the hell out of my self-published work, I would only end up selling a small number of books to my friends and family, and figure out that it wasn’t worth self-publishing the rest of the series. I guess, in the end, it’s all a big gamble.
The best case scenario would be that I would get a nice publishing deal with a small, but influential publishing house that would call my book “cutting edge” and “emotionally real”. They would begin a successful grassroots marketing campaign that would lead to an assload of press and national recognition. My book would work to a best seller and I would end up on Oprah giving her little nibbles of information about the “much anticipated” second book in the series.
For years I worked in the music industry, and always admired the musicians I met, because even though some were famous enough to fill arenas while others drew a modest club audience, they got out there every night and played like they were on fire. If they had any self-doubt or moments of fighting off that voice in the back of their head, I never saw it on stage. I should take a queue from them, just finish the damn book, and put it out there.
It is an interesting story, after all. I mean, what woman in her lifetime hasn’t wanted a passionate romance with a rock star, or been in a situation where the relationship feels so good, but it’s bad for your life. I’ve re-worked the character slightly, because after reading through the first 100 pages, I thought she was beginning to come off like a bit of a whiny bitch. I want her to be struggling with choices, but I don’t want each decision to be a Vagisil moment.
In the end, I worry less about whether I’m good or if I suck, and more about just being mediocre. I don’t want to be one of the writers that are easy to pass by on the bookshelf. I want what I do to grab people and make them read the inner flap. I want people to read my work, and be honest about what they think. When I say I want to sell a million books, I’m less concerned about making money and more interested in having a million pairs of eyes examining my words with interest.
I guess the voice in my head comes from trying to compare myself with the writers I love, and constantly asking the question of whether my work is comparable to theirs. This I will never know, until some asshole who writes for a literary review tells me that my work is absolute drivel. For now, I should buck it up and finish the damn book. Who knows, I could be the next Margaret Atwood, Pearl S. Buck, or at least a less pathetic version of Janet Evanovich.
Friday, November 04, 2005
A Re-Discovered Appreciation for Friday
I’m finding myself in a weird place these days with working the new job, and all. Some of the things I’ve discovered such as traffic, my daughter’s clinginess when I drop her off at daycare, and trying to look busy during those last 45 minutes of the workday, when there’s nothing to do are big downers. Lately though, I’m beginning to remember a childhood pleasure that has re-emerged in my day-to-day life: the joy of Friday.
I don’t think there is a kid in America, barring the juvenile delinquent and the sorry, uber religious, home schooled bastard, who doesn’t associate Friday with fun and excitement. It’s the end of the week, the beginning of 48 hours of extremely limited structure where you can stay up watching cheesy, B-rated cable movies, and IM your friends until 2:00 AM. Then following fun Friday comes glorious Saturday with its “breaking all the rules” mayhem. On Saturday, we used to go to the dinky, little mall and buy cigarettes out of the vending machine until some Mormon legislator outlawed those sweet dispensers of addiction. I would spend Saturday night at Christina or Christina’s house, the only difference between the two being one Christina’s family would drag me to church on Sunday, while the other Christina’s mother made us waffles.
Sunday was always kind of a sad day, because it signaled the end of the fun. On Sunday you had to do your homework and fold laundry. You had to get to bed early on Sunday night and tiptoe around the house during the day, because Dad was sitting in his chair watching sports and he didn’t want to be bothered. There was nothing fun, exciting or mayhemish about Sunday, it was just a drag.
In college there was less appreciation for Friday, simply because I would usually skip class, or if I did go, the professor was so antsy to get his weekend started that he let us go early. Friday did usually include a game and a drunken party at Kappa Sigma, but that happened on Saturday, too, and on occasion the Kappa Sigs would throw down and party during the weekdays.
I entered the professional world and went into the music industry, where Friday was always a concert night. We would do shows on Fridays and Saturdays, so in a way, the regular week was a break for us, and because of the circumstance, ended up losing even more appreciation for the Friday.
After Rachael was born, I retired from the working world, and one day looked like any other. I would often figure out which day of the week it was by the amount of time Jeff would hang out around the house. He was in graduate school for most of Rachael’s first year of life, so even on the weekends he was gone. I would end up figuring out that it wasn’t a weekday by looking for Oprah around 4:00 PM, and getting football, which is somewhat sad and pathetic.
Now that I’m back at work, and on a regular schedule, the fun and excitement of Friday has returned. I look forward to the end of my productive work week, because I know that in between arranging the big event and trying to make the best of the six evening hours before bed, I get a 54 hour stretch of time that I can do whatever I want. Even when I had all the time in the world to waste, for some reason, it was too much of a good thing, and I didn’t recognize it as fun. However, much like the mainstream news and The Daily Show; you need to have a balance. You can’t appreciate the humor, fun and insightful, liberal perspective of The Daily Show without the boring, regimented, and right-wing slanted mainstream news.
On either Friday or Saturday, much like the days of old, you know, when MTV actually played videos, I stay up until 2:00 AM. The strange thing is, again much like the days of old, I’m alone watching television in my pajamas, but now it’s a bit different. Instead of wishing there was something better to do, like I did when I was a teenager, I revel in my late night, alone time. It’s just me and Comedy Central’s Secret Stash, where I can hear comics in all of their filth-ridden glory. Sometimes I write, sometimes I play computer games, and sometimes I just surf the web for whatever topic I feel like exploring. The next day, I get up lazily and we have breakfast as a family, and get out of the house for awhile. It’s a happy time, until Sunday evening rolls around, then just like the days of old, I’m neck deep in laundry, weekday planning, and mild housecleaning, all the while, looking forward to another glorious Friday.
I don’t think there is a kid in America, barring the juvenile delinquent and the sorry, uber religious, home schooled bastard, who doesn’t associate Friday with fun and excitement. It’s the end of the week, the beginning of 48 hours of extremely limited structure where you can stay up watching cheesy, B-rated cable movies, and IM your friends until 2:00 AM. Then following fun Friday comes glorious Saturday with its “breaking all the rules” mayhem. On Saturday, we used to go to the dinky, little mall and buy cigarettes out of the vending machine until some Mormon legislator outlawed those sweet dispensers of addiction. I would spend Saturday night at Christina or Christina’s house, the only difference between the two being one Christina’s family would drag me to church on Sunday, while the other Christina’s mother made us waffles.
Sunday was always kind of a sad day, because it signaled the end of the fun. On Sunday you had to do your homework and fold laundry. You had to get to bed early on Sunday night and tiptoe around the house during the day, because Dad was sitting in his chair watching sports and he didn’t want to be bothered. There was nothing fun, exciting or mayhemish about Sunday, it was just a drag.
In college there was less appreciation for Friday, simply because I would usually skip class, or if I did go, the professor was so antsy to get his weekend started that he let us go early. Friday did usually include a game and a drunken party at Kappa Sigma, but that happened on Saturday, too, and on occasion the Kappa Sigs would throw down and party during the weekdays.
I entered the professional world and went into the music industry, where Friday was always a concert night. We would do shows on Fridays and Saturdays, so in a way, the regular week was a break for us, and because of the circumstance, ended up losing even more appreciation for the Friday.
After Rachael was born, I retired from the working world, and one day looked like any other. I would often figure out which day of the week it was by the amount of time Jeff would hang out around the house. He was in graduate school for most of Rachael’s first year of life, so even on the weekends he was gone. I would end up figuring out that it wasn’t a weekday by looking for Oprah around 4:00 PM, and getting football, which is somewhat sad and pathetic.
Now that I’m back at work, and on a regular schedule, the fun and excitement of Friday has returned. I look forward to the end of my productive work week, because I know that in between arranging the big event and trying to make the best of the six evening hours before bed, I get a 54 hour stretch of time that I can do whatever I want. Even when I had all the time in the world to waste, for some reason, it was too much of a good thing, and I didn’t recognize it as fun. However, much like the mainstream news and The Daily Show; you need to have a balance. You can’t appreciate the humor, fun and insightful, liberal perspective of The Daily Show without the boring, regimented, and right-wing slanted mainstream news.
On either Friday or Saturday, much like the days of old, you know, when MTV actually played videos, I stay up until 2:00 AM. The strange thing is, again much like the days of old, I’m alone watching television in my pajamas, but now it’s a bit different. Instead of wishing there was something better to do, like I did when I was a teenager, I revel in my late night, alone time. It’s just me and Comedy Central’s Secret Stash, where I can hear comics in all of their filth-ridden glory. Sometimes I write, sometimes I play computer games, and sometimes I just surf the web for whatever topic I feel like exploring. The next day, I get up lazily and we have breakfast as a family, and get out of the house for awhile. It’s a happy time, until Sunday evening rolls around, then just like the days of old, I’m neck deep in laundry, weekday planning, and mild housecleaning, all the while, looking forward to another glorious Friday.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The Art of Fanny Patting
I work at a facility that borders the world of for profit and non-profit. My contribution to The Facility happens to be on the non-profit side of things. For those of you who have never worked for a non-profit you are probably making more money than I am, so good for you. For those of you who have done time on the non-profit treadmill, you have probably spent time mastering the art of, what I like to refer to as, fanny patting.
Fanny patting is a careful blend of gratitude meshed with appreciation and topped with a sprinkle of pure ass kissing. I found this difficult to do when I first arrived into the world of non-profits, because after all I am a punk and I don’t kiss anyone’s ass. Over time, I observed my peers as they instructed me on the etiquette of fanny patting, and I discovered that it is not so much a means of groveling, but rather a finely tuned talent such as playing the guitar or lip syncing like a pop diva.
In the world of non-profits you deal with a lot of people such as colleagues, vendors, volunteers, etc. Those people, you don’t have to pat fanny with, in fact, in some cases, you can treat them like shit if that’s your bag. The fanny patting comes into play with the other folks you end up dealing with: the Rich People. Without Rich People, non-profits wouldn’t exist, then again, neither would the American poverty structure or the puppet government that caters to the Rich People, but what can you do. It’s not like voting helps. Anyways, Rich People need a shitload of fanny patting.
Some folks are generous to a fault and give modestly expecting nothing in return and wanting absolutely no notoriety. Unfortunately, it’s not often that I get to deal with those people, no, I deal with the people who need to be coddled, congratulated, and told that the organization and The Facility would shrivel up and die if it wasn’t for them. The Rich People are further divided into various sects, and I always end up with The Clueless.
The Clueless are the ones you explain something to 5,000 times and they still don’t fucking get it! If you ever see me at a bar slamming shots of Jack while eating happy hour spinach dip straight from the bread bowl without any crackers, it’s because of these people. Yet, due to their “Rich People” status, I have to pat their fannies like there’s no tomorrow. Thankfully, out of all of the rich people that I currently have to deal with I only have two of The Clueless.
One of the other sects in the Rich People contingent are a group of very wise people who get what I’m trying to accomplish and do a lot to help the cause, and because they do a lot, they expect a thorough ass kissing every time I see them. These are the people in the newspaper smiling while holding a big cardboard check for a donation that they are giving to the charity whose representative is forced to pose in the picture with the Egomeister. Although I appreciate the knowledge the Egomeister brings to the project at times I feel nearly suffocated by their enormous head, which seems to fill the meeting room at a rapid pace.
Despite my management level position, I am often enlisted as the personal assistant to any of the Rich People at a moment’s notice. Not only do I deal with their bizarre personality quirks, I run errands for them, listen to their problems, solve those problems, write their speeches, and on top of all this have to thoroughly pat their fannies while trying to get my own work done.
The benefit is that I’m a patient and somewhat quiet person. I’ve also done many years in the music industry where I learned to deal with the strange demands of weird people, while having my fanny patted sometimes (unfortunately for me it was literally, and not the figurative fanny patting I’m talking about above). However, I managed to make a life out of being all things to clueless, egomeister, sometimes crazy, rich people, and I’m usually rewarded with a borderline, disinterested “thank you” or kissed on both cheeks at the major event, which I’ve put together for them to make them look good in front of their peers.
I do what I do, and I am good at it. I’m a champion fanny patter, not because I was born that way, but because, like a diligent student hungering for the knowledge of the universe, I’ve mastered the art. Tomorrow is another meeting of the Rich People and you can be sure that I will be patting fanny ‘til the cows come home.
Fanny patting is a careful blend of gratitude meshed with appreciation and topped with a sprinkle of pure ass kissing. I found this difficult to do when I first arrived into the world of non-profits, because after all I am a punk and I don’t kiss anyone’s ass. Over time, I observed my peers as they instructed me on the etiquette of fanny patting, and I discovered that it is not so much a means of groveling, but rather a finely tuned talent such as playing the guitar or lip syncing like a pop diva.
In the world of non-profits you deal with a lot of people such as colleagues, vendors, volunteers, etc. Those people, you don’t have to pat fanny with, in fact, in some cases, you can treat them like shit if that’s your bag. The fanny patting comes into play with the other folks you end up dealing with: the Rich People. Without Rich People, non-profits wouldn’t exist, then again, neither would the American poverty structure or the puppet government that caters to the Rich People, but what can you do. It’s not like voting helps. Anyways, Rich People need a shitload of fanny patting.
Some folks are generous to a fault and give modestly expecting nothing in return and wanting absolutely no notoriety. Unfortunately, it’s not often that I get to deal with those people, no, I deal with the people who need to be coddled, congratulated, and told that the organization and The Facility would shrivel up and die if it wasn’t for them. The Rich People are further divided into various sects, and I always end up with The Clueless.
The Clueless are the ones you explain something to 5,000 times and they still don’t fucking get it! If you ever see me at a bar slamming shots of Jack while eating happy hour spinach dip straight from the bread bowl without any crackers, it’s because of these people. Yet, due to their “Rich People” status, I have to pat their fannies like there’s no tomorrow. Thankfully, out of all of the rich people that I currently have to deal with I only have two of The Clueless.
One of the other sects in the Rich People contingent are a group of very wise people who get what I’m trying to accomplish and do a lot to help the cause, and because they do a lot, they expect a thorough ass kissing every time I see them. These are the people in the newspaper smiling while holding a big cardboard check for a donation that they are giving to the charity whose representative is forced to pose in the picture with the Egomeister. Although I appreciate the knowledge the Egomeister brings to the project at times I feel nearly suffocated by their enormous head, which seems to fill the meeting room at a rapid pace.
Despite my management level position, I am often enlisted as the personal assistant to any of the Rich People at a moment’s notice. Not only do I deal with their bizarre personality quirks, I run errands for them, listen to their problems, solve those problems, write their speeches, and on top of all this have to thoroughly pat their fannies while trying to get my own work done.
The benefit is that I’m a patient and somewhat quiet person. I’ve also done many years in the music industry where I learned to deal with the strange demands of weird people, while having my fanny patted sometimes (unfortunately for me it was literally, and not the figurative fanny patting I’m talking about above). However, I managed to make a life out of being all things to clueless, egomeister, sometimes crazy, rich people, and I’m usually rewarded with a borderline, disinterested “thank you” or kissed on both cheeks at the major event, which I’ve put together for them to make them look good in front of their peers.
I do what I do, and I am good at it. I’m a champion fanny patter, not because I was born that way, but because, like a diligent student hungering for the knowledge of the universe, I’ve mastered the art. Tomorrow is another meeting of the Rich People and you can be sure that I will be patting fanny ‘til the cows come home.
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