Meditation yet...

I spent yesterday and the day before yesterday... at the Midwestern Jewish Learning Kallah in St. Louis.

It was two whole days of taking-things-back.

Because I thought I hated St. Louis, but was surprisingly entranced with the area... and had to take back all I'd ever said about St. Louis...

And then I got snookered into a meditation session/discussion group on the Shema (Number One Jew-prayer) and the meaning of Echad (One) in the prayer... and I LOVED the meditation session and had to take back all I'd ever said about meditation...

so there.

And then I spent five hours driving through Missouri... which was actually really nice.

And now I have to run off to Chattanooga, where Maria (old roomie) and I will stomp our old stomping grounds And attend the Meacham Conference. Hurrah.

Back for real on Monday!

PS.: Molly turned out to be Annabelle, which is to say we found her owners. Sad. Sad. But the right thing. Right?

Molly for now...

Today I found a puppy in the middle of 4 lanes-of-traffic.

So I don't have time to chat.

I've just finished washing her and cleaning her ears.

We'll probably find her family, but until we do she's Molly.

So CUTE!

Tired girl...

Very strange exhaustion following the Jewish holidays, if you happen to be a new "Jewish professional."

Everyone around me is tired in general, and tired of Jewish social obligations in particular...

and I've been working doggedly for over a month... but the larger world doesn't even seem to know there WAS a holiday. And the larger world certainly isn't aware of all the little things I've been doing to make the holidays happen. The larger world didn't even take a day off.

So all my students are behind, and they've been cramming for midterms. Poor kids. But there I am anyway, riding their asses, which is the last thing I want to be doing.

And the end result is that I'm feeling a little run-down. Nothing bad or sad or angry. Just run-down, like I want to curl up in the basement and watch TV with the dog, and suck my thumb.

But the world around me is suddenly wanting to make plans for CHRISTMAS!

Sigh.

Today is the birthday of Susan Margaret Gray...

...the best person I know!

Susan is my bestest friend in the world. She has been my bestest friend ever since I was 7, which is why I refer to her as "bestest"... because that term dates back to a time in my life when I didn't really understand English.

I used to think that everyone had a Susan. Now I know that I'm luckier than most.

Exactly 21 years ago today, Susan had a birthday party. It was a sleepover party, and since I was her bestest friend, I got to sleep in the fold-out couch with Susan while all the other girls were sleeping on the floor in their sleeping bags.

In the middle of the night, I wet the bed (or rather the fold-out couch) and I was so ashamed. (This was not so uncommon for me) I didn't know what to do, so I woke Susan up and whispered (probably through sniffles and tears) "I wet the bed."

Susan thought about things for a minute and then said, "Really? I wet the bed too."

"What?" I asked.

"I did." She whispered. "I wet it too."

Then she got out of the bed and woke up her mom, and in front of the other girls, she told her mom that SHE had wet the bed. Her mom seemed incredulous, but changed the sheets anyway.

And Susan and I crawled back into the fold-out couch and giggled all night.

And our friendship has been like that... pretty much ever since.

She lives in New York now, and we only see each other a few times a year, but it matters less than you'd imagine.

She's a modern dancer, a fan of medical thrillers and true-crime nobvels, a libra/scorpio, a Kung-Fu novice, a comic-book reader, a hip-hop/r&b queen, and a liberation theologist. Just last year she transformed, turned into a med student at Columbia as well.

She's pretty amazing.

So I just want everyone to know how great she is. And I hope that you all meet her someday, so that you can be as lucky as me.

Happy Birthday Sue-bee!

Whatever suits yer fancy...

And whomever fancies yer suit...

I was just thinking this morning, as I ran through the Java House is search of Tamar (because we had to dash to meet with the Director of Cultural Diversity about Tamar's phenomenal program idea, Did You Hear the One about the BIGOT)...

I was just thinking about suits, and the men that wear them.

Most places, suits indicate that you are a fancy-pants. Most places, suits show you to be a professional, a man of means, a stock-holder or something.

White collar.

But in Iowa City, and (I'd imagine) in other academic communities, a suit DOES NOT indicate wealth or prestige. In Iowa City, the faculty-members mostly wear sweater-vests or Oxford shirts and jeans or cords. And the doctors wear white coats. If there are lawyers, I've never seen them.

So in Iowa City, if you are wearing a suit, you are a SALESMAN.

Dingy collar-- probably connected to a short-sleeve dress shirt beneath your awful "professional" attire.

I know this because I've worked in diners and cafe's here, and so I know the guys who sell ad space, pork chops, aprons, cell phones, etc. etc. etc. Those are the suit-wearers in Iowa City.

And I have nothing (officially) against sales reps... but I came to hate them when I was a diner waitress. They'd come in with their briefcases from TARGET and their short-sleeved-powder-blue dress-shirts and their cheap black suits, with their gell-y hair.

And they'd call me "girl" and ask me for coffee... as though their professional status as a cell-phone-seller put them miles above me, the lowly waitress. And of course they'd take up a table, but not ever tip. I hated them

Not all of them of course. Nick who sold T-shirts was great... but HE didn't wear a suit.

Y'see, these guys didn't need to wear suits. In a town where nobody wears suits, no business owner is really going to care if the rep from their paper-napkin distributor is wearing a suit.

These guys wore suits to make them feel good, and fancy, and "professional."

And I wanted to take my Masters degree and a plate a mashed with gravy... and throw everything at the suits.

What do the simple folk do?

...to help pass the time when they're BLUUUUUUUUE?

When I was in high school (and into the beginning of college), I thought that writers (poets in particular) were deranged mystics who couldn't help writing, people who shut themselves away in garrets and chain smoked and drank and toiled over their angst, sculpting their misery... into meaning... and the barrage of complex thoughts that would not let them be... into art.

Then I learned a lot about craft. I learned to set myself exercises. I read and read and read. And I met writers who reminded me of anything BUT Sexton and Dickinson. And so I decided that writers were like everyone else. I decided that writers just work at words. I decided that it was all about sitting in a chair and kicking ass.

But then last year (can you believe it took me so long?) I noticed a trend in my life... that my functional non-depressed periods came when I wrote regularly, and that when I didn't write, I often tipped over into that boiling kettle of sleepless nights and crazed afternoons. So I went back to thinking that writers (not exclusively of course) ARE people who need to write, people for whom a neurotic control over language offers structure. People for whom the loveliness and the awfulness of words... is the most important thing.

I'm embarassed admitting this, but it's true. Writing leads to sanity and sanity is too hard won, when it IS won, to risk losing. So I write when I should be working, and when O should be sleeping, and when I should be walking the dog.

There. I said it.

But at about the same time I came to terms with the validity of my silly, long-last, high school perceptions of writers, I also came to terms with the fact that NOT everything I do is poetry.

I think that this blog (and the last one too) helped a lot. I think it gave me a venue for the things that aren't totally profound or reduced, allowed me to free-write a little more...

Which in turn let me write the kid's novel...

Which in turn let me take my instinct to write for kids...

Seriously.

Which has brought me more pleasure than any of you can possibly know. Writing for kids gave me back the joy, the sheer excitement, that writing was when I was eight and a half. So good.

My generous and spicy soul...

And because I have a generous and spicy soul... I am going to share with you.

Last night I made the most outrageously wonderful BISON CHILI. I suggest that you stir up a pot yourself.

It took me only one hour and ten bucks... and it made plenty to freeze. Seriously, try this and then write me an email, telling me how outrageously wonderful I am.

It's really just a variation on the theme that is my father's BISON CHILI. Because, as my daddy says, "Bison IS the new kosher meat..." I make it mild, because my feller can't stand the heat, but I like him in the kitchen. Rowr!

You can add some habaneros iffin you want.

Okay, you'll need:

One large onion
Six decent-sized cloves of garlic
One red pepper
One jalapeno pepper
Two tablespoons chili powder
Two tablespoons cocoa
Two teaspoons cinnamon
One pound frozen BISON (ground)
One normal-size can of light kidney beans
One normal-size can of dark kidney beans
One normal-size can of frijoles negros
One BIG can of chopped tomatoes
three ears of corn on the cob, de-cobbed
Some water
Some salt
Three corn tortillas

You just cook all the spices and onions and whatnot together, adding the BISON last, once it's all mingling. And then you add the stuff in italics once the meat is cooked. Finally, you top it off with water and let it bubble and simmer and such. Add the tortillas once the soup is starting to condense. They'll break down completey and add a nice flavor. Cook it for about 30 minutes so it gets all thick and chewy. Yum.

Of course, as in all my cooking, the measurements are pretend. I tend to sprinkle and taste as I go, so be warned. I can't promise the measurements, but I don't think anyone could totally screw this up.

The underpaid and exploited workers of Bushwick...

Joanna, an old friend, someone I never knew well enough during my brief stint in the biggest apple...

(please refer to oldishy for more on my 4 month visit in the land of confusion, fancy shoes and good deli)

Joanna sent me an email today about a court case... for which she helped recruit Polish-speaking workers.

Rock on Joanna!

I suggest you all check this out, and then proceed to boycott:

Tuv Taam
King Edward Food Distribution Corp.
Kosher Gourmet Glatt, Inc.
Kosher Gourmet
S and T Distributors
Schwartz's Pickles
Taim

For most of you, this shouldn't be a tough boycott. If you're moved to do so, you might also write a little note.

Bear in mind the things you know about intention. Bear in mind your own fortunate situation.

And then call me. I miss you.

Life in America...

A few weeks ago, Chris and I went to Nashville, to the Americana Music Association annual conference... where we got to see (briefly) John Prine and Kris Kristofferson, and where I embarassed myself by tearing after the Bottlerockets at the end of an incredible show.

I followed backstage and bitched em out for not playing the song, Get Down River.

I know- I know... that aint cool...

So the next day, I made an attempt to apologize to Brian, the lead singer... thinking, "Surely it wasn't as drunk or blush-worthy as I recall."

Wrong. Brian saw me coming and called out, "Well, if it isn't the aggravating lady!" Ugh.

But that isn't the point of this story.

The point of this story is that we left town, and so we needed somebody to feed and walk our incomparable dog, Dave.

Chris' family was out of town and Thisbe and Margaret were both busy, so we asked George W. Bush if he would take care of our pet, love and devoted friend.

Dubya said, "Sure, why not? I love dogs and Dave seems to be a pretty fine speciman. Leave it to me."

We were nervous about leaving Dave with a stranger, but we figured, "Hey, forty-nine percent of the American voting public can't be wrong... if this man can lead our great nation, surely he can handle a long weekend on Cedar St."

As it turns out, we were incorrect.

Because while we left him with a set of explicit instructions, we neglected to include a clause for "What to do if you can't find the can opener."

Dubya couldn't find the can opener, which was right where it always is, in the silverware drawer.

And instead of feeding Dave hamburger, or running to the store for kibble, or borrowing a can opener from a neighbor, Dubya threw his Texan hands up in the air and said, "This is too tough, man. I am outta here."

And he hopped the next Air Force One back to Washington or Austin, or wherever it is he goes after he's made a big mess of something.

It turned out okay, because Dave got into a box of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish that had been sitting on the coffeetable, and he drank toilet water. Also, we came home a day early, after the whole Bottlerockets debacle...

So that our poor canine love wasn't more than a little hungry and shaken up, but still! We were horrified.

So... if you voted for Dubya... you might reconsider. Just in case you ever need someone to walk your dog.

And I bet he's a bad tipper too!

Hamburger pills... huge hamburger pills...

Yesterday at lunch, it came to my attention that Thisbe had not yet seen the GREATEST MOVIE OF ALL TIME...

So last night, we fixed the disaster, and hunkered down to watch Two for the Road, in which "Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney make something wonderful out of being alive."

They really do.

This movie was brought to my attention by my friend James. Before he was my friend James, he was my boyfriend James for the better part of 4 years, and TFTR was his faveorite movie, so we watched it a lot and it became my favorite movie.

Watching it last night, I realized how much this particular movie has informed my patterns of speech. There were a few moments where, through a haze of hot mulled cider and bourbon, I was started by a sentence structure.

And I sat up and thought, "Wow, that sentence is almost identical to a sentence in my novel!"

Or I thought, "Hey, I say that all the time!"

Anyway, it's probably too late for most of you to adopt the lilting overwrought silly-talk of this movie, but you should certainly all GO SEE IT!

Today on AIM...

I am very lucky to know a fellow named BRAD.

I met Brad briefly at Breadloaf, and then less briefly at Thisbe's house. And again for a few moments at AWP in Baltimore. But there's AIM, dontcha know?

So we AIM a lot. I'm always at work and he's always at home. And today, I asked him what he does all day... and it turns out he does pretty much what I did last year when I too was at home most of the day. But (much like I felt last year) Brad would like it if he had someplace to go during the day.

Which raises the issue of, "What would yu do if you didn't need to work?" If you had buckets of gold doubloons?

Oh! Me? If I didn't need to work?

Well, if last year was any indication, I'd mostly watch bad TV and write kids books and eat and eat and drink coffee with my friends and make casseroles and hang around at the children's library wishing I had a kid...

But in truth I know what I'd do. I'd rent a big gallery/loft space and I'd open a shop. The shop would sell only stuff I like, and it might even be called STUFF I LIKE.

I would sell Ginger-Os and used furniture and vintage hats and shoes and good books and magazines and local music and chinese paper lanterns and funny umbrellas and the things I collage, like the DISASTER CHAIRS I'm currently fashioning. It would be great.

But that would only be the front half of the loft. The middle section would have a linoleum floor and a huge table and metro shelves running around all the walls. And on the shelves would be supplies, anything and everything. Old magazines and ModPodge and glitter and tape.

And on the giant table I'd make things, and collage things, like the aformentioned disaster chairs. But only when I felt like it.

Because the back of the loft would have a thick Persian rug and plushy curtains. And my dad's rolltop desk and a great PC with a DSL line, and shelves and shelves of books and books and books. And several sets of reference texts... and there would also be a hotplate and a microwave and a fridge and a bathroom. And an aeron chair too.

So if I felt like writing I'd write, and if I felt crafty, I'd cut and paste to my heart's content while rocking out (as much as is possible) to Leonard Cohen or Gloria Dluxe or NPR. And if some fool wandered in off the street and wanted to buy some Goldberg's Peanut chews and a copy of the NYTimes... or a Dave Olson CD and a bottle of Crabtree and Evelyn Avocado Powder...

I could sell them something I believed in. That would be nice...

Some rich guy wants to give you tons of money...

This is really just a plug, but I got word this week that the "Birthright Israel" trip may not exist next year. So I see it as a public service to let people know...

If you are 26 (or younger) and Jewish, and you've never been to Israel on an "official" trip before, you can go free for 10 days this winter. For real.

And Jew is defined pretty loosely here. Jewishy-Irishy types count.

It's legit, and not a weird cultic thing where you need to drink Kook-aid, or a religious program where the girls sit in the luggage compartment, or a super right-wing thing where they train you to shoot an AK47 and then get you signed up for the Israeli army when you're drunk on Macabee beer.

It's just a ton of twenty-somethings from all over the world "connecting" with each other, the country, the heritage, the felafel, the people, and the friggin bee-you-tee-fullll ancient buildings. You can climb a mountain and swim in the Dead Sea and all that good stuff. FOR FREE.

And it's not clear whether this will ever be true again, because the initial commitment ends this year.

Truly... some rich folks just gave a shitload of money to get American (and other) Jews to Israel, in hopes that it would move them, make them feel a part of the Jewish world(s). A whole lotta dough for you.

I'm not eligible, or I'd be going. But I'm too old for this, and also I spent a good chunk of my junior year in the Holy Land.

I lived in Haifa and went to school. I worked in an Arab/Jewish women's center and travelled around. I joined the Hassidim (from a distance) in Tsefat for Simcha Torah and I spent a shady week in Egypt, where I rode a camel to the Sphinx. I worked a few months in a kibbutz near the Golan Heights, turning prunes over in the August sun, and I spent an incredible night in a Bedouin tent.

I know the term "Birthright" is a strange one. But I don't think it means,

"WE OWN THIS LAND!"

I think it means,

"If you knew this ancient land, you would feel it to be a part of you..."

Which I do, and you will, if you go.

So fill out the online application and see what happens. You can always change your mind. But it's only 10 days in January. And if enough folks sign up to go with the University of Iowa, I can go as staff......

and then I can show you what I mean. I can show you everything I saw. And you can show me some things too.

The life of the mind...

Today I'm sending off some manuscripts, some poetry manuscripts...

which is to say that I'm dumping money down the literary well.

Explanation?

For those of you who don't know anything about how a handfull of poems becomes one of those slim elegant books you never read... here is some information...

When you are a little girl you write poems. They sound like this: Have you seen the fairies there/robes of silken colors soft/Have you seen the fairies there/Tinted silver wings aloft. (This is in fact the first poem I ever wrote, circa 4th grade)

Then you go away to high school, where you sign up for a poetry workshop class. At 16 you write poems that sound like this: It's been easier to breathe this year/like some thick black smoke has lifted with the vanishing/ of a train. Something's bigger/Or wider or something's been freed/

These poems are big and dramatic, about FEELINGS! You don't talk about fairies anymore, at least not out loud. But then you go away to college, where you write poems with the word FUCK in them. And you write about injustice, European countries you've never visited, cobblestone streets, birds, rain, ideas, and your father.

Also alienation and sex.

If you are lucky, you get to go to an MFA program after college, where you learn that poems shouldn't be about feelings, or make any kind of linear sense.

You stop writing poems at some point during your MFA program. You create a convoluted social life to distract you from the fact that you aren't writing poems anymore. You drink too much and run up your credit cards. You pretend to learn an instrument. Guitar, maybe.

Then you get better.

Eventually, you settle back into writing about feelings and fairies, only your poems (with any luck) sound smarter than they were in elementary school or college. If you have been blessed, you do not write poems about the smart things you have read. If you have not been blessed, you drop names... but then you go to HELL.

Finally, you have an MFA, which means you have a thesis. You think your thesis is a book, which it is not. You call it your book. You think up a title for it and you rearrange the pages. Finally, you trash the book and write a bunch of new poems.

Maybe, maybe, maybe... those poems make a book.

Now you are ready to send the book out to be published.

But then you discover that nobody else ever reads poems, and hence the publishers don't want your book. So you send it to a tiny little press that is somehow connected to a literary magazine which is running a FIRST BOOK CONTEST.

This press charges you a twenty dollar reading fee. If you win, you get a slim elegant book and about two thousand dollars, which you spend on copies of your slim elegant book... so that you can give it to your family at the holidays.

Then you MIGHT get a teaching job. If the reviews are good.

But you love poetry. YOU LOVE POETRY. And so this is what you do.

EMMA: Chuck-full-o-inmates

My sister has a life full of adventure.

Why, just the other day she was getting out of her car, and she noticed a van parked by the ELEMENTARY SCHOOL where she works, and that van was chuck-full-o-inmates. And not just any inmates. Inmates from the friggin ANGOLA PRISON... the rodeo prison. The one in Monster's Ball. Hardcore friggin inmates!

But what did Emma do? Nothing. She just went on in and taught school. Because her life is so full of adventure that a van of Angola Cowboys is just a drop in the bucket.

Emma teaches 3rd grade in rural Louisiana, which makes her a hardcore MAMA. But she also visits a rural LA hospital when she's sick, which makes her a total badass.

And this summer, while she had a two month break from her life in rural LA, what did she do? Did she spend 3 weeks in Italy with me, drinking frescati and eating artichokes? Nope-- she went to China, where she ate dog aplenty, rode wild horses, etc. etc. Emma is my hero.

And last night, she called to tell me that she wants to go back to China when her commitment in LA is up. She wants to go back to China and do freelance journalism and eat dog. My little sister!

And then she complimented me on my new toaster, because between feeding the hungry and teaching kids to read, she finds the time to visit my site.

And suddenly my shiny toaster looked a little duller, and my dream house in Baltimore seemed less exciting... and my cozy life seemed a little too cozy.

But I refuse to get down. So here! I raise my virtual glass to my sister, who is 6 years younger than me, and my HERO! Mazel tov to Emma Rachel Snyder!!!

And when she visits me, I will make her some toast!

A little perspective...

This weekend my friend Sharone ( Hey, Sharone!) came to visit. Sharone is a powerhouse-of-a-lady... the only woman I know who takes trips I'd be scared to attempt, and takes em alone. She's someone I admire, as someone I've never thought to be... and sometimes when I look at her, and me... and I see how much we have in common, I think, "I coulda been a lawyer too!"

She makes me think outside my own particular box, consider options that might seem otherwise insane.

It's always nice to have a visitor you can relax with, because while it isn't stressful, it creates perspective, allows you to see your life from the outside. Sharone is that kind of guest. We wandered around town a lot, and noticed the leaves. We tried on sweaters at a nice little dress shop, bought books at Prairie Lights. We meandered around in my meandering town. I got to see her seeing my house, life, dog, etc.

And from where I was standing, my life looked pretty good.

Then Thisbe, Sharone and I went for pizza, to George's with Chris for a drink, and finally home to watch a movie, where I fell asleep on the floor.

And now I'm eager to visit Sharone, in her nice loft on the South Loop in Chicago. I want to spend a night in the city, eat wonderfulk foods, drink in a fancy martini bar, go see some jazz. That way, Sharone can see how great her life is too, with my eyes.

Life after death...

I thought I'd found it! I held my breath! I read to the bottom of the page, and then I was slightly disappointed, but not altogether...

You should read it too!

Funny stuff!

How ya like them apples?

Dinner last night in the Sukkah. It was my first and it was really nice.

And then this morning, a nice quiet morning with nice pancakes and nice everything! I felt refreshed...

enough to go to the farmer's market, where I bought a whole bucket of apples (Jonathan ones), so then I came home and made applesauce.

So when I sat down at my computer I was feeling nice (as previously stated) and I was thinking that the world was nice and full of nicesnee, until I got an email from Anthony, one of the nicest people I know. And his nice email said this:

It seems that Rep. Tom DeLay's staff has taken to forwarding calls from Moveon.org's (http://moveon.org) followers to Eli Pariser's cell phone. Eli is the founder of MoveOn, a grassroots non-profit which encourages it's members to call members of Congress about specific issues. DeLay is currently trying to block a vote on the Senate Resolution to roll back the FCC's changes concerning media consolidation.

The end of the article:
According to DeLay spokesman Stuart Roy, MoveOn is getting what it deserves. "They like to generate the phone calls but they don't like to receive them,"
he says. "It seems to me that public debate is a two-way street." He dismissed the notion that, as citizens, MoveOn's members deserve to have their opinions heard by their government, noting that none of the calls came from constituents in DeLay's home district. But since DeLay holds one of the most powerful positions in the United States government, doesn't he have an obligation to all Americans? Roy's response was a non sequitur. "Do you have an obligation to all Americans at Salon.com?" he asked. The answer to Roy's question, clearly, is no, since Salon is an online magazine with a responsibility to its readers, and not a high-ranking official in a representative democracy. But the question of whether DeLay has any responsibility to hear the views of dissenting citizens rather than play tricks on them remains open. If you want to ask him yourself, his office number is (202)225-4000. This is the same "representative" who, when told by a restaurant manager that he would have to put out his cigar as it was illegal to smoke indoors thundered, "I AM the federal government!" This man, and his buddies, really must be stopped. So, if you have a chance, call his office and (try) to explain to his staff that his job is in fact to listen to the people. Also, give your Representatives a call (http://www.house.gov/) and tell them what you think of this guy, and off his attempt to block the FCC vote.

Sorry to do it to ya, but I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore. Pass it on to those you feel comfortable harassing...

So here I am, passing it on to y'all... I wish I could give you some applesauce too!

Reporting live from Self-Awareness City...

Today, in Readerville, I responded to a post about "Christian Romance Novels. I responded thusly:

Yeah... there's a difference between romance and romance novels... I'm not sure that the one has much to do with the other.

I think it's weird the way Christian hard rock is weird. When something gets reformatted or encoded to market something questionable to a religious demographic, despite that the thing itself isn't in keeping with the ethics of the demographic.

Like when they have suggestive rock lyrics "I want to BE with you ALL NIGHT LOOOOONG!" But if you assume the song is sung to JESUS it's not dirty. It just sounds dirty.

If a Christian romance novel leaves out explicit sex and contains Christian characters, but otherwise FEELS raunchy and sexy... I think that sucks! That's manipulative and I'd review it as such.

Not that any amount of reviews could staunch the tide of crappy romance novels.

I'm announcing this because after, when I looked back at the post, I realized that I came off like a total BITCH!

So I'm confessing now, as I expect to have my ears boxed virtually...

and I want to be able to say, "I knew this was coming!"

I'm gonna git you SUKKAH!

Yesterday I learned a lesson about boundaries.

Nobody. NOBODY! Nobody...

came to help us set up the Sukkah, and so Jerry and I were all by our lonesomes in the battle with the lumber and the bent screws and the rented power drill and the torn burlap and the rotting bamboo screen. And it was sad.

There I was, begging the grocery store for pumpkins and tying corncobs to ribbons, and poking apples (and myself) with a piece of wire hanger, and getting more and more angry... from 8am to 7pm. And the guy came from the newspaper and there was nobody to take any pictures of...

pathetic!

And when I went home I was feeling tired and frustrated, and unappreciated, and so I snapped and Chris when he didn't dote on me... but then I apologized.

Because what I was really angry about was that I was at work for 11 hours, doing things for other people... when nobody was doing anything for me.

Which is, I think, a problem with non-profit work.

That the work you're doing is something the world needs, but you're not necessarily doing something the world wants. So often, nobody says "Thank You!"

The lesson I learned was pretty basic: Don't stay at work for 11 hours, unless you absolutely have to!

So today I slept in until 9, and I'm planning on leaving at 2, to go work out and do the dishes and walk my dog... which are things I have not been doing often enough in this holiday season.

Hag Sameah, everyone!

a quick thought...

People who cannot spell AT ALL should think twice before writing indignant letters. Harumph.

It's gettin hot in here...

Last night we bought a toaster.

While this may not seem momentous to most of the world, I think it's pretty thrilling.

Right before we bought the toaster, I went to the grocery store, and in anticipation of the toaster, I bought foods I don't usually buy. I bought thin slices of muenster cheese to go on open face tuna melts, and I bought a shaker of cinnamon-sugar, the kind that's shaped like a weird plastic person. I examined (but did not purchase) toaster waffles and pot pies. It was like the Hy-Vee was a whole new realm of goodness!

It's amazing how a little thing can alter the way a person lives. Like 20 bucks in a savings account, an amazing book, a toothbrush, God. Or a toaster.

We got a really nice one after pricing at Big Lots, KMart, Sears and Paul's Discount. In the end we went to Best Buy, which it turns out IS the best buy. It's a white and chrome Oster toaster oven. I love it. I do.

I don't care what you say. It IS exciting. After we got home, even though I wasn't hungry, I made some frozen french fries in the toaster, on the broiler setting. Dave (the dog) and I watched them cook. The coils got all red and the french fries turned golden. Chris laughed at me a little for standing in the kitchen and staring at an appliance for 15 minutes, but I think he likes the toaster too.

And in other news... I re-posted my old New York BOYS journal.

It's naughty, icky, and a tad resentful. I'm not sure it should be back up.

But I posted it because after I re-read the thing I remembered how much it mattered to me when I wrote it, and how much a few strangers responded to the postings.

I suggest that you not read it if you might be upset by it. It reveals a truth, that I have indeed messed around with boys. Mom, Grandma... steer clear.

I have experienced some of the things that happen in afterschool specials. But I'm fine now.

And it isn't actually a sexy document at all, but it is R rated.

I remind you all that I'm almost 30. I'm a grownup. I own a toaster oven. I can eat candy for dinner if I want to, and I don't have to pick up my room.

So if I want to tell the world about the sordid business that was college, it's my own right.

Or that's what I keep telling myself anyway.

It's gettin hot in here. The toaster I mean.

The fast... and the curious

Last year, as in all prior years, I broke the fast with Chinese food (or pizza or some such ordinary and unmemorable treat) by my own lonely, sitting on the couch. And then, as in all prior years, I picked a fight with Chris and burst into tears.

Because the holidays were dreadful alone. Fasting was dreadful alone. Breaking the fast olone was bad, and the only thing worse was breaking the fast with people who hadn't been fasting.

But last night, after fasting all day (though I must admit to brushing my teeth), I went down to the Motley Cow Cafe to break-the-fast.

I'd called Dave (the amazing owner of the Cow) a few weeks before the holidays, to see if he might arrange a little price-fix for the fasters. Dave is an angel, and he'd even offered to make lox! I told him to expect 10-15. I crossed my fingers.

And then like, 21 people showed up!

Yep. A full house!

Margaret and I went to the Cow and met up with 20 other people. And everyone ate gravlox and frittata and almond cake with sliced apples and salad and toasted nuts and homemade hummus. And I drank a little too much (considering my totally empty belly) and chatted and laughed and it was incredible!

I met new people and I saw people I never see. I felt...

Well, I felt like the day was special... like...

like it was a holiday or something. And better than that...

It was a holiday, and a few other people knew it was a holiday.

It felt like a little community. Sigh.

I missed my family, but I didn't cry even one little tear.

And when I got home, Chris had done all the laundry and walked the dog and fed the animals and the house was clean. And I crawled into bed and slept.

Go HAWKS!

Today was the day. The day of the BIG GAME. THE HUGE GAME!

Homecoming.

Which means that the town does odd things. The town adorns its face with thick, dry, crusty paint, and the town wears exclusively yellow and black. The town parks on both sides of the street and then the town gets drunk and wanders around looking for the car in the jampacked streets.

It's upsetting, and weird, because the part of the town wandering around drunkenly looking for its car, bedecked in think yellow sweatshirts and facepaint... that part of the town is the part I DON"T LIKE.

And no amount of chastising myself, and no amount of reverse-logic... will make me feel good about it. I want to like everyone, but I can't. Those people are irritating, and loud, and tacky. No matter how gloriously authentic, American, human.

I can get down with the idea of crisp fall air and football lights at the big high school game, proud parents cheering and drinking coffee from a thermos in the dusk.

I can get down with the teenagers smoking under the bleachers at the pep rally.

And I can get down with the sportsfans at home, or in a bar watching with bated breath.

But I cannot get down with the tailgating-homecoming-facepainting crowd. Call me a snob...

but once I went to "The Game" because some friends were playing at a strange thing called the "Magic Bus" and it was AWFUL!

And there was a rugby team in a bus, and my friends were on top of the bus making music, and a throng (truly a throng) of pretty blond girls was thronging around the bus, drunk, shnockered, plastered as can be...

And the rugby team was yelling to the throng, asking the throng to show some skin, some tits.

But when the throng did as the (ugly) team asked, the rugby guys WITHHELD their damn beads, and yelled out, "NO FAT CHICKS!"

Those poor girls, crossing their arms over their perfectly adorable breasts... not at all fat.

And so what if they had been?

It was terrible. I felt terrible.

I felt so sad for the pretty girls, who drunkenly and ashamedly (and incorrectly)) felt fat. And I wanted to kill the rugby team. But I couldn't.

Because the cowards were safely on a bus. A magic one.

And that is why I don't understand football.

one more thing...

...the dream house of today, brought to you by my obsession with realtor.com

It's in a place (in Baltimore) called "Curtis on the Bay." I've never heard of the neighborhood, but the house is cheap.

So if anyone wants to buy it for me (or a rowhouse in Hampden or Charles Village would do... I'm not picky)... they should feel free to plunk down the $79,900. The MLS ID# is BA4486642.

It's not like I'm asking for a place in Bolton Hill, or Fells Point or anything.

C'mon? There must be philanthropists left...

Just kidding.

Almost.

Yow-ZA! It was a very good day!

And in addition to the prior goodness of this morning...

And as a direct result of the post two days ago...

Check me OUT!

I blush... I google... Myself...

And in doing so, I discover things. Like... I can't figure out how THIS happened...

It pleases me. Because it feels especially nice when your name is in (however tiny) lights, because someone else plugged the sign in, not because you forced them to plug the sign in ... or because you (read:blogger) plugged the damn sign in yourself...

But it brings us to the awful habit of the masturbatory google. Either you have googled yourself, or you are stupid, or your name is like, Sarah Smith or John Jones (and you don't want to weed through all of the ancestry.com crap and the 12K runs for cancer entries), or you will surely enter the kingdom of heaven because you are less self-involved than the rest of us.

I'm curious. What have you discovered about yourself through google? I have discovered much.

And in other (related) news (which is to say, internet discoveries)... I discovered a wonderful poet named Ariel Greenberg on a wonderful site called Riley Dog. You should check em both out!

Happy accidents... and we abound!

This will make me sound like an internet aether-slut...

But OH WELL!

Because, yesterday, after I posted something on Speakeasy about my faboo new website...

A random lady emailed me that she loved my site... and was I, by any chance, the Laurel Snyder who'd written a BUST review on The Little Women, by Katherine Weber. I was. She told me that there was a thread on Readerville about the review...

So I skedaddled over to Readerville (which I'd never seen before) and sure enough, Katherine Weber had posted about my review. Which made me feel special!

But while I was on the Readerville site, I found this dude, Jeff, who happens to do a webzine called Killing the Buddha. I was mightily impressed with his site... so I wrote to him and asked him to visit me here... at jewishyirishy...

which he did! And then he wrote to me, and his email looked like this:

What a splendid site. Here's a story for you: About 10 years ago, I was an intern at The Nation magazine, then owned by Arthur Carter, a billionaire with leftist nostalgia. He invited the interns to visit him, but no one ever did. But I wanted to start a magazine, so I made an appointment.

I was ushered into his great big office, the picture of British propriety, all leather and mahogony and such. "Let's cut to the chase," he said. "What are you?" I was confused, first of all.

"Your employee?" I said.

"No, no, what ARE you?"

"Um, I want to be a writer...?" I said.

"You're stupid, that's one thing. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

"You mean... ethnically?"

"Yes! What are you?"

"Well, my mother was sort of irish, scottish, and my father's Jewish."

"A half-Jew!" he says. "That's terrific! There's a huge market for half-Jews. Now, I'm going to tell you a secret."

And he leans in, I'm ready for profundity, and he says, real slow so it soaks in:

"Dress British. Think Yiddish."

And so... I found another one! Our ranks are growing. Yee-haw!

And a final note... when I walked Dave (the dog) down to Thisbe's last night for a visit... I told her this story, and she said...

Wait! I know Jeff (the killing the buddha dude)! We were at Wilderness Camp together...

And so... the circle is complete. What would the Buddha say?

Friendster inspired...

So... a random stranger wrote to me through Friendster, and asked me (since we have all sorts of random common interests like Lucinda Williams and Tefillin) what my favorite thing about Yom Kippur happens to be...

Truth be told, I don't know much about the holiday, except that my dad embarasses me by wearing plastic flip-flops over his socks on Yom Kippur. And that my teeth feel fuzzy all day.

But I've always liked that part of the service where we pound our chests... so I scrambled in to Jerry's office to ask him about the chest-pounding. I said, "Jerry... What's that thing where we pound our chests?"

He looked confused, but after a minute he looked un-confused, and he explained...

Turns out... that's the Vidui!

Vidui?

During the Vidui, we are asking forgiveness for a litany of things... all kinds of things most of us have never done (maybe covetous-things, or sins to do with livestock. I dunno...)...

But we say them because we are asking forgiveness as a community, so we ALL ask them ALL, in the first person plural... and we pound away as we ask.

Which is interesting, especially for those of us who are critical of our COMMUNITY and the things it chooses to do, of its evil intentions, and evil lack of intentions...

So I'm glad to say the VIDUI, and even to strap myself to all those chest-pounding sins, or to strap those sins to me...

BUT even cooler... the Vidui is alphabetical, because we sin through the alphabet!

We sin through the alphabet...

And of course, the best part of all of this... is that you only get forgiveness for the sins against G-d, because in Judaism, you have to ask the people you've harmed for forgiveness.

So that asking G-d for forgiveness after you've smashed your sister's head with a frying pan won't work. G-d says it's up to your sister to forgive you for that...

BUT EVEN COOLER than the other cooler things... is that your sister HAS to forgive you at Yom Kippur! She has to!

Even if she got 27 stitches after you whacked her with the frying pan.

Even if it still hurts!

And if you ask her for forgiveness 3 times, and she decides to be a stubborn bitch...

Then you get the "forgiveness" credit anyway. Yep!

You HAVE to ask... and they HAVE to forgive.

Or vice versa... how nice is that?