Another Disturbing Ripple in My Universe

My mother and I are planning a trip to Warsaw in mid-June. We will visit the Jewish cemetery and try to find my great-grandfather's grave. (He died before the war, so he probably is lucky enough to have a burial place unlike my grandfather's sisters and mother.) We will see the few remnants of the wall of the Warsaw ghetto. We will visit the Jewish Historical Institute. We will do a records search. We will pass by the address where my grandfather's family owned a butcher shop and/or lived.

We will also go to Treblinka.

I always assumed that my grandfather's family died in Auschwitz, if they even lived to be deported from the ghetto. But, one of the dangers of Holocaust hagiography is that the fame of Auschwitz dwarfs reality. Deportations began in 1942, and when Warsaw's ghetto was liquidated in the spring of 1943, everyone left was sent to Treblinka, 2 hours outside of Warsaw in an isolated forest. There was no work at Treblinka. People died within an hour of their arrival.

Husband has a friend who lives in Warsaw who is very kindly helping me arrange my trip. He sent me a link to the Treblinka Museum. One of the things that fascinated me when I first learned about the Treblinka site is how noncommercial it is. Auschwitz, to me, is tourist attraction at this point. Tour groups go, people gape at the convent built on site, they exclaim over the signs proclaiming how much the Poles suffered* because it was initially built for Polish political prisoners. Treblinka was completely destroyed by the Nazis, so there's nothing "fun" to see. It is a sober monument to the 800,000 Jews and thousands of Gypsies and Romani murdered there.

Anyway, as I read the museum's website, I was taken aback by this statement:

The memorial should be visited with due seriousness and respect.
Within the area of the museum it is forbidden to bring dogs, smoke or eat ice cream.

Damn, I can't eat ice cream there? Well, I guess I'll have to pack ham and cheese pierogies and chocolate kolacky.

I hope that this was a translation error and in Polish it says, "no eating." Otherwise, WHAT THE FUCK? How weird is the focus on ice cream? Even weirder, it reminds me of a fucked up Hasidic monument I visited in Israel:


I mean, they are not the same thing, but the utter randomness of what is forbidden strikes me as similar. (In case the photo does not appear, it is a sign that says that it is forbidden for women to dance at this site.)

Anyway, it is going to be an intense trip. I believe we will also take a trip to Krakow, as Husband's friend recommended.

*Oh yeah, and some Jews, gypsies, and homosexuals died there, too. But whatever. (This is written in the vein of signage at Auschwitz, so pardon my bitter glibness.)

Bring on the Funny

My thesis, which is about the spoken and unspoken experiences that I inherited from my paternal side, uses humor to explore the horrible things that happened to my grandparents and father during and after World War II. The humor is integral because my grandfather relied on jokes to deflect topics that he didn't want to deal with and as a coping mechanism for his enormous losses. I think that this reliance on humor is something that I inherited from him.

Anyway, today I spent some time reading Jewish humor books. Partly it is for research, partly to procrastinate because I have no ideas at the moment. I thought I'd share one:

Sadie says to her husband, "Moshe, I'm fed up with frozen chicken. Please buy for me a live chicken for a change. Then I can make for us a lovely meal."

So Moshe goes to the market and buys the chicken. On his way back, he sees that Funny Girl is showing at the movies. He calls Sadie on a pay phone. "Sadie," he says, "They're showing Funny Girl at the movies. I think I'll see it before I come home."

"OK," replies Sadie, "but what about the chicken?"

"I'll take it inside with me," Moshe answers.

Moshe stuffs the chicken down his trousers and goes in to see the film. Unfortunately, part way through the movie, the chicken pokes its head out. Two women are sitting next to Moshe and one turns to the other and whispers, "There's a man next to me with his shmeckle hanging out of his pants."

Her friend says, "Why be shocked? If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Just watch the movie."

"But this one's different. It's eating my popcorn."

OK, this joke totally cracked me up because it is so weird and random. I can almost hear my grandfather telling it. (He really liked dirty jokes, just like I do.)

Jews Love Money

If every stereotype emerges from the tiniest kernel of truth, Husband gives the anti-Semitic crazies a good basis for their rants. Before I left to visit my sister in Iowa for the weekend, he gleefully announced that he would spend the weekend counting money. It was a moment for which he'd waited about five years.

Husband hates carrying change. He'd empty out his pockets at the end of the day, save up the change, then count it out and take it to the bank. He counts it because the counting machines at the bank notoriously undercount. Plus, I think it allows him to slip some old coins replaced by Euros into the rolls, but that's just my suspicion.

Anyway, I gave him a plastic parking meter bank for Hanukkah abut five years ago, and he's been patiently feeding it change since then. I guess the manufacturers thought whatever kid would use it would be too impatient to fill it, as it collapsed from the weight of the coins about six months ago. Since then, it lay on the floor as Husband faithfully inserted his change.




All told, he said there were over 3,000 pennies alone. The total was slightly
more than $600. I can only imagine what would happen if someone broke into our apartment and tried to steal Husband's bounty. It would be a loud and very slow get away.

Freudian Slip

Before I went to my peer advisory writing group this evening, I attended a going away party for a friend at work. There were many inappropriate discussions about snatch, viewing porn on a BlackBerry, and women ogling other women. (Oh, how I adore my colleagues!)

The latest draft of my thesis, which is about how I inherited my Jewish identity and outlook on life through what was both spoken and unsaid by my grandparents' and father's Holocaust legacies, includes this line about a nighttime asthma attack I had when I was seven:

"I could almost taste the blackness as though an octopus has replaced the night air with its inky discharge."

We discussed the strangeness of the metaphor/image and why it worked even though it shouldn't. Then my friend asked what the plural of octopus is.

"It's octopussies," I said. Then I turned bright red and we laughed until it hurt.

Mele Kalikimaka!

My friend from school invited Husband and I to Christmas Eve dinner last night. The food was excellent and company was fascinating. One guy belongs to a raw milk collective in NYC that contracts with an Amish farm in Pennsylvania to deliver raw milk and products to them. He said raw milk cottage cheese is unbelievable. He also said that donuts in Ireland are amazing. Interesting!

I've been fortunate enough to have some great Christmas Eves over the last few years. Husband and I were in southern California last year (although the temperature was freakishly low - in the 40s!). Actually, we were in New York on Xmas Eve - we left for California on the 25th. Two years ago (2007), we ate at a Denny's on the big island of Hawaii (hence the title, which is Merry Christmas in Hawaiian). That was an awesome trip. The year before that, we watched season one of The Wire on DVD. OK, we finished watching The Wire on DVD at our apartment on Christmas Eve before we left for LA in 2008, not 2006. In 2006 I was at my parents' house. I am so senile it is scary... And, finally, four years ago, we celebrated Christmas Eve with my friend Julie and her family in the Dominican Republic (2005).

Here's hoping that everyone has a lovely Christmas.

Chopped Liver

At work on Friday, someone turned to one of my co-workers and said that she was the only person in the development department who was not sick. "Congratulations," he said.

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" I shouted from across the room.

He blushed. "Oh, sorry. But really, why chopped liver? Have you ever eaten it? It's delicious! I don't understand that phrase at all."

"It's true that chopped liver is good," my other co-worker cut in. "But you know how when you have a party and you put out chopped liver, chips and dip, crudites, and crackers and cheese?* At the end of the night, the only thing that is still left is the chopped liver."

Chopped liver may be fabulous, but it is still less popular than other items. There's a stigma to it. I thought that is the greatest explanation for the "What am I, chopped liver?" expression ever.

*My answer is no, I do not know any parties in which people put out chopped liver, but I guess I do not hang out with the right crowd.

On the First Night of Hanukkah Someone Threw Up on My Face

Actually, it only looks like a cat threw up a yarn hairball on my face. In reality, Husband found this crochet sleeping mask on etsy. He said it made him laugh so hard that it was worth the few bucks.

He also gave me an awesome Snoopy watch that was advertised on eBay as "for girls." What it meant was "for giants." It was even too big on him. I love it, though. I'll just buy a new band. Fortunately, he assured me that it was very cheap.

The sweater I am wearing in the picture was a Hanukkah gift from him many years ago. When he first gave it to me I hated wearing turtle necks. However, it soon became my favorite sweater. It's shrunk a bit, and I am fearful that it may not make it through this season.

Incidentally, I gave Husband a Kindle last night. At least I didn't sell my hair to buy him a watch fob only to discover that he sold his watch to buy me fancy combs. Love is all you need.

Happy Hanukkah!

NaBloPoMo

November is National Blog Posting Month. I missed the Nov. 5 deadline to submit my blog as an official participant, but my goal is to blog daily anyway. My trip to London this weekend and my upcoming visit to my family in Chicago over Thanksgiving weekend may prevent me from achieving my goal, but whatever. I'm not on the blogroll, so I won't feel too bad about it.

In 2006, I volunteered as a NaBloPoMo blog reviewer. I was assigned to look at the participating blogs whose titles began with the letters H,I,J,K, and L. That was, uh, fun. If I wasn't so lazy, I would click on each of the blogs that I linked to and see how many are still around. Initially I was going to say that the best part of doing the reviews is that I "met" Eddie from Chicken Fat as a result, but I just realized that is not true. We met through some humor writing contest thing.

While I looked over my NaBloPoMo reports, I enjoyed the writing that I did in Nov. 2006. That was the month I issued my request for more information on Jewish pussy, which I deemed necessary because so many people came to CUSS while googling that term. I wanted to know what on earth they expected to find when searching for "jewish pussy." I still get comments on that, much to my enlightenment and amusement. (I think it is my most commented upon post, actually.)

November 2006 - good times!

Discoveries and New Projects

First, the important things - here are pictures of Marcus from my visit to my parents' house this weekend:With Great Grandma in the car.
On Tante Suzanne's lap in Grandma and Grandpa's living room.
With Daddy and Grandma in the kitchen.

Of course, I think my nephew is perfect. I stupidly wore a sweater that is dry clean only, and he did not spit up or drool on me. Clever baby!

When I was not fawning over Marcus, I looked through a trove of documents that my dad had stashed away. They turned out to have critical testimonies from my grandparents about how they spent their years before, during, and immediately after World War II. I now have a comprehensive timeline of where they were and what they did. This should make my thesis (which is about my family) so much richer. I still have so many unanswered questions, though.

My return home also will allow me to start a new online project. When I was last there in July, I found a notebook containing my first "novel," the writing of which I am dating (through scientific methods like context clue guessing) to 8th grade. It is a hilarious, tragic, cringe-inducing story of friendship, bullying, and crushes. This afternoon I shall create a blog for it, and type up a new chapter every day (or as often as time permits). Yes, my new career as a YA author awaits... ha ha ha.

The Fast Fast

Sundown on Sunday (doesn't that sound lovely - how alliterate or onomatopoeic or whatever literary term) marked the start of Yom Kipur, the most serious Jewish holiday. Observers are supposed to spend all day begging God for forgiveness, giving him one last reason to inscribe their names in the Book of Life for another year.* The need to focus on atonement is so intense that fasting is required.

Even when I was a believer of sorts (as opposed to just a cultural Jew), I never fasted. Children, pregnant/breastfeeding women, and people with health conditions are exempt from starving themselves for 24 hours to show repentance. I gave up on the whole traditional God thing my freshman year of high school, when I learned that the story of Moses coincidentally appeared in Jewish liturgy when the Jews were slaves in Babylonia, and lo and behold, there was a Babylonian myth about a baby in a basket leading people out of bondage. Hence, I never had to fast.

Yesterday, though, I arose from a night of much needed beauty rest and discovered that my usual morning appetite was not present. Well, I thought, maybe I'll see what it is like to fast. It'll be some type spiritual cleansing. (I'd already failed to fully observe the dietary rules of Yom Kipur by eating a large chocolate bar well after the holiday began on Sunday night.)

My fast lasted about 17 hours. I slept through eight of them, which is almost half, so I suppose that helps. Putting 1% milk in my tea around 4:15 probably means I cheated, but whatever. At 5 pm, when I wolfed down a cheese stick. For dinner, I rapidly absorbed a double cheeseburger (milk with meat - how kosher!) and cheese fries, which made me feel rather ill. Later, I ate more chocolate.

Although I totally kept with my concept that foods that begin with the letter "c" are the best, I think it is a day I'll not repeat soon. Stomach is not so happy this morning.

*Now that I think about it, how awful is that? If someone then dies over the course of the year, is it their fault because they did not atone enough? How blame the victim!

The Definition of Ironic

On Wednesday, I went to the Museum of Jewish Heritage, which is a Holocaust and Jewish culture museum, in lower Manhattan to do some research. Upon my emergence from the subway, I looked for a food vendor from whom I could buy a carbonated diet beverage in a bottle. The first cart in my path was a hot dog purveyor. I asked for a bottle of Diet Coke.

"That's $3," he said.

"What?" There was a lot of traffic, so I figured that I didn't hear him. Who on earth would pay $3 for a 16 ounce bottle of pop? Usually, the street vendors sell such drinks for $1.75, or $2 at the most.

"Three dollars," he nodded.

I was offended. "No, that is ridiculous. I don't want it."

He shrugged, as if it were not possible for me to find a better deal. In a huff, I continued toward the museum. A Duane Reade pharmacy loomed. Ah, in the past I have purchased my chemical refreshments there for $1.79 plus tax. I went in. I nearly fell down when I saw the price rose to $1.99. Still, better than the stupid hot dog guy, and I get bonus points on my card, which eventually will get me $5 worth of goods for free.

I paid (and told the cashier about the hot dog vendor - she agreed that he was outrageously overpriced) and went on my merry way. My next obstacle was a police barricade. A metal detector was set up at the opening between gates. What the fuck? I stood for a minute before I noticed a sign routing museum visitors around the labyrinth.

At the museum, I asked the man at the admissions desk what the hubbub was about. "Oh, Ahmadinejad is staying at the hotel across the street."

"You mean the president of Iran?" I asked like an idiot.

"Yes, him."

"The one who denies that the Holocaust happened?"

He peered at me above the wire rims of his little round glasses. "Uh huh."

"He's staying across the street from the Holocaust museum?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Wow, does he pick it on purpose to poke a stick in your eye?"

"No, he's actually assigned there by the NYPD. It's the most isolated hotel, so it is easier to secure."

I felt slightly better, although it seemed wrong that the man got to enjoy the luxurious accommodations of the Ritz Carlton and not face any of the protesters. The admissions desk guy made a whaddya-gonna-do gesture, sort of like the hot dog vendor. I did my research (which was useless), and on the way out, decided to stop in the gift shop.

The clearance table in the entrance caught my eye. A book called "Letters from My Sister: On Love, Life, and Hair Removal" was on sale for $1. I thought this would be a good use for the dollar I saved from that overpriced hot dog seller. When I brought it to the counter, the shubbly cashier told me that books were two for the price of one.

"But this is only $1," I noted.

"Yes. I know this. You get another one at the same price or less for free."

Man, my refusal to overpay for Diet Coke was really turning out to be smart! I got another copy of the book. I figured that my friend would enjoy it. (It turns out that she knew one of the sisters, who directed a documentary about a corset shop on the Lower East Side. I missed it in theaters, and was quite disappointed.)

Anyway, I was very proud of my bargain. Take that, Ahmadinejad. Your absurd lies cannot stop us from telling our stories and saving money.

Oy Vey Iz Mir

Oy vey iz mir means "woe is me" in Yiddish. Things sound much better in Yiddish, don't they? I'm having some technical issues today, and it is making me feel slightly better yelling, "Oy vey iz mir," as I pull my hair out.

Shana Tova

Sundown marks the start of the Jewish New Year. Tomorrow, Husband and I will join his parents, his brother and his wife, his brother's wife's parents, and my mother-in-law's friend and her son (whew!) for a Rosh Hashanah celebration. Meaning: we will stuff our faces. Husband's parents and brother, Husband, and I are not at all religious, but believe strongly in keeping our culture alive. (Hence tonight Husband and I are not doing anything special because he doesn't want to battle hours worth of traffic to join the mispucha in New Jersey.)

When I listed the guests for Saturday's feast, it initially seemed like a long and random list. Then I thought about all the people that I celebrated Jewish holidays with when I grew up; the 11 people I will dine with tomorrow is an intimate party in comparison. In addition to my parents, both sets of grandparents, my sister, my mom's sister, and whoever my mom's sister happened to be dating/married to at the time, there were the Holocaust survivors that my grandparents befriended either when they lived in Displaced Persons camps (i.e. - refugee camps) or when they arrived in the United States in 1950 to start new lives.

One of their closest family friends moved to Canada after the war. The daughter in the family is my dad's age. She sent me a nice email message wishing me shana tova (happy New Year), and I happened to be in the middle of researching Displaced Persons camps for a story I am writing, so I followed up with some questions. She was kind enough to outline the histories between our families for me:

From 1949 to Feb.23,1950 looks like they were in IRO CAMP 231 in STEYR, AUSTRIA.
From 1950 to Feb.1951 ...IRO CAMP EBELSBERG,LINZ ,AUSTRIA.
Feb.27,1951 were in CAMP ASTEN, AUSTRIA.
These places were written on ID CARD ...INTERNATIONAL REFUGEE ORGANIZATION,AUSTRIA

We arrived in Canada in Dec.1951...but I think your grandparents arrived in US earlier. My sister was born in Feb.1951 & Marusha* had sent a package gift for the baby...from U.S....I think. Probably Steyr & Ebelsberg were camps where families met & kept in touch for almost 50 years.

I remember Herman** was our friend in the camp....then visiting us in Montreal in the early 1950's. I was a penpal during schooldays & so we've been close friends forever....actually more like family!

I'm sorry that I never wrote anything down when my parents told their stories...now it's too late.

Once I stopped bawling, I realized that a lot of history may have been lost, but it is not really too late. We are still here. We are still telling our stories as best we can. We will not be quiet.

No matter where you are or what your religion is (as long as you are not trying to force me into it), I wish everyone a safe, healthy, and happy Jewish New Year.

*My bubbe
**My dad

The Lazarus Project

My book club elected to read The Lazarus Projet by Aleksandar Hemon. It's one of those meta books, in which the narrator, an accidental Bosnian immigrant to Chicago in 1992, has the same back story as the author. The narrator becomes obsessed with the case of Lazarus Averbuch, a young Jewish immigrant who survived a pogrom in Europe and comes to the US, only to be killed by the chief of police, who decides that he is an anarchist. This is also a true story, although like the narrator/author intermingling, some facts have been changed. Everything about the book is fantastic.

I spent some time this afternoon reading, but in the morning I did some internet research for the story I am writing about my family's tragic history with anti-Semitic violence. Not that the Lazarus story is the same as mine (I think all of Eastern European Jewish immigration stories share certain characteristics), but it one only amplifies how interconnected things are. The American Jewish Historical Society wrote that Lazarus's sister Olga never recovered from the murder of her brother, returned to Europe, "and was almost certainly killed in the Holocaust." Thinking about that just hurts.

Burned

For the second time in three weeks, I felt the sun bore down on the back of neck and forgot that I had sunscreen in my backpack. My fried neck was a small price to pay for such a gorgeous wedding, though:


I know I am biased, but I love (liberal) Jewish weddings. The chupa (wedding canopy) is so beautiful, and since I've never been to Orthodox wedding in which strict gender segregation is practiced, I always am extra-touched by the equality demonstrated in the ceremonies. Other than the sunburn, the only downside of the wedding was the number of bees flitting about the lush landscape. Bees scare me shitless. Another guest assured me that these bees were friendly, though, and I will say that it was certainly friendlier than the one that chased me around the parking lot of an ice cream shack at a beach town in New Jersey. (I offered that bee my ice cream and wallet to make it go away.)

Other things that I saw on my trip that uplifted my spirit, were these murals in the Mission District of San Francisco:



OK, so the birthing mural freaks me out a little (but I overall think it is cool) and the sidewalk graffiti is not technically a mural, but whatever. It reminded me that I like humanity. However, discussions that I had with friends and Bob Herbert's column in today's NY Times brought me back to reality.

I am burning with indignation at the lunatics who live in this nation. Protesting Obama's speech to school kids about studying hard and respecting teachers as socialist brainwashing? Calling him a Nazi? What the fuck is wrong with people? Of course, these are the same assholes who insisted that I had no right to dislike Bush since he was our president and as president, I needed to respect him. Gah!!!!! I give up.

Well, Do They?

It's been months since I played the game where I look at my blog stats go through the list of how people who visited CUSS got here. When I looked at the referrals yesterday afternoon, a nestled among the usual suspects (unshaved, Jewish pussy, kosher pussy, hairy pussy, etc.), there was a real head scratcher.

I turned to Husband. "Hey, listen to this crazy search. Someone came to my blog by googling, 'do orthodox jews put carrots in an entryway.'"

Husband glanced up at me from the newspaper. "Well, do they?"

I suppose the question is better than the direction I originally thought the question was taking, unless "entryway" is a euphemism.

So Burn Me at the Stake Already, You Fascists

During the last presidential election, Husband regularly received mailings from the McCain campaign requesting donations. (He regularly gives to Democratic candidates around the country.) After the election, issues of The National Review mysteriously appeared every month in our mailbox. On Friday, when I retrieved our mail, I discovered the scariest sacrilege yet: an envelope depicting black cloaked priests lying face down in the aisle of a crowded church, next to a picture of priests holding a "Dominicans Friars for Life" banner at a march. In the upper left corner, the envelope read, "God is calling new men to the battle. And the Dominicans are answering - again. (Battle plan enclosed.)"

Inside, a six page letter read:

Dear fellow Catholic:

About 800 years ago, a poisonous heresy arose in southern France. Left unchecked, it could have threatened the very existence of the human race.

Its adherents saw the human body as a prison for the soul, and thus adopted an anti-life philosophy. They forbade procreation, applauded divorce, and openly encouraged suicide.

The Church called these beliefs Albigensianism.

Seeking good men to fight the Albigensian heresy, Pope Honorious III approved the founding of the Order of Preachers, better known as the Dominicans.

St. Dominic and his preachers rose to the Pope's challenge, using Truth to blot out heresy. They did their job so well that, nowadays, you'll never meet an Albigensian.

I interrupt this letter for a moment to point out that we would never meet an Albigensian regardless of the Dominicans because they all would have killed themselves or died through lack of reproduction. Also, Husband is not a "fellow Catholic," so "God" is apparently not very good at dictating "Truth" in mailing lists. But back to the scariness:

Today, the Dominicans are rising again - to defend Christian morality against an attack that is even more widespread, vicious, and uncompromising.

Yeah, that first part of the sentence scares the fucking shit out of me.

What is this latest, most ferocious attack on Christian truth and morality? Pope Benedict XVI calls it the Dictatorship of Relativism. Relativism is the "universal heresy" because it dissolves all truth and eliminates all categories of good and evil. This deranges the mind and morals of modern man to a dangerous - indeed frightening - degree.

Fore example, relativism not only dictates that abortion is merely a personal choice, but also dictates that the government muse guarantee the "right" to this choice... Relativism can also cause people to take a good thing - such as holy matrimony - and tamper with its very definition to fulfill their own selfish purposes.

Right. I forgot that love is selfish. Of course, I also think that abortion is "merely a personal choice," and my people killed Jesus according to this institution's "Truth," so what do I know? I'll cite one more line:

Relativism is profoundly irrational - anything that denies objective truth denies reason.

Am I the only one whose eyes are bleeding? That is the most fucked up twisted "logic" I've read since Husband's free issues of The New Republic stopped arriving last month.

But on a serious note, the remaining four pages of this toilet paper screed boast about the increase in enrollments at their vocational school, and how their latest crop of 54 trainees are going to stamp out my irrational belief in religious freedom and my vile heresy against the One Truest True Truth. It is pretty damn terrifying to think about these people and what they would do to me in order to "save" me. Shudder.

Ironically, I also pulled out a receipt for a donation I made in late May (right before Dr. Tiller was killed by a psychopath who believed he had to stop abortion) to the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice. I very well might send them more money. Because now I've seen the enemy's battle plan - the Truth - and it is chilling.

I Found...

At the end of last year, I found and rescued an abandoned pirate near Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco:



This was before the whole incident with the pirates kidnapping the American ship captain, of course, but my pirate doesn't seem to exhibit any such hostilities. He just guards the treasures (paperclips, tape, scissors, etc.) I keep on my desk.

Then, in March, I found and rescued a wood fish in Carroll Gardens, where my friend lives in Brooklyn:



Yesterday, I found Jesus! OK, I found a wood tile Jesus and saints wood tile bracelet (like the one below, but a little different - my icons are blurrier, which made it impossible to photograph) on the sidewalk just a few doors down from my apartment:



Once I spotted it, I dove and snapped it up, not that any one else was in the area competing with me for it. I have coveted a bracelet like this for a long time. I think it is cool, but Husband would not be pleased if I spent his hard earned cash (or my own, for that matter) on such a Christian item. I am very excited to wear it about town. I hope that it is a sign that good luck is coming my way.

Free Cheesecake!

"Shavuot* starts tonight," my friend Sara reminded me in an email on Thursday afternoon. "The JCC has a free, all night program (and free cheesecake**) so I'll probably be there for a good chunk of the night/early morning."

"Free cheesecake?!?!" I emailed back. "I am SO there!"

"What about the rest of the schedule? There are at least two programs that you would like, I bet: one on Hannah Arendt and Lucy Dawidowicz, and one on similarities between gospel music and the melodies of traditional Jewish prayers."

"Yeah, those sound good."

I looked up the official event schedule, which ran from 10 pm to 5 am, in accordance with an ancient practice in which people stay up all night at a tikkun (study session). The two sessions Sara proposed ran until 12:15. At 12:30, there were two movies I wanted to see, and a session on "Laughter Yoga." Following that, I was interested in the Alexander Technique workshop. This assumed that I could stay awake that long (which I ultimately decided I could not).

Anyway, I given that this was a free event serving free cheesecake, I should have known that the place would be packed. The line to get into the JCC snaked around the corner when I arrived at 9:50. This made me laugh a lot.

Once I got in, I made a beeline for the food table, only to find it empty. At least Sara happened to be standing there. She explained that the cheesecake would not be broken out until 11:00. My stomach rumbled. (This could have been due to the hunger brought on by the idea of free food or an ominous warning, given what I ate over the course of the rest of the day, to let the free cheesecake go or else.)

Sara and I went to the serious session on Arendt, Dawidowicz, "New York Intellectuals," Yiddish culture, Holocaust interpretation, and everything else under the sun. 40 out of the 60 minutes of the session were fascinating, so I thought that was good. Then it was time for cheesecake. I valiantly fought my way to the tables and grabbed slices for both of us, losing Sara in the process.

We met up again at the gospel session. It was taught by this half-Jewish, half-African American, all awesome woman. Her voice was incredible. When she sang "Wade in the Water" and "Eyes on the Prize," I felt every hair on my arms rise to attention. Unfortunately, she concluded with a group sing-a-long, and I am tone deaf. Still, it was cool singing a spiritual in the JCC, and lots of fun overall.

Now, I make good on my promise to go to bed. As they say, hag sameach!*** May a free cheesecake come your way today.

*Shavuot is holiday celebrating the revelation of the Torah to Moses at Mt. Sinai.
**Basically, no one was kosher before Moses got the laws, so when he came back down, no one could cook meat in their pans because the pans weren't yet made kosher since no kosher law existed until then. So everyone ate dairy products until they got their pans blessed or whatever it is that was required. Hence the cheesecake.
***Happy holiday!

Snip the Tip

Yes, it is time for the inevitable circumcision post. Despite the lovely cross that decorates the wall behind me and my brother-in-law in the photo I posted previously, we will continue the ancient ways of our Jewish heritage. Yesterday was eight days after Marcus arrived in the world, and thus his covenant with God was made, albeit at the doctor's office with a regular rabbi saying a blessing. There are not to many mohels wandering around Iowa, and thank goodness even fewer with these weird plush moyel scissors.

Happily, the procedure went off without a hitch. The doctor told Dana she could give Marcus some infant Tylenol if he seemed to be in pain, but she said he slept sounder last night than he had since he came home on Monday. I'm not sure what that indicates, but I'm glad all is well.

However, for a more disturbing circumcision story, let's go back in time. While I was in Iowa over the weekend, the rabbi visited my family in the hospital and gave the new parents a book on raising a Jewish baby. I began reading it, and was fascinated by the story about how Moses's son came to be relieved of his foreskin.

Basically, the father is supposed to do the job, but Moses was too busy leading his people around the desert, and forgot. Zipporah, the baby's mother, then took matters into her own hands. Using a flint knife (the tool of ye olden days), she sawed off the kid's foreskin. The baby was fine (or as fine as a baby can be after being cut up by a flint), but the book reported that Zipporah was supremely pissed that she had to see to this task herself. (I see her point: if she's gotta birth the damn thing, the least Moses can do is circumcise it - she's already traumatized enough.) So she went up to Moses, and bitterly flung the foreskin in his face.

Now that is the way to end both a circumcision and a story.

Easter in the Embroidery Capital of the World

This afternoon, Husband and I joined some lovely friends from my writing program for Easter brunch at another friend's apartment in New Jersey. Everything was delicious, and of course, I ate too much. In particular, I loved the biscuits that one woman made.

"Hey Sara, how'd you get your biscuits to be so sweet?" I asked her, then laughed maniacally in my head because, thanks to my granny, I can't say the word biscuit with a straight face. Granny's euphemism for the vaginal area was butter biscuit. So, for example, when I was a wee lass and went to the bathroom, she'd ask me if I wiped my butter biscuit before I got off the toilet. Oy. (For the record, the brunch biscuits were made with honey butter. Mmmmm...)

We departed from the brunch festivities a bit early to go to Ikea. Our living room has been deprived of a couch since Tuesday, which is the only night residents in our building are allowed to dispose of furniture. For $150, Husband and I picked up a cute little couch that flips out into a bed for overnight guests. We had to fight the crowds of Southeast Asians, Asians, and Hasidic Jews to check out. (I swear I saw my super a few check out lanes over, but that's another story.) Now I know who shops at Ikea on Easter Sunday.

Sofa safely tucked into the hatchback of Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, Husband and I headed back home from Jersey via the Lincoln Tunnel. As we passed under a bridge, I saw one of my favorite signs: "Welcome to North New Jersey, Embroidery Capital of the World Since 1872." Something to brag about, indeed.

Hope that everyone is having a Happy Resurrection Day!

Pass (It) Over

In the spirit of Passover, which begins tonight at sundown, I want to share my friend Kay's grandfather's story. Many years ago, my friend Kay's grandfather sought liberation from the winters of New Jersey. Fortunately, unlike our forefamilies in Egypt, he did not need permission of the governor of New Jersey before he could leave. This also made it easier to sell his house, as he did not need to smear lamb's blood around the door frame so that the Angel of Death would pass over.

Kay's grandparents packed up their belongings. They loaded their mule (a hired moving truck from a large national company), and headed to the Promised Land (aka Florida). In significantly less than 40 years, they settled into their new home. The mule/moving truck, however, was no where to be located.

Kay's grandpa went into the local office of the moving company. "Where's my stuff?" he asked.

"We need several thousand more dollars before we can let your stuff go," the extortionist answered.

Kay's grandpa went home. He didn't have time to ask God to unleash ten plagues upon the moving company, so he picked up his gun and returned to the office.

"I'm old and have nothing to loose," he said and pointed the weapon at the youthful Pharaoh at the desk. "If that is not the same for you, let my stuff go."

And lo, his belongings were liberated and in his home the next day.

Bubby-isms

On a crowded bus yesterday, I sat in the seat behind my mom. She repeatedly turned around to talk to me, annoying the woman sitting next to her. Once the bus emptied out a bit, we were able to get seats together.

"That woman sitting next me gave me a dirty look every time I turned to talk to you," my mom said.

"Yeah? Well, she can kiss my ass. If it was such a big deal, she could have offered to switch seats with me so we could sit together."

Mom giggled. "You know what Bubbe always says? 'You can kiss my ass on a Sunday morning.' Know what that means?"

"No, what?"

"Well, a lot of very religious Orthodox Jews don't use toilet paper on Saturdays..."

Ha ha ha ha! That Bubbe of mine! What a bad person. Although, I point out, the insult would be even more potent if it was, "Kiss my ass on Saturday at sundown," as that is when the Sabbath technically ends and people can go about their normal routines.

Either way, a few hours later, we came across this bunny cookie in the window of a bakery:

With the dab of chocolate over his mouth, he sort of looks like he took Bubbe's retort to heart.

Good Deals

Although I swore I would never shop at Century 21 Department Store again after I read an article about the people who own it (they are Syrian Jews who look down on other Jews as unworthy), I found myself drawn in to their show store during lunch today as if it were a magnet and I were steel dust. (Or whatever they use in those little "games" they used to give out in goodie bags with a magnet that lets you put a beard on a 2-D drawing of a bald guy.) I found these amazing rain boots, with pink sock inserts to keep my icy feet warm, for only ten bucks!!!

The tag claims that they were originally $138 (they're Lilly Pulitzer, so I suppose that is possible), which Century 21 marked down to $49.99, then sold out of desperation for a mere ten smackers. For that price, I don't feel like I am giving my hard earned money over to people who will shun me - I feel like I am stealing from them. That makes me as gleeful as the hideous delightfulness of the boots themselves.

It's a good thing that I bought them, because the temperature dropped dramatically and a cold wind kicked up (it nearly blew the bag out of my clutching hands as I walked out of the store, and later propelled me across a street that I didn't want to cross it was so strong) over the course of the day, so they kept my legs nice and toasty on my way home from work. At home, I discovered Good Deal II:

OK, the t-shirt cost $20 (after a 20% discount, even!), which is not a good deal at all, and the assholes size chart was wrong, so it is absurdly tight, but it is possible the most awesome shirt ever. (In case it is not clear, it reads: "My marxist feminist dialectic brings all the boys to the yard," which for those who are somehow less culturally tuned in than I am, is a take off on this horribly catchy Kellis song, "Milkshake," in which her "milkshake," brings all the boys to the yard, "milkshake" meaning her boobs.) Just totally awesome. I can't wait to wear it somewhere.

Greetings, Not From the Machine*

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day! Is it just me, or is it extra resonant this year, knowing that tomorrow we will inaugurate our first black president? I'm getting choked up just thinking about it.

Also, I have been reading Dreams from My Father in preparation for my lit seminar this semester. (It's the first book on the reading list, which is awesome.) Although my life story is nothing like Barak Obama's except that we both worked in Chicago at some point and are both dedicated to public service, I've really identified with his quest for identity and place. Again, it is not remotely the same, but at the same time, I also grew up with a living family who wanted the best for me, not knowing a portion of my heritage and wondering what they were like.

Discrimination comes in many forms, and its effects are pernicious whether through racism or anti-Semetism. Many businesses in America displayed signs on their doors reading, "No Blacks, No Jews, No Dogs," although the order was sometimes changed, and sometimes Jews were allowed, but not Irish. One of the things that I am most proud of as a Jewish person is the role that American Jews played in the civil rights movement, and continue to play in social justice movements. There is a concept called tikkun olam, in which it is everyone's responsibility to fix the world. Of course, on the flip side, one of the things that most upsets me about being Jewish is how many Jews are slumlords and exploiters of low income communities. In many cases, these are the only Jews that ever come into the lives of disadvantaged communities of many ethnic groups, and it is no wonder that the view of cheap, miserly Jews continues to thrive in those cultures.

At any rate, it is my hope that we are entering a new era of honest dialogue between ethnic groups, genders, classes, and all the other barriers that prevent real progress. Shit, if we can make a machine that takes pictures, calls people, sends emails, and fits in my pants pocket, I'd think we could figure out how to get along.

*Since Blackberries seem to do everything except change diapers and wipe butts, I like to call them "machines." Husband has had a machine for a few years now, and while I coveted one every now and then, I realized that I didn't really want one. Too much stuff to manage. Really, I just like a phone that works.

I Made It!

This is probably the only time I'll write about work since I try hard to pretend that my "professional" life and my "writing" life are two very separate things, partly so that I may continue to have a "professional" life. Anyway, the first day was good, if a bit overwhelming. First days are always overwhelming, though.

The time flew (it helped that a co-worker's birthday was celebrated), and I learned many things and attempted to start many others. I only made two slightly inappropriate comments, and both were as we were leaving. (I said that I didn't care that a foundation that worked to preserve the "purity" of Judaism by discouraging interfaith marriages had to close its doors after Madoff - a Jew - scammed all their funds, then I made a nasty comment about the Hasidic people who own an electronic shop and refused to let my new co-worker return her brand new flat screen TV - still in the box - after she figured out that it was one inch too large for their entertainment unit.) The work will be very interesting once I really dig in. I'm excited. Still nervous and overwhelmed, but excited.

When I arrived back at my castle (ha ha) after slaving away all day, I was dismayed to see that the super was still in the process of soliciting bids to fix the hole in the wall in the bathroom. Fortunately, the shower was fixed, so it is now possible to bathe in relative comfort, with both cold and hot water in a pleasing combination that is more than a trickle. I shall prepare for work tomorrow (I'm still adjusting to the idea that I will go to a job five days this week, and next week, and on and on) by washing my hair with the ridiculously fancy mint oil shampoo that I absconded with from the ridiculously fancy hotel in San Francisco.

(Fictional) Police Dramas

During the snow storm that hit NYC this past weekend and prevented me from getting to Massachusetts to see the Alex Elliot family, Husband, cousin Rebecca (who is staying at our place while on winter break, which is very handy as she will take care of Tycho Bunnae while we are away), and I watched six episodes of season one of The Wire. Husband and I received the DVD set from my parents for Hanukkah. We love, love, love it so far. The plan is to watch the last seven episodes on Xmas Eve while eating corned beef, Chinese cuisine, or some other traditional Xmas Jew-y food.

Two years ago for Hanukkah and/or my birthday (memory fails me), my parents gave me the first two seasons of the mid-80s police show Hunter. This was, along with The Golden Girls, my favorite show back in the day. I'd babysit on Saturday nights, playing with the kids for the minimal time required, then watching the fine TV line up. During Hunter, I would call my friend/unrequited crush Jeremy, and we would watch the show together over the phone. Ah, those were the days!

Around this time last year, I blew many hours watching my Hunter DVDs, but did not get to see them all. Now that I have some time again, I popped in three episodes last night. While both shows have snappy dialogue and semi-rogue male cop leads partnered with impressive female detectives, compared to The Wire, Hunter seems a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is the 20 year time difference? The geographic disparities? The fact that almost every episode of Hunter ends with a car chase, Hunter shooting out the tires of the perp's car, and then the car blowing up? Whatever the reason, it is fun to watch.

Come Light My Menorah

My original intent was to blog about how frustrated I am that Husband and I did not get to go to visit our friends Alex and her family yesterday due to adverse weather conditions. Alex's older son had told me that they were making a cake in honor of my birthday and that he specially picked out green frosting, which Alex apologized for (as green frosting is kind of not delicious) but I found it hilarious. We were all so looking forward to it, but then the snows came and the roads were bad and Husband and I grudgingly decided that we didn't want to risk it. Boo.

Instead, we sat around on Friday night and Saturday watching the first season of The Wire on DVD. Husband and I requested the box set from my parents for Hanukkah, and holy fuck, this show is just as brilliant as all the critics said it was. One episode had a five minute scene where two cops looking into an old murder re-create the scene and just say, "Fuck," or "Motherfucker," but with different tones that express exactly what they are thinking. I felt like I was being handled by geniuses. We are about halfway through the 13 episodes.

Then when I wrote the title for this post, I realized how many aspects of Hanukkah lend themselves to sleazy come-ons and double entendres. Like, "Hey, is that a dreidel in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Or, "Wow, that shamus* could light my wick any time!" Or "Why don't you smear some apple sauce on my latke,** big boy." OK, that last one is stupid, but it makes me laugh.

Happy Hanukkah!

*The middle candle in the menorah, which sits higher than the other candles and is lit first and then used to light the other ones.
**Potato pancake

Politically Incorrect, But It's How I Feel

Since I'm exhausted (no reason why - I slept plenty, didn't run around needlessly, nor did I overwork myself), I probably should not blog about this topic, as the very fine filter that stops me from saying things that I will really regret is not functioning right now. But for the last few weeks, I've been stewing over this, and I read yet another item fawning over the rabbi and rebbetzin (i.e. - rabbi's wife), and it just bothers me.

First, the disproportionate attention heaped on this couple makes me squirm. Every fucking picture of men with beards and peyot crying as if this were their unique tragedy makes me want to puke. Of the hundreds of people killed, the missionary Jews were a tiny percentage. Lots of people lost family members that day; the Lubavitcher community is not special in their grief. The very idea that Jews somehow merit more attention and sympathy because they were killed is partially why people fucking hate us in the first place. This close attention makes me cringe.

Plus, these people were missionaries. They were not angels sacrificing their lives to do good for others just for the sake of humanity. They were there to convert secular Jews into Hasidic ones; to save our souls. Just like any missionary, they did some good works along the way. I'm sure that it can be hard to find kosher food in a vegetarian city. Sigh.

I might add that the very tiny indigenous Jewish-Indian community had nearly no ties to the Chabad house. There are many reasons for this, and they all reflect poorly on Chabad House.

In order to become missionaries, the rabbi and rebbetzin left another child behind in Israel. Dying in a hospital. Dying from a rare genetic disorder that they already had a kid die from. And that makes me the angriest of all. I'm not saying that they deserved for anything bad to happen to them; they absolutely did not. But they sure as fuck don't deserve the accolades I've read about brave people out to do good in the world and help other people. They abandoned their own dying kid to convert others. Enough said.

Offensive Things to Say in Yiddish

Several years ago, my parents gave me a book called Drek!: The REAL Yiddish Your Bubbe Never Taught You by Yetta Emmes. (Of course, my bubbe did teach me some of what was in the book, like kurvah, which means "whore." She pretty much bitterly refers to any woman who is not yet widowed as a kurvah, but I digress.) With apologies to the adorable Millie, whose online Yiddish lessons I so enjoyed yesterday, here are some choice phrases in the book that I enjoyed learning this afternoon include:

• Gey tren zich - go fuck yourself


• Ich cock ahf im - I shit on him!


• kish mich in tukhes - kiss my ass


• Bareh nit - don't fuck with me


• Drek oif a shpendel - shit on a stick


• Groisser potz - big prick

I wonder how to say these things in Ladino, which is a mix of Spanish and Hebrew, the way Yiddish is a mix of German and Hebrew...

For a Good Laugh, Watch Millie

I'm working on a story about growing up as the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, and as part of the work, I want to include a lot of Yiddish to convey what my grandfather was like. He loved telling jokes in Yiddish, so I looked around online to see what I could find (and falsely attribute to him, but whatever - that's why it's a memoir and not a biography; lower standards of accuracy).

My good search yielded this hilarious woman, Millie, who has an blog in which she dispenses little Yiddish lessons. She is completely adorable and her joke (which I sadly am not able to embed - never mind; I found it on YouTube, so see below) is good for quite a laugh. Definitely check it out.

It's more how she tells the joke than the joke itself, but the joke strikes me as a very good example of one of the cleaner ones my grandpa used to tell. Millie reminds me of some strange cross between my mom's mom (Granny) and my dad's mom (Bubbe). I just want to hug her!

Accent on Accents

Since I am a sucker for well told Holocaust stories and Daniel Craig (really, the two should not be put together, as it is wrong to get all teary eyed and drool at the same time), I am looking forward to its late December release date. I watched the trailer for Defiance, a movie based on a true story about three Jewish brothers who relocated a Jewish community to the forests of Belarus to escape (and fight) the Nazis. The trailer reminded me of something that I've been wondering about for years.

Why, in movies like this, do characters speak English with Eastern European accents? I understand that this is a device of sorts to remind the viewer where the story is set, but we know that we are watching a movie set in Eastern Europe, and that the people there didn't speak English in the first place. It doesn't make it more historically accurate to have non-English speaking characters use heavy accents, nor does it help place the audience. I always feel weirdly manipulated by this technique because it is so distracting. If it were set in post-War America or some other English speaking place, then it makes sense to use the English with Eastern European accents. Otherwise, just speak English or use whatever the native language is and subtitle the film.

Am I being too harsh? Also, is it uncharitable to add that the real life Tuvia Bielski looked nothing like Daniel Craig? (Not that Mr. Bielski was unattractive, but he was not a blond haired, blue eyed god. I guess they do this when casting women in films all the time, so I'm not exactly complaining, but I think it is a little odd.) Perhaps I am more curmudgeonly than usual because I am sad that Mara left this afternoon and Husband is out of town until Thursday...

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Election Time Dilemma

(Sorry about the sideways picture, but its a long story of technology snafus and swearing.)

As an election activity at the elementary school at which my sister works, a "Wishes for Our Country" tree was set up in the lobby. The idea idea is that kids would decorate a paper star on some side and write a message of hope for the nation on the other. It would then be put on the tree. Sounds good so far, right?

The day before the election, Dana was surprised to notice a Cristmas tree in the lobby with two boxes of lights.

"Why is there a Christmas tree?" her co-worker, who attended Catholic school as a child, asked Dana.

Dana wondered the same thing. It turns out that the Christmas tree was the voting tree. She felt very uncomfortable with it, as it obviously represents a Christian holiday, especially with all stars hanging from it and a pseudo angel topper. The school is not supposed to have religious displays. However, since she is neurotic like I am, she is worried that she is overreacting although obviously she is insanely pissed about it since she's obsessed over it for days now and asked me to post it on my blog.

What do you think? Should she say something to the principal, who she has a good relationship with?

L'Shanah Tova to the Inferior Women!

Tonight marks the start of the Jewish New Year. According to ads in today's New York Times wishing me a happy new year from Macy's and Bloomingdale's, it is 5769 on the Jewish calendar. That's a long time to survive repeated attempts to eradicate the Jews, if I do say so myself.

In keeping with the holiday theme, the Times ran an article about the overlap of Ramadan and Rosh Hashana this year. It seems that the streets and pathways in Old Jerusalem are more crowded with people studiously ignoring one another than ever. What I like about the article is that there is something in it sure to piss off everyone. (Just check out the comments.) Now that's the holiday spirit!

Actually, the first comment on the article, from esthermiriam in DC, is exactly where I wanted to go with this. She wrote: "And those who control both those holy sites do agree on other thing: that women should be physically separated from men for prayer there..." In the article, Rabbi Shmuel Rabinowitz said of the Western Wall, "this wall makes even those with hearts of stone shed a tear." Oh, Rabbi. Let me explain my tears: they are tears of anger, frustration, and humiliation. For my own people not only separate the women and men, but give the women an inferior place at which to pray. We are accorded less than a quarter of the Wall for our reflections. We are given prayer books and other equipment that are inferior to those provided to the men. I'm not even sure we'd be allowed to read from the Torah on our side. When we live according to our standards and interpretations of Judaism, we are physically and verbally assaulted by the thugs (i.e. - the Hasidim) who control the Wall. So, yes, when I think of the wall, I shed many tears.

L'shanah tova, and peace be upon us. Not only between various religions of the world, but between the factions within them. May the universal religious war on women end in 5769.

Just Say No

"Hey, you Jewish?" a homeless man with approximately four teeth asked Husband as we waited with Dr. H at the bust stop last night. He blew cigarette smoke in Husband's direction for emphasis.

"Why yes I am," Husband answered, to my surprise. It wasn't that I was surprised that he admitted he was Jewish; it was that he didn't realize that by answering in the affirmative, he invited a life story saga from the guy that would eventually end in a request for money. Dr. H and I looked at each other the man went on to ask Husband if he's ever been to Atlantic City ("Yes," Husband nodded) and then said something about being the homeless Jewish comedian of the Boardwalk.

"Um, I don't like the cigarette smoke, so I am going to move," Husband finally choked out. The man frowned and tried to dissuade him, promising to stop blowing smoke in his face, but we were already walking away.

"Why did you tell him you are Jewish?" I asked Husband when we got farther away.

"He was wearing a weird little Yarmulke thing," he replied.

And that, folks, is why I love Husband. Wednesday is our eight year wedding anniversary. I'll be in Chicago, visiting my family, and Husband will be in New York, working, so that is a bit of a bummer. But he'll meet me in Chicago on Thursday, so we can celebrate then. Lots of exciting things coming up this week, plus guaranteed Reisman wackiness.

The Mad Hatter

As an American Jew with Eastern European origins, I am pretty damn pale. I also have very dark hair on my arms and legs (if I don't shave the gams, which usually don't, but did recently so I could wear a skirt to work), not to mention my pits and nether regions, and increasingly, my chinny chin chin. I decided that the dark hair is nature's way of protecting me from the sun. Other people have pigment and melanin, I have lots of dark hair for the rays to penetrate before giving me skin cancer. It's almost ingenious, except that I do not really have enough hair on my face, neck, shoulders, chest, and back to wander about uncovered without endangering my supple and youthful skin. (Uh huh.) So it's either sunscreen, which I hate on my face because I swear I constantly feel it, or a large hat.

After discovering yesterday that wandering around the Upper West Side does looking like Little Bo Peep in a wide brim straw hat with black ribbons that tie under my chin does not deter people from asking me for directions (perhaps if I had taken Missy's suggestion and ate the strawberries in my cooler/"basket" while walking around and sweating profusely, that would make me scarier, not that I mind if people ask me for directions), I wore a different hat this morning. I figured that the good people of the south Bronx are significantly more likely to mock me while I walk down the street to work than the batty old ladies wearing similar hats in my neighborhood. My blue fisherman-style hat (reversible to orange!) is also ridiculous, but it does have the Mets logo on it since I got it free last year at a Mets game. The orange side (which I never wear facing out - I'm a winter, and I learned in the modeling class that I took at the community center when I was in 4th grade that winters should never, ever wear orange!) also has a gas company logo, but on the blue side, I glued a Cubs patch over the Gulf patch so that I could show my dual team love. It's awesome.

Anyway, by the time I arrived at work, I was a sweaty mess, and I was sure that I would have a vile case of hat head that would be hard do fix once the sweat dried into a hair-spray like substance. I immediately ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to fix things up. To my surprise, my hair actually looked better than it did before I put the hat on and left my apartment. Go figure.

Storytime Delay and Lessons from Bubbe

I discovered that documents written in pencil on lined paper in 1986 or 1987 do not scan well. Since the story is much better when read in its original form (and includes an important drawing), I am going to photocopy it and make it darker, then try to scan it again.

In place of "A Treaser Hunt with THE Girl Who Wanted To Be In Professional Baseball," CUSS instead presents the following conversation with Bubbe:

"Hey Bubbe, how come Bob* isn't married?" I asked her, knowing full well what the answer would be. Bob is a friend of the family who is in his late 50s. He attended her birthday party with his mother.

She learned forward, her eyes gleaming with bochinche.** "Because he's a feygelah!!!"

My sister snickered. "Ask her why he's gay?" she said under her breath. I like instigating, so I followed her directions. "Bubbe, how come he's a feygelah?"

"Because," she leered. "His mother didn't hide nothing from him."

"Huh? What's that mean?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant.

"She let him see her naked, and that made him a feygelah." She nodded and leaned back into the cushions of the rust colored couch. "Yes."

And this concludes our lesson on human sexuality with Bubbe. Next time, tune in for a diatribe on why Barack Obama hates Israel. Or better yet, I'll get my story scanned and posted.

*Name changed to protect the slandered.
**I'm not sure how to spell this, but it is Puerto Rican slang for juicy gossip.

Oh, Diarrhea on the Wall!

My friend's grandmother passed away on Sunday. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she was buried as soon as possible. The funeral was Monday, and then the family sat shiva, which is pronounced "shivva," not "sheeva" like the Hindu god, and is a lot like a Catholic wake, minus the body.

Yesterday afternoon I took the train to Connecticut to sit shiva with my friend. The nicest thing about sitting shiva is that people really do focus on helping the family through their grief, and so a shiva is usually very jolly. Lots of food and laughter are shared as people recall happier times. Thus it was only sort of completely inappropriate when my friend's brother told people a hilarious story about how he accidentally shit all over the wall of his parents' bathroom a few weeks ago during Passover. It seems that when his stomach rumbled, and he realized that an eruption of a geyser of crap was imminent. He ran for the toilet, but stopped to grab the newspaper on his way. This would have been fine had he just taken the whole paper, but instead paused for 15 seconds to find the business section. Unfortunately, those precious seconds cost him dearly. When he got to the bathroom, he barely pulled down his pants before a stream of liquid feces emanated from his angry ass, splattering all over the wall. "And that's how I got diarrhea all over the wall of my parents' bathroom," he concluded while beaming with pride.

After hearing this story, I decided that I must use the phrase, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" when something goes horribly awry. (This would also work in place of, "The shit hit the fan," I think.) Prior to attending the shiva, I experienced my own metaphorical diarrhea on the wall incident. After weeks of waiting, I learned that the grant that funds my 50% of my job was revoked by the issuing foundation. I am not surprised by this turn of events (and in fact had a first round job interview that morning which went very well, anyway), but I think I am entitled to say, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" in response to the news.

Cue the Eerie Music

My email in-box had a very nice email in it this morning from a woman who read on one of the various MFA forums that I obsess over that I was wait listed at the New School for non-fiction. She is also a non-fiction wait listee. I instantly felt less alone as I read Catherine's email (for no good reason, I was convinced that I was the only non-fiction applicant who was not immediately accepted), and checked out her blog, A Fly on the Wall. Cool stuff, plus her last entry was about poached eggs and hot cocoa. Hello! I love me some poached eggs and hot cocoa.

After my email checkings and various bloggings, I headed downtown to buy a discount suitcase at the infamous Century 21 department store, a place that I swore I would never shop at again because it is owned by crazy Syrian Jews who look down upon Askenazi Jewish riff raff like me who cannot prove our Jewish lineage because everyone was fucking killed in the Holocaust. (I read this last year in a New York Times Magazine cover story that I cannot find a link to at the moment.) I probably shouldn't have to show birth records signed by rabbis going back three generations to prove that I am Jewish because I went to Century 21 anyway because they have the best prices on luggage. If that is not a Jewish trait, sue my Katubah maker.

Anyway, while I was downtown, I decided to eat at Little Lad's Basket, a vegan cafeteria in the basement of a fancy office building near Wall St. that is run by Seventh Day Adventists from Maine. I love that place because it is cheap, and full of interesting characters. Generally, the tables are bustling with hippies, Muslims, Jews who keep kosher, Hindis, and random office workers. Today, it was empty due to Passover and the fact that I arrived just before it closed. Nothing was left on the buffet, though. I grabbed on of their oddly addictive bags of "herbal" popcorn, and went elsewhere for nourishment.

When I got home several hours later, I had an email from a nice woman named Kat who found CUSS while googling images of egg poachers. She also asked if I could provide the exact address for Little Lad's Basket, which she learned about from the blog.

Woooooooo.....

In Defense of Gefilte Fish

Stop making those retching noises! One of my favorite things about Jewish holidays is the opportunity to indulge in gefilte fish. I realize that I am the only person below the age of 50 who enjoys this delicacy, but that is because my generation generally was forced to eat gefilte fish from a can or jar. That is truly nasty, vile, and disgusting shit, and it has as much to do with gefilte fish as potted meat food product does with steak.

In truth, gefilte fish resembles pate more than an actual fish. It is a ball of ground up whitefish, carp, and/or pike, mixed with salt, pepper, and onions. The recipe deviates a bit depending on which part of Eastern European it is made. Some people add sugar, others add beets, and still others might throw in some ground carrots and parsnip. Whichever derivation is used, the resulting fish ball should be sweet, and not covered in gelatinous goop. (This is exactly where the foul canned or jarred fish goes very, very wrong.)

Back in the olden days, when I was a young girl growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, we spent all the Jewish holidays at my grandparents' apartment. My bubbe cooked for days on end to prepare the feasts. Since I was lucky and only was served homemade gefilte fish, I never understood why people thumbed their noses at the humble dish. Then I got out to New York and was served something from a jar. If someone was unfortunate enough to believe that this was what the dish was supposed to taste like, hatred of gefilte fish made total sense.

At my in-law's Passover dinner on Saturday, they served gefilte fish freshly made at the fish counter of the local grocery store. (At least I think that is where my mother-in-law said it came from; she may have said a Jewish deli.) It was moist, sweet, and free of gelatinous goop. Delicious!

Get Your Popemobile Off My Highway!

Important things are occurring tomorrow. Passover begins at sundown, and we'll be heading to Husband's parents' house for what counts as a Seder in our lax Haggadahs: recite the Four Questions, sing Dayanu, then chow down. Mother-in-Law doesn't even bother getting desserts that are kosher for Passover. Wisely, she believes that if you are going to eat dessert, it should taste good.

Prior to my Passover eating fest, I will attend a baby shower in Yonkers. Yonkers is a city just north of the City. It is the 4th largest city in New York State, but since it lives in the shadow of New York City, it gets shit on a lot as a suburb. (Sort of like Newark, but Newark is even more screwed because it is in New Jersey, but that's another story.) Most likely I will eat a lot of yummy foods at the shower.

The problem is that two leaders of institutions of evil will make it difficult to get to the baby shower, and then to Long Island. It seems that the Pope and Dick Cheney will be visiting some seminary that is just off the Cross County Parkway, thus forcing the highway to possibly close. We need this highway to get there. There is one alternative, but no one wants to read my rants about the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was built by Robert Moses and killed communities in the Bronx. (Cheney and the Pope belong on the Cross Bronx, believe me.)

Hopefully, we'll get where we need to go. (By "we," I mean Husband, who is going to drive me to shower and run amok at Costco for about an hour, then pick me up again.) What also concerns me is how low energy Tycho, my 13 lb. rabbit, is today. I think he is depressed that the Pope is in town. He heard a rumor that a distant relative of his, the Easter Bunny (perhaps you heard of him?), was molested by a priest. He's not down with the excuses that the Pope made that these incidents are the fault of a permissive American culture. Can't say I blame him.

Foreskin and Seven Days Ago

Last week, I attended my first bris. Given my semi-rigid belief that generally people are born with what they need and we should just accept that bodies are hairy and not typically in need of improvement (e.g. - breast or butt implants), it seems like I should be against circumcision. Oh contraire, mon frere. I'm no connoisseur when it comes to penises, but I do prefer them to be foreskin free. The whole smegma thing just grosses me out too much and I don't trust most guys to be clean enough. Yeah, it makes me a big fat fucking hypocrite. Oh well.

Despite my support for circumcision (not that I am against the uncircumcised), I was a little queasy when I thought about attending a bris. Due to my incompetence (I forget that cars need to be cleared of ice before they are safe to drive and one must budget time for the task), I arrived at the bris a wee bit late. As I was taking my boots off in the hallway outside my friend's parents' apartment, I heard the baby begin to wail. "Oh, I guess I missed it," I thought with a mixture of relief and regret. I was wrong - who knows why the baby was screaming his sweet little head off at that point - and eventually witnessed part of the procedure. Oddly enough, the baby barely cried as his foreskin was removed. He was then given a nice rag soaked with liquor to suck on, and drunk, he slept like, well, a baby. It was interesting.

This past weekend, Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Sister-in-Law (SiL) borrowed our PT Cruiser, Fred the Red, to drive to New Jersey for their new nephew's bris. I'm pretty sure that this was the first bris that BiL attended, other than his own, which I am sure was a very different experience. I don't know exactly what happened at this bris, but BiL must've been either overjoyed at his nephew's pact with God or distraught at the penis chopping, because he had an overenthusiastic encounter with a curb that circumcised Fred' wheel well and prevented him from driving straight. (While none of this was funny on Sunday, the little scenario I postulated here is sure slaying me now.)

My point is that I don't think circumcision really hurts anyone (unless its botched, which is always a possibility), and at the same time, I completely understand why a parent would not circumcise a kid. When I wrote on BlogHer a long time ago about a study that showed some very minuscule health benefits from circumcision, some extremists accused me of being a callous genital mutilating monster.* Yeah, yeah, yeah. I also help kill unborn babies. What can I say? I'm just a bad character all around when it comes to the defenseless.

*It strikes me as hilariously ironic that one women yelled at me about the sanctity of preserving genitals as nature intended and months later emailed me about her scheduled Brazilian wax, but I digress.

Cutting to the Chase

For a variety of reasons, I recommed not holding a bris on a very cold day in Chicago. (Insert your own immature shrinkage joke here.) My personal bias against frosty bris events is that I will have to drive to them. Since I don't normally drive, I will forget that cold weather means that ice forms on windshields. Then I will be 10 minutes late to the bris because I didn't budget enough time to scrape the windshield clear.

When I finally did arrive at my friend's parents' apartment for the bris, there was a little sign on the door telling people to leave shoes and boots in the hall. As I removed my non-snow appropriate leather boots, I heard the baby crying. "Shit," I thought. "I'm missing the first bris I was ever invited to." I knocked on the door and discovered that the ceremony was just starting, but no cutting was yet happening. The baby was just crying for no reason. Or maybe it was because he saw the contraption that babies get strapped into for the procedure. I'd cry, too.

Since I arrive late, I hovered in the doorway behind the table that the circumcision was being performed on. The mohl (a rabbi who specializes in foreskin removal, which I possibly spelled wrong) took the baby's pants off. His little socks came off at the the same time, and the mohl put them back on, explaining that he didn't want the baby's feet to be exposed and cold. We all shared a hearty laugh. Then the baby was strapped into the stabilizing contraption. He didn't like this and began crying. More things that I could not see took place, although at one point I noticed a clamp thing. If I had a penis, I'd probably cross my legs at that point. The baby's crying never intensified, so I was surprised when he was declared kosher (not the mohl's words) a few seconds later. Grandpa gave baby a wine soaked cloth to suck on, and soon the kid was peacefully asleep. Happy words were spoken by a non-mohl lady rabbi, the guests sang a happy song in Hebrew which I knew half the words to (they also sing it at the end of Jewish wedding ceremonies), and then the eating commenced.

After hanging around for a while, I left the bris and headed over to Granny's. Since she usually keeps the temperature in her house somewhere in the 80s so that she can hang around in her "diaphonous dusters" (as my mom described them) with no undies on, I brought a t-shirt to change into. I was quite surprised when she answered the door fully clad in a sweatshirt and pants. "I turned the heat down a bit so you wouldn't be too hot," Granny explained as I hugged her. (When I told this to my mom later, she said that I must be my Granny's favorite person in the world, as she turns the heat down and dresses for nobody.)

We had a very pleasant visit, except for when I found out that she leases three telephones from AT&T for $27 a month. The woman struggles with money, and she's throwing away over $300 a year on phone rentals?!?! I felt like she was a victim of elder abuse (who else fucking rents phones?), and made her promise me that she would cancel the lease and return the phones if I bought her ones. Sigh. Then I ate too much chocolate, which was left over from the stash we brought her back from our August 2005 trip to Israel. Although it expired in June 2006, it was still delicious.

Tomorrow morning, I plan to share a fashion epiphany that struck me last night as I was dozing off. (Not long after that, I decided that I needed a snack and nearly died in the kitchen, where I swear my feet froze to the floor, but I digress.) In the afternoon, I'm taking Bubbe to lunch and then to return a down coat that she bought a few weeks ago, which she insists all the feathers came out of after only two wears. (I believe this based on my own coat.) I also hope to pick up a new pair of Dansko clogs. Then I'm going to see my friends Rachel and Jenny for dinner. Sadly, Sister and Sister's Husband will not be coming in from Iowa, as it is supposed to snow like a mad motherfucker. Bah.

Come Light the Menorah

Hanukkah begins tonight at sundown. Over the last few years, Husband and I have become less and less interested in Hanukkah. We managed to get each other one small gift this year. I hope he will like the $10 glass Mets mug that I picked up last week. I have no idea what he is giving me. I'm sure it will be far more clever than a $10 glass Mets mug.

Husband and I may not be taking the religiously insignificant holiday of Hanukkah seriously enough for the likes of the Holiday Sales Industry. Cartier, Macy's, Lord & Taylor, Bloomingdale's, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Barney's all have ads on pages 2,3, and 5 of today's New York Times wishing me a Happy Chanukah. They all spelled it "Chanukah," too, which makes me wonder if the Times issued some sort of guidelines for luxury good purveyors who wanted to sell me shit. Macy's, Lord & Taylor, and Bloomingdale's went an extra step and wrote little Chanukah poems and greetings. The sentiments bring a fucking tear to my eye, I tell you. Tiffany's has an ad, but it doesn't wish me anything. Instead, it reads, "'Tis the Tiffany Season," and depicts a "dreidel in sterling silver, 3" high, $200."

After seeing all the ads, I realized that I never again need bother look up when a gift-giving holiday officially begins. (Last night Husband and I debated whether Hanukkah kicked off tonight or tomorrow night, and I googled it.) From now on, I'll just look at the ads in the paper and go from there. None of the department stores or jewelers would let me forget an important religious occasion, would they? How thoughtful of them.

If You Say So

More wisdom from replies to my inquiry as to why people google search "Jewish pussy" even though it looks no different from other pussy:

What's so surprising? Everyone has their preferences. Some search for "black pussy," while others search for "white pussy," or "latina pussy," or one of myriad other possibilities. You're right in that, physically speaking, there isn't anything especially different about Jewish pussy, but Jewish women do tend to be an attractive bunch, In my opinion. Don't make more out of it than needs to be made!

There are two things about this reply that crack me up. The first is that this person acknowledges that Jewish pussy is "physically speaking," not different from other snatch. Although I like that my anonymous horny commenter pays compliments to us Jewish ladies (stereotypically, we are not held in high regard for our appearances), it slays me that people just believe that porn model is Jewish merely because a site says so. Since we all acknowledge that Jewish vulva looks like any other vulva (and comes in a variety of colors - Jews aren't all white), why bother searching for Jewish pussy? I guess porn is about buying into a fantasy anyway.

Someone else, however, has less flattering things to say about the hunt for Jewish pussy:

men only have enough blood in their bodies to have a thought or an erection yet not both. you can figure out your hit rate from that

This makes me laugh for different reasons.

On a semi related note, I read a book this weekend ("Maps for Lost Lovers" - very interesting; reminded me how all religious zealots are equally evil and batty in their misogyny) about a Pakistani Muslim in small town England. At one point, their is a section about pubic hair. According to the book, women must keep their snatch hair clipped very short or shave it all off. I guess if someone searches for Muslim pussy and sees a hairy snatch, he will know that the model is a doubly bad woman. I don't really take this so lightly, but I'm still mulling over the whole forced shaved snatch thing. I never thought my blog "protesting" the popular Western pressure for unshaved snatch would have religious implications.

My (Not So) Dumb Ass

Since the book is done for now, I am turning my attention to my applications for graduate creative writing programs. Yes, I am psyched that I wrote a guidebook/travelogue, but next I want to write something with a plot and characters and all that jazz. To do that, I gotta learn more about writing and shit.

One of the schools I am applying to requires the GRE, which I never took. (When I hustled off to policy school, the places I applied to took my LSAT score, sparing me the agony of learning GRE math.) The admissions decisions are not really based on test scores, but I still need to do well enough that the university at large agrees to let me enroll in the case that I am admitted to a writing program. I bought a study book from Kaplan and took my diagnostic exam this morning. For the 12 math questions, I basically guessed on every one. I managed to get half correct. The verbal portion went much better, although not the results were not sterling at 75% correct. I did unusually poorly in reading comprehension, so I'll chalk that up to a fluke. More studying to come.

I also learned this morning that Nov. 29 is officially recognized by the United Nations as the International Day of Solidarity With the Palestinian People. Fuck that. The same New York Times article mentions that "711,000 left Israel-controlled territory in 1948 and 1949" and in 1948, "856,000 Jewish residents left Arab countries." The World Jewish Congress submitted a memo to the United Nations Economic and Security Council in 1948about the danger facing Jews in the Middle East in response to a 1947 draft law composed by the Arab League "that called for measures to be taken against Jews living in Arab countries" including "imprisonment, confiscation of assets and forced induction into Arab armies" as well as beatings, officially incited violence, and programs. However, the memo was buried by the Lebanese ambassador and president of the council.

I don't need a good GRE score to understand how unfair and biased the world is.

Suzanne, The Busy Beaver*

I forgot to note that the wedding I went to was for one of Husband's co-workers, hence we drove for 5 hours plus with three of his colleagues and sat for another four hours with almost everyone from his office, including the boss man. The boss man is someone I am always nervous around for a variety of reasons. First, he used to have a photo of himself with Karl Rove prominently displayed. Terrifying. Then, I fear that I will say or do something totally inappropriate and make Husband's situation uncomfortable. Remember, I can't even get through a ribbon cutting at an affordable housing development without sighing and rolling my eyes. Can you imagine what spending time with someone who admires one of Satan's prime henchman is like for me?

Thus when boss man's very kind wife asked me what I was up to these days and I started talking about my book (for which I have launched an extremely lame temporary blog until I can work with the publisher to get something spiffier and more official), it was a relief. However, that led me to admit that the next travel book I want to do is "Medical History Museums of the United States and the World," which would be absurdly expensive to write given the international travel component and probably find a very limited audience. That audience seems to include boss man, as we wound up avidly discussing medical history for 15 minutes while everyone at the table stared at us. It seems that most people don't like thinking about the horrors of non-modern medicine while they try to eat steak and crab-stuffed shrimp. Ooops.

Anyway, back to beavers. Answers to my long ago posted question (What the fuck do people think they will find when they google "jewish pussy?") continue to trickle in. I found these two responses in my inbox this morning:

It's simple. I am a Jewish man who appreciates Jewish women and want to see Jewish pussy which physicall is no different than any other I suppose except that it is connected to Jewish women. I think it is like any other ethnic, cultural fascination, hence porn site dedicated to Latinas, Blacks, or Indian women. It's the pussy I prefer and I have a hunch it's the same reason for the other hits you've received.

On to the second comment:

I want to see photographs of nice naked Jewish women up close and personal. I like pubic hair and good personal hygiene. My life is empty.

I hate to shatter the illusion, but just because something is labeled "Jewish pussy" doesn't mean the models are actually Jewish. Some probably are, but given the general dearth of Jewish women in the world, I tend to doubt that the vast majority of "Jewish" porn truly features Jews. Maybe I'm wrong, but that's my point: how the fuck do you know what "Jewish" pussy looks like compared to gentile pussy? It's just not possible to tell. (And as I learn more and more about the Jewish Diaspora, it's important to note that not all Jews are white. But I digress.) I did laugh my ass off at that "My life is empty" line. Dude, I write about unshaved snatch and spend time analyzed people's comments about their online Jewish pussy fetishes. What does that say about my life? Oy vey....

Thanks to Des for her comment on the last post for this hilarious title.

Vim & Vigor or Vinegar & Piss?

It's obvious that I have a lot of anger towards other people that I consider to be morons. (Another reason why it is such a bummer that I do not speak Yiddish. A book review in yesterday's New York Times notes, "Yiddish parses the stupidity of others in a thousand ways, and find distinctions matter." Damn, that makes me laugh and beam with pride. This shit is in my genes, even if I don't speak the mama loshen - mother tongue.) Something happened yesterday that made me rethink some of my rants.

My friend Logan is a certified sex educator, completing her PhD in Human Sexuality at NYU. She has worked with hundreds of New York City school kids, covering the full range of the socio-economic spectrum, and wrote an awesome book about how to talk to kids about sex. A few nights ago, she was on TV discussing birth control. Her honesty about what kids are up to these days and her frank approach to helping kids make safe, rationale decisions about sex caught the attention of a conservative blogger. Needless to say, the kuneh-laiml didn't agree with her and took it upon himself to launch a written assault on Logan's character. His minions chimed in, and reading their nasty attacks literally made me ill. (I'm not going to link to him because if people click through and he tracks referring links, I have no doubt that I will get hateful comments, and I don't want to deal with these shmendriks.) Later, Logan received an email from a yold who ranted about how he can't wait to meet her in person because she's a horrible person and he's going to sue her for sharing her ideas that result from the fact that her parents don't love her. He ended his misspelled and grammatically incorrect missive by noting that he didn't "need a college degree to make him dumb." (Obviously not.)

At first, I felt morally superior to conservatives because I don't write such vile personal attacks on my bl.. oh wait. I do. Maybe I am not better than these judgmental douche pipes who confuse "having morals" for "being a shithead." While I am pretty certain that I've never gone as far as these right-wingers do in character assassination, I still call them names. (Sometimes even in Yiddish.) On the other hand, I've never sent anyone an email threatening to sue them because I think their ideas are stupid, and certainly not insulting their children. Hmmmm....