Split Pea Soup

Well, well, well. Look who decided to finally come back from the dead—or at least the super-busy-and-stressed-so-I-might-as-well-be-dead. Working an 8-5 job when your job actually consists of a job an a half and simultaneously trying to maintain some semblance of a social life isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Oh God, I could totally go for one of those right now.

Trying to juggle life and work and family and consequently having a panic attack in a crowded bar on Halloween has taught me a few things about stress and anxiety: it’s not worth it. I realized this while devouring an overflowing bowl of my mother’s famous split pea soup and vegging out like a stoner at a Dead concert last week. (Sidenote: by “famous split pea soup”, I mean one of my friends asks to be warned two days in advance of when it’s made so she can clear her schedule and devote her full attention to it—it hasn’t, like, been featured on the food channel or Martha Stewart or the Today Show or anything [but Jesus, it should]).

Like a decapitated chicken

Long time, no blog, right? Turns out this whole 8-5 job thing really sucks the life out of you, as does staying up until 4 on the weekends and never fully recovering. Oh, and add the various other projects I’ve been working on (like my cookie blog, Musings on Life and Love, cleaning out my childhood bedroom, cleaning out my adult bedroom…) and my spare time and energy is reduced to panda-like levels. But no, I am not a panda!!

Exciting things are afoot, and I hope to come back and keep this here blog up and running on a consistent basis. You know, start it up, drive it around for a while, make sure it doesn’t die a slow, painful death just sitting in the driveway as it deteriorates and melts….

Oh, and a better version of that “On Religion” post got put on the wordpress front page for a day, so that was pretty cool! Whatever, guys—my mom is proud of me, and that’s all that matters.

On Religion.

Religion is a funny thing. I don’t want to start some sort of long-winded post about the meaning of life and religious communities and who’s right and who’s wrong, but tonight is Rosh Hashanah, and every year right about now, I tend to get introspective and unordinarily gung-ho about “recommitting” myself to Judaism, or whatever you want to call efforts I should be making year-round to not be considered the horrible Jew I am.

I don’t think you have to follow all the rules and believe every story to be part of a religion, to be part of a faith. In fact, one of the things I love about Judaism, in extremely simple terms, is that it’s so much more than a religion. In fact, religion is just a small part of what’s involved in being a Jew—but then again, anyone who’s ever seen an episode of Seinfeld or been to a Channukah party knows that.

The cons of online dating: Idiots.

Generally, I’m pretty pro-online dating. I’ve kind of talked ad nauseum about it, actually. But every once in a while, something happens that reminds me why I hate it sometimes. Every once in a while, I get an offensive message that really pisses me off:

Subject: almost unscrewable

By the look of your photo, you are about ten ham sandwhiches [sic] away from marrying the pizza guy.

When I read this, I was shocked. Schocked. Not only was I insulted by the spelling, but two other things crossed my mind:

1. OMG HOW DID HE KNOW I LIKE HAM SANDWICHES SO MUCH?
2. Why would I marry the pizza guy if I like ham sandwiches? Wait, does the pizza guy have connections or something? WHAT ARE YOU NOT TELLING ME?! GIVE ME SANWICHESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

Then I thought about it some more, and I realized—our pizza guy is, like, sixteen. Now not only am I a ham sandwhich addict (WTF is a “sandwhich”, anyway? Like, it’s sand… which… does…. what, exactly? Or is it a sandwich with an H for herbs? I’m confused.), but I’m into underage, pimply-faced, scrawny boys who wear Quicksilver gear? How dare he make such offensive, slanderous satements! How dare he.

Needless to say, I reported the message to the authorities for “offensive content and atrocious spelling”.

(But seriously, why do people feel the need to send me unsolicited hatemail? Did I come to your house and shit on your lawn? Then I ask you: WTF, man?)

I’m on sale!

Have you ever wondered how much you’re worth? I mean that literally, as in how many dollars and how many cents someone is willing to pay to be able to call you theirs?

Well, I never had, but I found out yesterday when I ended up paying my own brideprice. See, I’m the accounts payable clerk, so I pay every invoice, bill, and order that comes to our company, including all the invoices from when I was a temp, and my negotiated ransom—I mean, finder’s fee.

I have to say, I don’t really know how I feel about this. I kind of feel like it’s similar to seeing the comments on your college application essay, or being a fly on the wall when your significant other is talking about you with friends. There are just some things you don’t really need to know, and how much I’m literally worth is one of them. No, no, it has nothing to do with the fact that the current temps make more then me. No. No, no. It has nothing to do with that.

Ok, maybe just a little.

Ok, fine, a lot. But at least I get benefits!

Let your freak flag fly

My hypothetical, someday-way-in-the-future kids (read: that onesie is not for anything in my belly) are going to be freaks. And I’m OK with that.

Like salt in a wound.

Yesterday at work I witnessed one of the saddest things to ever happen in a professional setting.

Imagine you’ve been out of work for a while, or that you’re a career temp. Either way, you eagerly await that call from your agency telling you they have an assignment for you, finally knowing you’ll have some form of financial security for the time being. You get excited. You pick out your outfit for your first day at your new gig. You go to sleep early, but can’t manage to drift off with all the adrenaline coursing through your veins. The next morning, you spring out of bed, energetically get yourself prepped, and arrive fifteen minutes early…