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]).

I sat in the TV room, thoroughly exhausted from my week—which was only halfway over, by the way—trying to unwind from the expense reports and spreadsheets and legal waivers and family politics, waiting for my soup to come to some ingestible-appropriate temperature. When it finally did, I took a spoonful and was transported, Proust style, to a calm place, a happy place where unicorns frolic with cheery little leprechauns under double rainbows.

Now, my mom’s split pea soup doesn’t look or smell particularly wonderful. My mom’s split pea soup may wreak of farts and resemble something Reagan upchucked in a circular fashion, but by God, does it have special-super-amazingly-awesome powers.

You kind of forget everything that’s going on around you when you’re eating this soup—my friend has good reason to devote an entire evening to it. I wolfed it down in a kind of sick, totally unhealthy, cathartic “girls who eat their feelings” sort of way (I’m totally that girl, and I have a LOT of feelings, believe me). Everything melted down around me, and I forgot all about deadlines, grudges, and broken baking promises.

I went to bed early that night, calmer and more peaceful than I had in a while.  The past few weeks have been really stressful, and I’ve been overbooked. The lion in me was just trying to conquer too many parts of the jungle, and the panda couldn’t get out. It was trapped inside, just sitting in a corner, too tired to complain or make a modicum of an effort to get out. It peeked its head out every once in a while as if to say, “is it ok if I come out now? I’m getting kind of lonely and I think I’m developing restless leg syndrome.” And then the lion came out and bitch slapped it and was all, “RAAWWR GET BACK, PANDA! I HAVE TOO MUCH SHIT TO DO TO WORRY ABOUT YOUR MELLOW ASS! YOU CAN COME OUT WHEN I’M DONE SLAYING THIS WILDEBEEST AND BALANCING MY CHECKBOOK!”

But the pea soup was like Popeye’s spinach to the panda. Suddenly he was imparted with all the knowledge and strength necessary to vanquish the lion and roar back (well, sort of—I mean, this is a panda we’re talking about, after all) “Fuck you, lion! You can take your wildebeest and shove it! I’m gonna get me some pumpkin ice cream! And I want a raise, goddammit!”

And like that, the lion was gone, leaving only a confident, yet still nearly comatose, panda in his place. The panda doesn’t care about work after 5 or on the weekends. The panda doesn’t care about family drama that doesn’t need to be cared about. The panda doesn’t worry about not participating in every single social event going on in a twenty-mile radius because the panda is smarter than that. The panda makes mistakes and learns from them. The lion just barrels through the jungle fucking shit up. The lion’s favorite food is fear and weakness and stress. The panda’s is split pea soup.

It’s amazing what that one meal did. The world is a shitty place—the economy may be in the crapper, terrorists may try to blow us up, Tom Cruise may never stop making movies… but my mom will always be making her split pea soup.

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.

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.

Rosh Hashanah, for my gentile friends not in the know, is the Jewish new year. It’s a two-night holiday that starts a ten-day period of introspection (that’s actually supposed to go on the entire month leading up to Rosh Hashannah) which is capped off by Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement, which you may know as the day we sit schvitzing in temple while we say “I’m sorry” all day and promise to be better Jews, all the while bitching about our growling stomachs and how it’s totally not fair that we can’t even chew gum to hold us over.

Now, I openly admit that I’m a bad Jew. I don’t go to synagogue, I don’t keep kosher, I wear polyester… But every year at Rosh Hashanah, I get nostalgic for Hebrew school and retreats and baking challah and singing and, believe it or not, sitting in temple. Of course, I’m sitting at my desk as I write this, having awkwardly dodged my boss’s question of why I wasn’t in temple today, but it says something that it’s at least on my mind, right?

Somewhere in that crazy brain of mine is a piece reserved for religion, and during the first ten days of the year, it gets overstimulated, then craps out at Christmas parties where they serve delicious things like bacon-wrapped dates. Still, I take the meaning of the holiday to heart, and am generally a nicer person in September and October, trying to make up for broken promises and severed ties, and generally, anything else I might have done to just piss someone off.

The moral of this story? I don’t know. The holiday makes me feel Jewish, like I’m part of the community, like I have a home somewhere, but it also reminds me just how bad I am about participating in it, and how far away I’ve strayed. Is that a bad thing? I’m not sure. I don’t consider myself a worse person because I don’t go to temple. Overall, I think I’m pretty OK. Sometimes nicer than others, like in the fall.

So, the real moral of this story? If you want anything from me, now would be the time to ask.


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?)

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!

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.

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…

When you’re finally led into the office, you take in your surroundings, taking mental note of all the essentials—copier, fax, phone, coffee maker, trash cans, clock. Your supervisor sits you down, has you fill out some paperwork (you do this hastily and leave indentations from the pen on your fingers—no matter, the adrenaline distracts you), and does the basic test to make sure you’re not a complete moron (read: engages you in smalltalk). You both smile, you nervously laugh, trying to seem as natural and confident as possible, until the supervisor takes you to your desk, where a pile of work left from the last temp awaits you. After the supervisor’s done explaining what it is you’ll be doing, you realize you don’t have any experience doing it, and though you don’t let on, the supervisor knows. When this happens, the supervisor awkwardly but forcefully states that you’re probably not the right person for the job, and she’s going to call the agency because there’s obviously been some misunderstanding. You collect your things, which are still sitting in your lap because you hadn’t even had time to set them down, exchange a couple of “no, I completely understand”s, and exit the office, muttering under your breath and shaking your head.

It’s demoralizing enough to be a temp, which is kind of like being the office bitch. But being sent home less than twenty minutes after you get into the office? That’s just kicking you when you’re down.

I felt so sorry for that poor woman. She probably came in expecting a few weeks of work and pay, and left empty-handed in a shamed saunter. I would have been mortified. Then again, it’s the agency’s job to make sure the candidates are matched up with the right clients, and in an industry where professionalism and efficiency are obligatory, situations like these just make everyone look bad.

But still, that poor, poor woman. I don’t even remember her name.

I must admit, it’s nice to have actual responsibilities, and to be able to, and have to, pass the mundane task of phone answering off to someone else. “Sorry, I’m swamped with this stuff, I can’t be bothered to talk to people, would you mind doing it?” Well, I say it in a much less condescending tone than that, but still, it’s a pleasant change from dealing with telemarketers and people’s spouses.

I just try to take things step by step and not get overwhelmed with the literal mountain of paperwork piling up on my desk. I breathe in, breathe out, and remind myself that no matter what, all of this work will somehow get done. By the end of the week, the mountain will be leveled, and I will have the weekend free to do what I want, including, but not limited to, everything that doesn’t involve accounting.

This has been your daily dose of narcissism and self-indulgence, brought to you by the letter “Exhaustion”.

Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me to calm the eff down?

WTF, universe? I don’t want to date a fucking panda! I want to date a lion! A lion that goes, “ROAR, YOU SMELL SO GOOD I’M GOING TO SWAT ALL THE OTHER BEASTS DOWN WITH MY MASSIVE CLAWS AND DEVOUR YOU NOMNOMNOMNOM!” Not a motherfucking panda that sighs, “I think this leaf is supposed to come off. It’s not working. Oh, well…. I’ll just gnaw on this twig. Then have a snooze. Hug me?”

FUCK YOU, OKCupid! And the robot horse you rode in on!

Truthfully, I’m not all that excited about it, because basically I’ll be crunching numbers and typing all day while keeping my energy up with frequent trips to the M&M dispensers, but I am excited I’ll be getting a paycheck and won’t have to worry about being a contributing member of society for a while. I’d be lying if I said the last couple of years have been easy—fun, sure, most of the time. I mean, who wouldn’t want to sit on their ass all day watching movies and baking cupcakes? Crazy people, that’s who. And who in their right mind wants to be crazy? Not me. Oh, too late….

It’s tough to reconcile my achievement (I refuse to call this success) with the fact that it requires me to stay in the suburbs for at least another year when all I’ve wanted to do for the past two is get the fuck out, but at least money will be saved, and it buys me some time to figure out what to actually do with my life. For now, I’ve reached the fifth stage, acceptance, but I’ll probably move backwards at a relatively rapid rate. Chances are you’ll be reading this in two weeks and it will say something like “OMG GUYS, WTF WAS I THINKING? I haaaa-aaaaa-aaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate my liii-iii-iii-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife!”

That’s what it looks like in type when I cry. Imagine me, red-faced and blotchy, wet substances of varying degrees of salinity and viscosity seeping out of all my facial orifices, wailing like a cat in heat. You might be tempted to put me out of my misery, but I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t. I’m prone to manic bouts of drama-queen-itis, so if I do start to freak out, just feed me chocolate and put me to bed. Works every time.