Jews Can Confess, Too

Oy vesmir to be a progressive Jewish girl these days. Oy gevalt I cannot watch the news I cannot talk about it. When my goyishe husband criticizes Israel I get nervous. I am sure a uniformed officer will come for me, noting my unruly hair and Jewishy face. When I hear politicians support Israel, I feel oppressed. I keep myself at a news-exposure minimum, because after reading and listening about the war the cease fire the families the terrorists I am overwhelmed. And I'm just a Jewish gal in North America, living my little life with nothing more than a few pauses here and there.

Sometimes, I am reduced to thinking about Hebrew school: the way we were taught that we should never forget The Holocaust (so true), the oft-repeated words - "the chosen people" - that I always knew were wrong, and the unflinching support of Israel, along with the notion that all Jews, some day, would go to Jerusalem. We were our own proud little band of soldiers, with Hebrew workbooks, and Hebrew names.

I read about a local Jewish family moving to Israel, and I thought what about the children? Those people could die from a bomb. People believe so fiercely in Israel and somehow that intense devotion missed me. It feels sacrilegious even writing that. Other Jews assume that I accept Israel's actions unconditionally. But I don't accept anything unconditionally! When a country's weapons kill innocent civilians, I won't be an apologist for it. Israel has the right to exist, but I wish all the neighbors there could exist without killing each other.

I am already on some organization's "self-hating Jew" list, whatever that means. Please forgive my feelings of humanity for Lebanese people! I don't understand, for example, why the progressive temple we attend raised money for Jewish children in Israel last year. What about all Israeli children in need? I simply do not value Jews more than I value Arabs. I was told as a child that Arabs are evil. It didn't sound right then, and it is not right now.

So don't hak me a chinek (give me grief) with the Israel talk, and don't tell me who did what to whom. I tell my students, and my own children, that I'm not interested in who started it, I wanna know who's going to finish it? Not finish it with bombs. Talk about some real peace. It would be a grand trip if we could ever afford to travel to Israel. Will we ever feel safe enough that we would even consider it? Ach, what kind of a Jew am I?

The Pill & The Poof

My anti-depressant is great. It's an SSRI. That means it inhibits the flow of seratonin, which maybe my brain squirts out a bit too freely. Or something like that. It's Prozac, only not. How ordinary of me. The theory is that the anti-depressant helps with depression, and it does. But where's my orgasm? (As you read that, please imagine it asked with outrage, in a loud voice that has a bit of wail, similar to a cat's, mating in the distance.) It seems to have gone the way of bikinis, abdominal muscle, and regular periods. Let's not get the issues confused, though. The peri-menopause has not taken my orgasm; the yellow pill I take twice a day has taken my orgasm, and even the requisite great feeling right before the orgasm, and deleted it from my hard drive.

Now Chrystal would say "forget the drug! Embrace your depression and get the orgasm back!" That's why I don't ask Chrystal about this particular issue. I don't ask anyone. It's the Catch-22 of My Pathology, or one of many, really. If I don't take the meds, I will not want to have sex. I will not want anyone near me. That's my guess. If I do take them, I am vibrant, exciting, a regular Bugs Bunny, but female, and not a cartoon, and with just a tad more depth and better ears.

I do think about sex, and the interest is there. But I suppose it's not as there as some people have it there. And then what is strange is that if I do engage Ball & Chain, or he engages me, or, more to the point, we are doing it, I do not end up frustrated, the feelings simply disappear, mid-heat. Every appropriate cell is aroused, everything is in place, and when I say "thing" you know what I mean, and matters are proceeding as they have throughout time, except those folks probably hadn't had their husbands spayed to avoid worry about pregnancy, and then as I approach the moment, poof. Poof, truly, that's all. The SSRI is in there somewhere, a little mad scientist with troll hair and a polka-dot dress running through my bloodstream saying "she cannot have the orgasm - it is the price she pays!" and the demon turns off some switch. It's like going to a great film with a terrific soundtrack, and suddenly you're watching old black & white home movies of a distant relative serving himself macaroni salad. The soundtrack is gone and there's just a crackle.

Ball & Chain has been understanding. After all, his bloodstream is not poisoned. What's to understand? He saw the whole movie, including the credits and the little tiny extra if you wait until the very end, and I listened to some old guy gumming macaroni. Should I talk to my doctor about the macaroni? I dunno. Other than the sex part, my medications are working well. I'm caught in the 22. In the past, when on an SSRI, once I have manage to have one peak experience, as it were, that was it, the Polka-Dot Lady was gone, and I could do it again and again. Like magic.

For now I'll have to hope that Ball & Chain can come up with a few tricks. He does have some talent, so we'll see what happens. I'm not about to stop the SSRI. I suppose chastity would be a bit extreme, and I do still have an appetite. Only not for macaroni salad.

My Pal Chickie

My pal Chickie is a walking encyclopedia of relevant knowledge. Need a car? She knows where to get a good used deal. Does your child have a conundrum at school? Chickie has managed a similar issue, knows the school authorities, as well as three other mothers who have dealt with it, and she can suggest an article. Chickie doesn't advertise, though. You must discover her talents on your own. And here's a query that I posed for The Knowledge Chick: if one's daughter begins to wear a bra sometime in the next decade, what is the proper protocol? What to say? Where to go? What to do? Not only did Chickie's advice assuage my fear of budding breasts, or breast buds, as it were, but she directed me to the proper retail outlet.

I have discovered OneHanesPlace. All this time I have been writing, you, Dear Reader, as well as the ant crawling across my screen, may have thought that I was a buxom, large-breasted, womanly type of woman, whaddevvah that means. Well, no. (For extrapolation on the matter of post-mastectomy bras, stay tuned, I'm on the job.) I'm a B. Thirty four B. That's a lie. I'm in between, really. An A is too small. Yes, it is! Do I want big breasts? No. Do I wish my tuchas (ass padding) was proportional to my breast size? Yes. Do I care that much? Not nearly as much as if I suddenly grew a moustache, but a little more than if Condoleeza Rice grew a moustache. I don't think anyone else in the executive branch could grow a moustache right now, due to either a testosterone omission in their rabies series, or the intense concentration required. Nothing against Condoleeza personally, but I think she'd do well with some facial hair.

Back to OneHanesPlace, where I imagine all of the panties and bras go to gossip -"See you over at One Hanes, Thong!," - they have every single type of brassiere ever created anywhere including "Near-B"! So I don't have to look down at my small breast lolling meekly inside a B-cup, as if waiting to be joined by a partner, and I don't have to strangle my entire chest by squeezing into an A. And everything's returnable. Not the breasts - the bras.

There's a measuring guide on the site. Does every other female in the world have a measuring tape in her sewing box? My sewing box is a lame sight. It's a fake, really. I don't sew, except buttons that fell off. Someone gave me the box as a work gift and I threw in some tangled spools of thread and a pack of needles. I've used it, but it's more of an emergency management service as family members attempt to leave the house and discover holes in unseemly (terrible pun, really) places.

Obviously, I have no measuring tape at all. I look at those grids for sizing and I'm using a plastic ruler trying to figure out how many inches my bust is. The dog is peering up at me like he knows he should be embarrassed. I call out to Thing One and Thing Two "do you guys know where a tape measure is?"
Thing One says "No, but we have a yard stick."
"Um, no thanks," I holler down. I pretend not to hear him when he asks what I need it for.

Regarding the mothering of a budding girl: I am confident that Rugelah, aka Thing Two, and I, will find a mini-bra, or pseudo-bra, or, perhaps, a bra bra for her, when the time is appropriate, just as Chickie and Chicklet did a few years ago. Meanwhile, I do not have to shop for bras in the company of women who actually need them, although I did note that over at One Hanes they have many handy bra types for women who are carrying a lotta tit, a bit o' tit or some type of mix. They have post-mastectomy bras, too, so a bra for every gal who wants one. Now there's a pause, an oh my, as it's hard to end on a mastectomy note. But ladies in all cleavage and non-cleavage categories are on my mind, so there.

Not Deleting

I've been writing on here and deleting on here because I'm unsure of myself and actually one day it was inadvertent. What happens to one's ego when a sibling dies is apparently well-known: reality is skewed and it takes a while to adjust itself to a new place. Here I am rounding over to almost a year without my brother and so many words to say but they are a fraction of what one feels. It's as if I can't think of the right word, but then, of course, there is none.

Adding to the lack of detail in my picture is the phenomena of Not Getting The Job. I think maybe now I am experiencing that again, but one doesn't know until a few days have passed. Will I be working at a progressive school with lofty ideals, or at a school for disabled children with a grittier curriculum? I'm not sure how much it matters.

My dear friend Mary just married an absolutely right-there, way smart and truly funny man. I wasn't sure how a wedding would do for me at this particular moment. But Mary is no ordinary person, and when I met her other close friends - all of whom I had heard about for years - I liked each one immediately. A bunch of strong personalities, and all indifferent to the superficial crap that women compete over in subtle ways. Two of us gave Mary a foot rub - Stacy on the right, and me on the left. Mary hadn't realized that there are certain details one takes care of before a large function - like where people sit - so we happily worked on that for her, too.

I was in a bit of a muddle: all new people, a few days before the anniversary of my brother's death. But I adjusted my lenses and I watched the event and all of the surrounding mini-events, planned and unplanned. Now that I have processed it, I can clearly imagine who my own very close friends are, who would be here for me should I decide to marry. (Oops - I did that years ago.) How absurd, as these people were, and are, here for me as I experience the most horrendous time of my life. My parents, of all people. I call them every day to check on them. Ha! Chrystal and Becca. My first cousin, Barbara. My 2 California friends, both of whom have come to be with us. And my neighbor friends, one right next door. Ball & Chain, even.

This is not a close-the-door and a window opens deal. A door closes and never opens again. Quite a few people lean against it with me, watch while I bang on it for someone to open up, and hang out while I say nothing much of interest, and offer little back. There is not much food at my table. I'm starting to accept my brother's death a little bit. So I wrote about it and I'm not deleting.