YET ANOTHER LATE RESPONSE

On the Rules of Engagement

A little while ago, when I remembered the strange reconnection I had with one of my former friends, Subwife asked how come it's all right, in my opinion, when conservatives call liberals stupid, but not all right when the situation is reversed; doesn't that smack of double standard? Posed like this, it is a very interesting topic for discussion, so, here goes.

First of all, let us identify the players. On one hand, we have the group that calls themselves liberals, and so, by default, everyone else started calling them liberals also. That definition, of course, could not be further from the truth, because that particular group represents the most malevolent and freedom-suppressing force ever to arise on American political scene. Overwhelming amount of these people possesses a very interesting set of morals and a firm believe that all the personal liberties enumerated in American Constitution apply to them exclusively; and, as the irony of fate would have it, since the majority of media is controlled by them, our conscious and subconscious minds are constantly being bombarded with direct and subliminal messages to the tune that only that peculiar set of morals is "true morals" and these people are true defenders of our Constitutional rights and freedoms.

On the other hand we have an opposing bunch, whose members are, again by default, identified as conservatives; and, again, that is not precisely so. As I mentioned before, they are pretty diverse crew by themselves, coming from all kinds of political thought and political school; the only thing that unites them is the opposition to the so called liberals, but that does not necessarily make them conservatives, and a lot of them are not: just look at Tammy Bruce. So, what we have in a nutshell are basically people on the left and all the rest, who are usually on the right and sometimes in the center. Out of consideration for my fingers I will simply call them lefties and righties in this here composition.

Now, in the normal, civilized course of political argument nobody, obviously, calls their opponents names and nobody raises his or her voice. You present your opinion, your opposition presents theirs, and hopefully, both of you have substantiating evidence. At a certain point you realize that both of you feel too strongly about the topic discussed and you will not convince each other to switch opinions. So, you politely agree to disagree, smile, and either wish each other good evening or switch the discussion to flighty New York weather, or Yankees, or latest movie, or Agatha Cristie, or ballet, or Paris Hilton (hopefully, you and your opponent have some other interests aside from latest development on the political scene). That scenario, again, works perfectly well if you are dealing with civilized people who, at a certain point in their development, were taught at least a modicum of proper manners. Unfortunately, when you are dealing with lefties, that is usually not the case.

These people, both the leaders and the followers, are firmly convinced that they took over Pope's ability to be infallible, and that they, and they alone, possess all the right answers and all the secrets of the universe. Freedom of speech belongs exclusively to them; all the members of the opposition are reactionaries, members of the right-wing conspiracy, racists, etc, and, as such, are not entitled to express their opinion in any shape or form. Moreover, your belonging to the opposition (again, in any shape or form) automatically makes you stupid, or, at the very least, uneducated and uninformed. Here are some snippets from my personal experience.

Holiday lunch at a friend's house. Usual (for her) motley assembly. Conversation zigzags around strange topics, and yours truly pipes something in defense of McCarthy, followed by immediate and predictable outrage from another guest. "You really should read up on the topic" goes her superior advice down her nose. "I just did it few months ago". "Really?" with disbelieve.

Election day. I am chatting with one of my friendlier co-workers. He is totally confused as for whom to vote and asking my advice. I confess that I vote down the party line exclusively for Republicans, so, I am not necessarily an unbiased adviser. Another woman from a different department is passing by. "You vote for Republicans? How dare you! You would not be allowed into my house!"

Another friendly co-worker sets me up with a blind date. The guy has a promising political career working as an underflunkie to some kind of councilman (Democrat, of course). As irony would have, that was around February of another Presidential election year, and, of course, he wanted to find out what candidate appealed to me. The moment I mentioned my party affiliation, he became extremely condescending and downright nasty, mocking every single opinion I had on any subject and leaching on to every single little scrap of information that I did not know and he did. Let's just say it was a most memorable date.

So, basically, lefties usually view righties as stupid by default; righties usually call lefties stupid (and some other choice names) after thorough study, interesting evidence and long experience (like happened in my case). Unfortunately, the battle lines are much deeper than that. Saul Alinksy, whom some biographers of our dear Hilary Rodham Clinton call her spiritual mentor, basically taught his followers to use the bourgeois mentality of their opponents and make a complete mockery of it. Here is a charming example I found in one of Barbara Olsen's books: Alinsky instructed his goons to eat beans and then go protest some kind of meeting (do not remember which one, but it was inside a closed room) and basically distract the said meeting with excessive flatulence. How, may I ask you, are you supposed to remain civilized when dealing with such opponents?

Just think about it: in a few decades since the sixties (which is a very short period of time, historically speaking), lefties have taken over tremendous chunks of American life, education being the most crucial of them. Freedom of speech belongs exclusively to them; political correctness is chocking everyone else. From the leftie's point of view, there is no respect for the enemy: he has to be yelled at, yelled down, deprived of his ability to express the said opinion, and hopefully deprived of his livelihood. Meanwhile, we are supposed to remain civilised and bleat at all and sundry that these people do not adhere to the rules of civilized behavior and gentleman's fighting code? In my humble opinion, one of the reasons lefties have such virulent hatred towards Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter particularly is because these two engaged them at their own battlefield and emerged triumphant, never mind very popular.

In my long association with lefties there was only one person with whom I could speak about politics and not loose my cool. She was also a former co-worker, by the way. When she felt that the discussion was entering dangerous waters , she would just propose to agree to disagree and jokingly add that that is why we have vanilla ice cream and chocolate ice cream. The taste that was left in my mouth after discussions with all the other lefties I have either known on a personal level or just encountered in strange situations usually did not resemble ice cream, either vanilla or chocolate. The saddest part of all? Time for discussions has past long time ago. We are in the middle of a very serious fight. Our freedom, the future of our children, and the future of this country are at stake, never mind the the decline and almost total non-existence of polite behavior.

A GREAT PIECE OF NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA

Compliments of my brother

http://www.reuters.com/resources/flash/includevideo.swf?edition=US&videoId=78638

YOUR TAX DOLLAR AT WORK

Part 1

The firm at which I hold my current employment has a decent amount of contracts with various government controlled agencies, which, in turn, allows me a brief glimpse into the inner workings of these wonderful bastions of mockery on Constitution. So, I decided to start a new line of installments titled "Your Tax Dollar at Work". Here is part one.

I had to get one of our architects a Connecticut registration, and for that you have to contact the Connecticut Department of Consumer Protection (lofty name, ain't it) located in a fair city of Hartford. Now, I am not going to bore you with the details of the entire process: that would take at least a pamphlet. The most noteworthy from that entire process was the following little vignette.

Yours truly and a worthy individual back in Hartford who was charged with an important role of protecting Connecticut consumers exchanged a whole bunch of e-mails and lively phone conversations. The last exchange went as follows: Could you please apprise me as to the status of her application? I still did not receive her___ file (some stuff that was supposed to have been send to him from Washington, DC). Well, I have an e-mail confirmation from FedEx that this file was delivered to your office last Thursday (mind you, this conversation is taking place on Tuesday). Well, it takes time for packages to get to our offices from our mail room.

Now, I have never visited the fair city of Hartford, so, I can not vouch for the exact measurements, but how big is the building housing the Department of Consumer Protection if it takes more than three business days for the package that is marked "urgent" to travel from the mail room of that building to the actual destination?

A BUNCH OF SHORT TAKES

The spring is in the air for me when I visit one of the many bargain hunter's stores and peruse a fresh crop of flip flops. By the same token, sandals or flip flops in August are sold on clearance because the season is over; it is over for everyone but yours truly that is, for whom August is just a second beginning for sandal season (end usually comes mid October).

A glass or can of Diet Coke is a true staple in Modern American cuisine. I rediscovered it this Spring when my date decided to dare the fare in an Indian restaurant, agonized for almost half an hour about his order, finally ordered, and completed his order with, you guessed it, a can of Diet Coke.

This past February my body performed its usual winter routine and succumbed to some kind of vile bug which necessitated my taking antibiotics and, consequently, being quarantined from my yummy gnomes. I decided to use my "time off" wisely and do the usually unthinkable for me stuff, mainly: beautify myself a bit. As part of that routine I got a hair cut in Manhattan. Even though I lucked out and ended up paying about six dollars more than I would have paid had I gone to my usual half dump next to my house, the excellent service I received felt like I overpaid at least a twenty. The poor hairdresser, though, got the shock of her life when she asked me what products I usually use for my hair. "Shampoo and conditioner" was my reply. Ah, the priceless look on her face and the exclamation "that's all?"

This past Sunday I was able, to use a Yiddish expression, shep nachas. My sister's kids apparently absorbed the profound lessons I have been giving them: for about five minutes they were busy sticking their tongues and blowing raspberries at one another, smiling all the time.

Even the most expensive neighbourhood in our fair city, otherwise known as Upper East Side, is not protected from two things that plague the entire New York City: the constant drilling of the rodes and side walks, and the dog poop.

Apparently, poor Bard scares more people than just the professors at Teachers College. I remember when in my second to last semester at college the head of our English Department went around asking people if anyone would be interested in a class on Victorian literature, one girl looked at her with scared eyes and timidly asked "Would we have to read Shakespeare?"

My slightly elevated body temperature is, like almost everything in life, both a blessing and a curse. The biggies appreciation, though, came two Sundays ago, when my nephew took an unheard of before three hour nap in my warm embrace.

Dentists scare everyone bar none. I rediscovered it a while ago when I was walking home one fine evening and was accosted by a self-proclaimed psychic who wanted to tell me about great love waiting for me in the near future. To that wonderful news I replied that I was just returning from a dentists' office and could not really pay her much attention at the time. This defense worked like a charm, and I was allowed to continue on my way without further forays into my non-existing love live.

The concept of wine with six percent alcohol content exists exclusively on the Kosher market. Poor friends of my brother's have discovered this interesting fact last New Year. He naively recommended to them getting the above mentioned six percent champagne for the festivities. Poor wine store clerks and poor NYU students, both wasting about half an hour in total confusion!

Desperation brings forth talents that you otherwise would have never suspected you had. A couple of months ago my niece was stuck with a poorer substitute for her usual bather (Mama), namely me. Understandably, she protested the injustice of the situation. So, in desperation, I handed her an extra wash cloth and tried to show that it produces bubbles on its own. When that tactic was meet with a lukewarm success, I boldly continued. I took another washcloth and told the poor child that we are going to play a game and sing a song, and then I proceed to sing a song of my own composition that went something like this: "scrub, scrub, scrubity scrub. Scruby little Eh, scrub, scrub. Scrub a left hand, scrub a right hand, scrub, scrub, scrubity scrub, scrub, scrub". The melody was also of my own invention and went along the lines of an exercise for the right hand for the beginning piano students. Anyway, imagine my surprise, when a few weeks after that episode the big gnome was stuck with me at bath time again. She smiled, run to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, found a pack of those disposable wash clothes, took one out, and started rubbing her little hand with it, smiling at me and saying "scwub, scwub".

Found on one of the many, many accessories I got from the Disney store: "Laughter is timeless. Imagination has no age. And dreams are forever."

Origins of a popular song

MUSING BEFORE PURIM

All who know me personally can vouch for the fact that not only am I a bit of a history buff, but I always get extremely annoyed when people try to tell me that studying history is a bore and a waste of time. I can consent to bore, because most of historians can not convey their knowledge, in either written or spoken form, without putting their audience to sleep in about five minutes flat; but a waste of time it definitely is not. You see, as far as cliches go, history most certainly repeats itself because people never bother to learn at least the rudiments of it, and, as such, always bound to repeat the mistakes of previous generations ad infinitum. Case in point: my people vs. the rest of the world.

Anyone with a modicum of historical knowledge, if, in fact, he or she possessed that knowledge, would most certainly and a long time ago come to a conclusion that is does not pay to tangle with Jews. Even if you consider yourself an atheist or an agnostic, and think that the Old Testament was written by a man and is filled with a bunch of nonsense, somehow "I will curse the ones who curse you, and bless the ones that bless you" always comes true. Blame it on anything you want: Elders of Zion, worldwide Jewish conspiracy, untold riches that every Jew is supposed to posses no matter his station in life; whatever it is, it is impossible to actually figure out, but, non the less, it always comes true. Think of great empires and all kinds of tyrants we have survived and outlived; boggles the mind!

Since, as already proven, people do not learn history and its lessons, in every generation, heck, almost every day, there always comes some brave individual or individuals, usually accompanied by a whole crowd of highly peaceful, moral and educated followers, who thinks the he will finally get rid of of this small bunch of weirdos who manage to always control the world and in the process bake the blood of innocent children in their weird holiday breads and pastries. The noble efforts are usually successful for a while (sometimes a long while), but, inevitably, the noble organizer himself goes to his just desserts, and then his country follows suit. The whole process may take more than one generation, but the circle is always completed. My question is: can't people just wise up and forget the heroics? I mean, as long as these blankety blank blank Jews do not touch you personally, can you forget about saving the world from the danger of Jewish World domination and enjoy life? The answer, of course, is always "no".

For about two generations and counting that noble role was undertaken not so much by a particular individual; more by a particular religion. Of course, they have been very active on this worthy path before; it is just that their efforts redoubled lately, and, for whatever reason, the civilized world is very accepting of these efforts contrary to any kind of applicable logic.

This week we (meaning the blankety blank blank Jews) will celebrate Purim. Whenever somebody asks me explain the meaning of this holiday in one sentence or less, all I can say is: we faced total and complete extermination, and, by the combination of very peculiar circumstances, not only survived, but emerged victorious. It is possibly the happiest holiday in our calendar, full of food, drink, revelry, and excited children in costumes (adults too, actually). Of course, life's circumstances being what they are, not everyone's level of happiness will be the same; but this year all of us know of eight families for whom Purim will come on the hills of emerging from the Shiva for their murdered children.

They were murdered in cold blood by a fanatical killer; most of them were just high school kids. Their murder was loudly celebrated by the members of that fanatical religion, and the most of the rest of the world either ignored it or proclaimed it as just another chain in the circle of violence in the Middle East and bemoaned the fact of that little incident derailing the peace process.

Like the vast majority of humankind, I can not see G-d's plan, nore do I profess the ability to do so. I will never know why it was His plan to allow the killer into the place of holy learning, why these kids were killed, and why it happened as the month of Adar, the month of Purim celebration, was approaching. These boys and their classmates were preparing to do just that: welcome the new month and celebrate Purim; instead they ended up lying in the pool of blood amongst the debris of the destroyed holy books. The murderers cheered on , and the so-called defenders of human rights did not even bother to honestly report "the incident".

Again, even if you consider the Book of Esther just a product of human imagination, do yourselves a favor and read it; after all, once upon a time it was a mark of an educated person to be familiar with the Old Testament. Then, try to familiarize your minds with at least bare bones of the history of Spain. With me still? Good. Now, explain to me, pretty please, the logic and moral justification of calling a religion "religion of peace" when the so called radical members of this religion dance on the streets at the prospect of Jewish parents burying their murdered children, and non-radical members just stay mum (at the very least). Not too tired yet? Wonderful, just a tiny bit more. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable, and try, at least try to comprehend this: we will never quietly disappear into the night, never! Muslims can murder our children in the places of holy learning or shoot them (along with their pregnant mothers) execution style on the lonely rodes, and you can condone all of it as part of their fight for freedom and self-determination; it does not matter. We will grieve, because when you strike one of us, you strike us all. Then we will dry our tears and go on living, while you can contemplate the moral ramifications of condoning genocide or just standing by and letting it happen.

May G-d comfort our bereaved, especially the parents of those poor boys, and may He protect our children! This Friday we, once again, will celebrate His miracles and our survival. We will remember the story, help the poor, eat, drink, and enjoy life. L'Chaim!

DUAL PURPOSE

As much as I love living in New York, there are definitely certain downsides to it. One of the most annoying to me is the overabundance of the lefties with all their anti-American tripe all over their attire and accessories. I plan to combat that as much as I can; unfortunately, it is a very slow process.

Anyway, to make the long story short, I recently got a few magnets with "I heart America". Since I do not drive a car, I am trying to figure out the best way to display it overwise; meanwhile, it seats on my fridge. My dad was overjoyed at this offering, and immediately affixed it to his vehicle.

Last Sunday, as we were coming together from a grocery store, I just commented that the magnet looks bigger than I imagined, even on his SUV. "Yes, replied my Dad, I absolutely love it! Plus, now it is much easier for me to look for my car."

For the men who hate classical music

One of the best renditions of Vivaldi, in my opinion. Enjoy:)

LITTLE MERMAID

Last morning, before leaving for work, I was surveying the pigsty known as my apartment with the firm resolution of coming home and making a brave stab at converting it back to human habitat. As the workday was winding down, I realized that my good intentions will remain just that: intentions, and decided to go to the movies instead. As mentioned previously, it takes a lot of effort to narrow down on the movie I want to see, and last night was no exception. Finally, I decided on "27 Dresses" (mainly because it was a comedy), but when I checked for the local listings, all the shows were either fifteen minutes before the end of my workday, or two hours after. That was disappointing, but I decided to persevere in my determination to have a good time and figured that I can treat myself to a dinner out before the movie. As I was trying to settle on the local (or not) kosher establishment for that worthy endeavor, a brilliant thought entered my mind: musical!

Again, the only musical I wanted to see and hear from the Broadway cornucopia was "Little Mermaid" (which, due to its young age, did not offer discount tickers). Ah, if I am going out with me, myself, and I, might as well treat myself all the way. So, I got myself a full-price ticket and then a very enjoyable and very overpriced dinner at Favorite Dessert (which I also did not do in donkey's age). Both food and service were fantastic (which in itself is a fantastic experience in a kosher restaurant), and the expensive musical that followed that expensive dinner was a feast for the senses!

The theater was relatively small, so, even with cheaper tickets you could see everything. As you very well know, the Disney version of "Little Mermaid" is not profound in either story or music; never the less, Disney worked its usual magic: as soon as the lights went out, all the worries, headaches, and frustration went with it. Everything was fantastic: lighting, scenery, costumes. The most ingenious, in my opinion, was the way they created the swimming illusion: all the cast members who were supposed to swim had those shoes with little rolls on the heels - the results were amazing! Of course, being extremely PC, Disney had to get on my nerves slightly by making Sebastian a Caribbean character and the whole "Under the Sea" number very Caribbean too. Plus, it was very funny to have a black King Triton, and then half his daughters very white and half black, but, I guess that is along the same lines as seeing a two hundred pounds, forty something soprano, and imagining her as twenty something young woman who is dying of grief and consumption.

The only sensible thing I did that evening was not to overstock on overpriced souvenirs. I guess the fact that I was on my turf played a role, because I am sure that if I was in another city, I would have bought out the whole souvenir shop.

All in all, the whole evening entertainment was the rough equivalent of one of my utility bills. But I got to see the original Broadway cast and, most importantly, I was able to add to my store of fantastic memories!

SUBWAY TALES

Part 4

I love living in New York; more than that, I actually belong to the school of New York snobs that considers our fair city the center of the world. As such, I felt it was my moral obligation to introduce my niece to all the wonders of the city a baby, and then a toddler, can appreciate.

This past summer, after the appearance of her baby brother, I tried to take her mind off the fact that she is not the only one in Mama's world; as a result, we have spent a most memorable week doing "touristy" things. There was only one thing that marred our total bliss: we had to return home on the subway.

So, one pleasant sunny afternoon Golden Delicious, her trusty Maclaren Techno, and yours truly boarded the subway at Columbus Circle. Up to a point, it was OK, mainly because I had to share an elevator with a young father, whose charge was around the same age as mine and also in a stroller (to be fair to him, he looked like a decent person who was probably courteous to women with children before he got his own). Anyway, we maneuvered the elevator and turnstiles, helping each other, wished each other a pleasant day, and then I proceed to my platform; and the fun began.

First of all, some gentlemen mascarading as construction workers decided to block us on the platform, so they will be able to get into the car first. Being a veteran of long lines for watermelons and fresh fish, I prevented the said maneuver. Then the train came, we successfully boarded, continuing to exhibit the rude tendency of refusing to be pushed and shoved, and I surveyed the situation. Of course, there were no seats available; more than that, apparently women with strollers are subjected to the same treatment as do pregnant women: everyone seated lifts their eyes, pretends they do not see you, looks around furtively, or even gives you a dirty stare.

Now, if you ever traveled on the subway with a stroller, you will know that it's impossible, even with breaks, to keep it still; moreover, the only way you yourself will be able to keep your balance is to lean against the door. Basically, in this situation a seat is very desirable. So, I decided to wait two stops to 42nd Street, where lots of people would probably get off, and if that did not work, just ask anybody looking half human to remain that way. Plus, just to make me smile more, there was a dude and his girlfriend directly in front of us, who kept giving us very dirty stares. They themselves looked like what is knows is Russia as bedbugged intelligencia (yes, I know it looses something in the translation), and the dude was clutching a copy of a book on art history.

Anyway, the 42nd Street came, lots of people disembarked, and we got the seat (again, after some really crafty maneuvers on my side). During this lively process, one of Maclaren's wheels went over the above-mentioned gentleman's Duck Martin's, for which I was gifted with a stare that basically meant "off with her head". My only regret was that I was unable to re-direct those wheels for at least five more times, but, on the balance, I decided that obtaining a seat carried a bit more importance and urgency.

After that epic victory, Curly Head decided that she was a big girl and requested to be seated next to me; I complied with her request. Now, that train had bench seats, and there was literally a tiny spot next to me for her tiny behind; not even a older child would have been able to squeeze there. Never the less, my seating her on the bench earned me a disapproving stare from the woman on the left. That, I think, was the proverbial cherry. I am afraid that at that point I expressed myself pretty loudly: "Bastards! Blind mutant bastards!" That earned me the shocked stairs from most of the car, and some of them followed me for most of the road. Needless to say, I also had to apologize to my sister for using profanities in front of her young impressionable child.

HOW TO CHOSE YOUR BATTLES

As evidenced before, I am a huge Harry Potter fan. As such, I get periodic updates in one of my e-mail accounts every time words "Harry Potter" are mentioned in the news. Usually, these news are tripe, like what happened to the stock of WB or Scholastic, or what exactly Daniel Radcliffe or Emma Watson are up to. Sometimes I get really funny tidbits, like a girl in England who watched the fourth movie 111 times, or a confused fan in Seattle who was standing in line hoping to see the latest Harry Potter movie, when in fact the line was for the latest Star Wars. And sometimes those news are from the laughter through tears category.

So, around September of 2006, I got a news blurb that basically stated that Vatican's Chief Exorcist is apposed to Harry Potter books due to the fact that said books lure young minds into witchcraft. Now, that in itself would have been nothing: after all, he is a religious leader (although his title definitely made me chuckle), and has full right to express his opinion on the matters of the said religion. What really matters is the date, because around the same time the Pope ended up in now very famous (or infamous) soup by quoting Manuel II. You all remember the fracas that followed, culminating in repeated apologies by the Pope and faithful Muslims of Somali showing how wrong the Byzantine Emperor was by fatally shooting in the back the sixty five year old Sister Leonella Sgorbati.

Then, few months ago, there was another major news upheaval before the first movie based on "His Dark Materials" was released. Again, Catholics have full right to protest books written by a guy who portrays them in very negative light and fully admits that his mission in life is to "kill god", but when you take it in the full context of the current battles coming from and around Vatican, it only serves as the fodder for more ridicule.

Anybody with a modicum of education ( and I am sure that the current Pope and Chief Exorcists have more than that) would see that the worst threat to Western values, Western civilization, heck, Christianity itself, always originated in the Muslim world. That which defines the West and comprises the best of it: the value of human life, progress, freedom, self-determination , and even the economic structure - all that is absolutely abhorrent to Islam (no, I did not forget the Crusades). And what exactly did that long-dead Byzantine Emperor say that was not true?

This New Year's I was flipping through the channels while waiting to see the ball drop (I know, I know, I am not a credit to my Bais Yacov Alma mater), and I stumbled on the brief report from Vatican about how the Pope urges the whole world to try and live in peace. Forgive me, Your Holiness, but are you delusional or just stupid? People who truly want peace are under constant attack, and have no choice but to defend themselves; and in case that was a veiled reference to the so-called Middle East crisis, then may I humbly suggest that you go to the warm basement and stay there?

And guess what actually prompted me to write this? I hope you guessed it right: a couple of weeks ago I got another news flash to the tune that the Chief Exorcist again spoke very strongly against the Harry Potter books. May I just make one small suggestion to His Holiness and his Chief Exorcist? The proposition is very simple: at the horrible risk of contaminating their souls with witchcraft, can they still try and read Harry Potter? If the danger from all seven books is too great, can they at least concentrate on numbers five and seven? That, I hope, will teach them the true meaning of courage, humility, selflessness, self-sacrifice, courage of conviction, and the necessity of fighting true evil.

TRIP TO THE MOVIES

Or the melting iceberg

As I mentioned before, I actually enjoy going to the movies, even though my primary goal is the same as in reading romances: just disconnect from the reality and fry my non-existent brain cells some more. Add to this the fact that I am very much a chicken, meaning I really do not like to see gore and violence in surround sound, and my choice of movies becomes extremely limited. Anyway, to make a long story a bit shorter, the last movie I watched before the one mentioned in this story was the fourth Harry Potter. Basically, I was pretty much movie deprived: no time, no money, nothing showing I want to watch when I have time or money, etc. So, finally, somewhere in the fall, I finally made my way to the movie theater to watch "Stardust".

I enjoyed that particular cinematic experience, even with the usual protracted battles towards the end and the usual for our wonderful times addition of a fierce pirate captain who ended up being a cross-dresser. Basically, the whole shebang was worth my ten bucks, but that is not the main point of this story. Dork that I am, I usually enjoy the previews as well: either I know ahead what to look forward to, or, more often, what not to look forward too; this time, one of the previews was for "Elizabeth:The Golden Age."

Now, in my personal opinion, Cate Blanchette is a pretty decent actress, but Elizabeth she is not, nor is Clive Owen a believable Sir Walter Raleigh. Hollywood is also very rarely accused of historical accuracy, and I am sure this movie was not an exception. All in all, this would not be the one motion picture I would run to watch, but that preview left an impression on me. It was Elizabeth's exclamation "by god, England will not fall while I am queen!" that made me remember why I admire her so much.

I remember my history professor, who, of course, was a feminist, pointed out to us that Elizabeth's reign was an ultimate irony on her dear Daddy. What she did not mention and what the sick lesbians from NOW, who presume to speak to and for all women, will never acknowledge was that her life was actually a personification of feminist's dream. Just think about it: her birth itself was a disappointment to her father since she was not a boy; her mother was executed on the false charges of treason before Elizabeth's third birthday; she was largely ignored by her father; she was accused of treason and thrown in the Tower by her own sister! Sufficient grounds for spending the rest of her life on the analyst's couch, wouldn't you agree?

When she became queen at the ripe old age of twenty five, the country was basically in shambles: impoverished, torn by religious strive, and in danger of being conquered by much stronger enemies. At the time of Elizabeth's death England was strong, prosperous, and undefeated master of the sea; in short, according to many historians, she was the best monarch in English history. Bess not only survived in the men's world against unbelievable odds; she was the best ever man (sorry, woman) for the job!

Elizabeth was smart, highly educated (probably more well-rounded than the professors at Teacher's College who think that studying Shakespeare is superfluous and outdated), and a brilliant politician. People who specialize in her biography like to point out that she was strong and strong-willed, but not mulishly stubborn: she surrounded herself with capable advisers to whom she listened very carefully (and whom she always rewarded for their faithful service to the Crown); but, most importantly, she genuinely loved her country and her people. "England will not fall while I am queen": to her being the queen and wearing the crown was first and foremost a sacred duty from Heaven; a moral obligation to dedicate her life to her country and her people. I am not trying to romanticise the second part of the sixteenth century, but, considering our extremely jaded times and the idiotic circus usually surrounding any kind of political elections, how many politicians have that kind of vision for their role?

While I was reminiscing about Bess, I also started remembering my general admiration for Albion. In my opinion, there is no coincidence that United States emerged from the English colony: the ideas of "life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness" as "unalienable rights... endowed by the Creator" could only come from the country of Magna Carta. In the course of the centuries, especially in the view of this and the preceding generations' general disregard and, in some instances, the re-writing of history, people either have no inkling of what Magna Carta was, or they view it as nothing more than the landlord/tenant squabble. Overall, English history usually gave a "vibe" of limited monarchy and admirable politicians like Edmund Burke (yes, I know he was Irish); Brits were in the forefront of the industrial revolution (and personal freedom in that case was as important as the presence of working grey matter); they almost single-handedly defeated Napoleon, and were the only European country to offer any kind of serious opposition to the Nazis (geography can be blamed for this, but only up to a point). On the lighter note, I personally love their dry wit and their "classical" writers are the only ones whose books do not promote the general air of depression; but, again, that is a deeply subjective and very personal opinion.

Alas, their glory days were gone the minute they voted Churchill out of the office. Once the Nazis were defeated, Brits decided to embrace socialist ideas, and the rest, pardon the pun, is history. Now a days, they are overrun by Muslims and pacifists; the situation deteriorated to a point where Archbishop of Canterbury openly proposes to incorporate sharia law into the law of the land and, as a side note, the British flag was removed from Heathrow airport, because the compilation of three patron saint crosses, which basically comprise the English flag, were apparently very offensive to the Muslims. That is after English were subjected to the tender mercies of the Muslim terrorists, with more and more plots constantly being uncovered. What gives? So, my personal conclusion was that that country is basically finished, and it is only a matter of time before it becomes official; and as much as I love Margaret Thatcher, Jo Rowling and Helen Fielding (different kettle of fish, I know), they are not going to save the situation much. That is, until I accidentally stumbled on the article about Stewart Dimmock.

Since it is a save guess that very few people in this country heard about him, let me just summarise it briefly. Dimmock was a school governor and a father of two who protested the indoctrination of the two said children and thousands of others into the very popular church of global warming. As Joseph Farah very nicely put it, Dimmock did not want his kids tortured by Al Gore and his "Inconvenient Truth". Even though the case resulted in the decision of allowing that masterpiece of cinematic wonder and political dissent to be shown in schools, there are two major caveats: number one, any teacher showing that tripe to his or her students is obligated to point out all the major mistakes made (if memory serves right, there are seven of them); and, number two, a mere mortal went against Al Gore and got his say! Of course, all the enviros here, when recounting this episode, start by pointing out that Dimmock is just a truck driver (or lorry driver, as they say across the pond). All I can say to this is: hurray for this lorry/truck driver! He had the guts and determination to try and protect his children by going against the powerful government machine and even more powerful political establishment! I, of course, do not know his family tree, but I would like to think that the blood of his probable ancestors who fought Napoleon and Hitler boiled in his veins and gave him the courage to fight. Who knows, maybe, just maybe, more people will wake up and try to protect their country and the future generations of that country. And maybe at Heathrow, just a few miles away from where Elizabeth is buried, Union Jacks will proudly fly again.

GHOST OF MY RECENT PAST, REVISITED

Even though, as mentioned before, I am not the most sociable person in the world, over the years I have managed to acquire a certain number of friends and good acquaintances. The goodly number of those, fortunately or unfortunately, are not on my social horizon anymore for a number of reasons.

A couple of years ago, another person whom I considered a friend, joined those ranks. I am not going to go into painful details: that is not the point of this story. Let us just say that we parted company on civil terms, even hugged each other, but that was it. No phone calls, e-mails, text messages; not even Rosh Hashana or Birthday cards. Sure, we have seen each other a few times, thanks to mutual acquaintances, but the conversations were always brief and shallow.

Fast forward to about two weeks ago; here I am, going through my OCD routine of checking all my e-mail accounts every few hours. When I got to the one I reserve for family use only, there was one new message from my sister with a very strange subject line: Ann Coulter. I opened it, frantically trying to figure out which of the kids caused my sister's strange mind set, because she has never before supplied me with any headlines of political nature; that is usually my modus operandi. After a quick scan of this unusual missive I realized that my sister did not, after all, smoke any strange substances; all she did was forward a message, which, you guessed it, was from that lost friend. The message contained a Youtube link with a short missive saying that he remembered Barb used to be a die hard fan of that woman and maybe now she will change her mind.

Zhvanetsky had a wonderful expression, which, loosely translated, means: " I dare not say it in harsh words, but there are no words to say it softly". Of all the things he felt compelled to say to me after all this time, all the news we could have shared, this was the only one thing he wanted to make sure I knew? To be perfectly honest, I got really peeved, and when I am peeved I start to dwell on all the not so good stuff about the peever, not just that one particular episode. For whatever reason, he always thought he is more mature, informed, sophisticated, and experienced than yours truly, so he probably decided that I never saw or heard about the stupid incident and decided to enlighten me (not bothering to remember my e-mail address and using a convenient messenger). That was my reasoning; but after a few minutes I lightened up and just chucked the whole thing to the great irony called life in general and human nature in particular.

That evening my sis and I had a short discussion about this and came to the conclusion that the whole thing could be summarized by vernacular expression "peeing in your pants". I asked her to forward him my blog link and was informed that he already had it; case closed (or so I thought).

Fast forward a couple more days; another discussion with my sister in between kids demanding their dues and us trying to swallow dinner. Apparently, next time he saw her, he wanted to know if Barb was informed about the great earthquake. When he, in turn, was informed that not only did Barb know about it hot off the press, but she already left her opinion in her blog, which he could check at his convenience, the response was: "I already checked that blog. Are you sure it is only Barb's, because half the entries do not sound like her at all?" Another "pants" moment, plus, I got genuinely perplexed. What entries did not sound like me? If anything sounds one hundred percent like me, it is this blog.

The wondering went on for couple more days, till my sister run into him again. Again: does Barbie know all the facts? Yes, she does. Check her blog. I checked and I disagree. Fine, leave a comment; her blog allows anonymous comments. Then comes this masterpiece of an argument: I disagree, plus Barbie makes spelling mistakes (at which point my wonderful sis just hung up on him). Oy gevalt! First thing that struck was that he, of all people, knows that I am dyslexic and I can not, for the life of me, proof-read my own work. Plus, I never pretended to be a specialist in English grammar, spelling, or punctuation. Unlike him, who was lucky enough to come here when he was a kid, I came when I was technically a high school graduate. My official education in English language consists of two semesters of ESL with a bunch of Iranian ladies, three semesters of English composition at "Dura" college, and the guilty pleasure of about six hundred romance novels. He knows that, even if he does not remember. Then came the realization of the ultimate irony: he acted exactly as Ann Coulter described! When liberals have no more arguments, they call you stupid. In all fairness to my former friend, he did not call me stupid; he just attacked my English proficiency, which still does not negate the validity of what I have to say, just makes the whole thing even more ironic.

Aside from irony, this thing really made me sad, because, bad times aside, I also remembered all the shared coffee and confidences, all the crazy shots I have of him doing goofy things, him driving us after our Mom's cancer surgery, running errands after our Gran passed away, both of us steaming the pleats on my sister's wedding gown, him saving my foot from a trip to ER, and, most important, introducing us to Bond girls. Aw, well! To paraphrase my former tutors' three year old son, "Life!"

I AM RACHAEL RAY!

Lately, due to the strange schedule I have been keeping, I did not get to cook a lot, and whenever I did get a chance to prepare a meal, it was usually meet with slightly deflated enthusiasm by my roommate; and cooking for myself is never fun.

So, lo and behold, a few days ago I came home early enough to be able to cook dinner and hungry enough to need to cook it fast (my roomie was even hungrier than I was). Alas, the combined yield of my pantry and my refrigerator was not very promising. We did not even have cheese to spice the pasta, and not enough veggies to make a decent salad (I mean, we had mushrooms, but my roomie does not like them raw).

Then, the inspiration struck! I took one of the last onions (there was no garlic), fried most of it with mushrooms and added that to the salad. The remainder of the onion was sauteed with a bit of olive oil, a little can of tomato sauce, and whole bunch of spices (these I always add by going through my spice rack and trying to figure out what will go well with whatever I am cooking now); and that ended up being the pasta sauce.

The results surpassed my wildest dreams! My border took doubles of everything, and was duly impressed with my homemade pasta sauce. Plus, the whole thing took about twenty eight minutes! Ta-da, I am Rachael Ray!!

PS Thanks to my Mom (she should live till hundred and twenty), and both my Grannies (should they rest in piece) for teaching me not only how to cook, but how to play and improvise in the kitchen. Thank You, G-d, for never, under any circumstances, letting me go hungry.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Allow me to start by reinforcing once again that, when the push comes to shove, I am a pushover (sheesh, another jumble of cliches). I am way not eighteen anymore, but no amount of life experiences, hard lessons, or self-imposed assertiveness training had ever helped me. Having said that, here is the following amusing vignette from my life.

One of my co-workers got into the habit of "buying" stamps from me and not paying for them later. She would not have correct change at the time, and then it would just slip her mind. I am sure she was not doing it intentionally; the amount was just so not important to her that she would simply forget about it. The truth to be told, I probably would have let it slide if she then did not request petty cash for some minor purchases for the office, which equaled roughly what she owed me for the stamps. At this point I got a bit peeved. It was a matter of principle for her to collect insignificant amounts owed to her, but Barb should provide her with free stamps, which represent not only amount, but the effort to get them too.

Why I am telling this idiotic story about pettiness? Well, a couple of weeks ago she came to me for the stamp again. At this point I decided to have some passive aggressive fun. I told her that she is welcome to have it, but I only got "Reagan" stamps. She shrugged her shoulders, mumbled something incoherent, then politely refused and went back to her desk.

My hat off to you, Mr. President! Three years after you departed this world for the World of Truth, your name still gives the lefties acute indigestion!

SHERRY DIMARSKY

I was not privileged to know Sherry personally. Sure, every once in a while I would hear her name mentioned, always followed by "she is so great; you really should meet her". Due to my cynical nature, I usually ignore exclamations like this. OK, lots of people are "great" to an even bigger population segment; so what? What, or, rather, who actually changed my mind was, of course, my sis. She may be as cynical as I am, but, at the same token, she is way more sociable, friendly, and wise about people than I am, and thanks to her, I was privileged to get a glimpse of Sherry's personality.

Amongst many self proclaimed leaders of Jewish community and an even bigger number of do-gooders, Sherry shined as, for the lack of better expression, a genuine article. She was warm, funny, kind, helpful, and down to earth; in short, Sherry was just a wonderful human being and a Bat Israel in a truest sense.

I knew she had underwent a lung transplant, and I admired her tenacity and upbeat attitude. I also heard that she was not feeling well, so, when she did not respond to my last voicemail, I did not pay too much attention to it. Then I got busy with the usual nonsense life throughs at us; next thing I know, I get an e-mail saying that Sherry was very ill, that her body was rejecting the lung, and a request for prayers for her recovery. I can't finish the e-mail for tears in my eyes; I just quickly scan for her full name and say a little prayer. Next, when I check my e-mails again in the afternoon, there is one new with "Baruch Dayan Emet" in the subject. I do not even need to open it to realize what it means; thank G-d not many people were passing by my desk that day: it would be very hard to explain why I was sitting there teary-eyed.

When the terrible news have sunk in a bit, a hard thought followed: "only good die young"; and on the heels of it another thought, something I have learned a long time ago: when a righteous person is taken from us, no matter the circumstances, it is not the fault of the person; it is our fault because we did not deserve that person. These things keep turning around in my mind, over and over again, along with a little selfish thought that now she will never respond to my voicemail, and even if I decide to visit Chicago again, I won't be able to meet her.

Above all the jumbled and incoherent thoughts, I keep thinking about her family. They have lost a mother, a wife, and, most horrible of all, a child. May G-d comfort them.

SUBWAY TALES

Part 3

Another hilarious episode from my life. One gorgeous (or not so gorgeous) evening I have decided to visit library after work. Since my work usually finishes a bit later than I would like, plus the usual dealings with absolute genius of library clerks, by the time I got to the subway station, it was a bit after seven, and I was a bit hungry. I had the option of going to one of local kosher eateries, or getting a quick snack at the pharmacy. Since it was getting late, and I was not in the mood for more rudeness, stupidity, pushing, and shoving, I have opted for Duane Reade.

It was not late enough to go on the downtown platform, though, so I decided to do my usual rush hour "circle". So, here I was: a well-fed shrimp, totally rumpled-looking as befits every single red blooded New Yorker at the end of the day, surrounded by overflowing bags, and happily munching on her snack. Diagonally from me there was a quintessential elderly "Russian" couple, who, I correctly guessed, was on the way to Carnegie Hall. They were both busy perusing different pieces of recyclable paper which amongst Russian-speaking denizens of New York pass for newspapers. The husband, in true masculine fashion, was doing just that; the wife, on the other hand, was multi-tasking: she was also busy perusing her fellow passengers. So, as soon as yours truly got comfortable, the piercing look went straight into my direction, and then the hapless husband got a sharp elbow in his ribs. Then, about half the car was treated to her emotional tirade (delivered in Russian, so, unfortunately, not everyone understood it). "Look at this obese woman eating chips! She is so fat, she should starve herself! Instead, she is eating chips! Look at her!" To her everlasting annoyance, the husband just barely picked up his head from his reading, mumbled something about him not caring about the chips, and went back on reading.

I decided to entertain myself and return her stare, for starters. I assumed that even if she did not detect the fact that I understood her words, at least she would figure out that I know that she is talking about me. No, that did not deter her at all from her chosen course, and she continued staring back at me, pointing with her finger, nudging at her husband, and mumbling loudly about chips, fat, dieting, and starvation. Soon the train arrived at 57th Street, and the couple and their newspapers departed for Carnegie Hall.

My friends kept asking me why I did not reply verbally. What can I say? As I have repeated over and over again, our parents' upbringing always fouls our lives: I couldn't ruin the evening at Carnegie Hall for a couple of senior citizens, even if one of them was a typical homo soveticus.

Windmills of Your Mind

WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND,
OR APPRECIATING THE ABSURD

Shortly after I have discovered Youtube, I have stumbled upon this masterpiece. Here is to appreciating the absurd! I mean, take the lyrics from one of the saddest love songs, and use them to describe the agitated Muppet! Simply priceless!

MERRY DAY OFF!

First of all, allow me to clarify one thing: this entry is by no means an attempt to make light of the plight of our Ashkenazi brethren, for whom every Christian holiday was a day for special prayers for safety, or to mitigate their suffering. This is just my personal attempt to list yet another thing I am grateful for.

Let me start with re-telling of a joke I have seen a few years ago. A teacher is asking the kids in her class to describe, one by one, how their families celebrate Christmas. So, we have different descriptions of trees, presents, family visits, food, etc. Then is comes to a boy named Jack Cohen. "My Dad owns a toy store", says Jack, "so, every December, people buy everything in it. 'Thank Heavens for Jesus Christ', says my Dad, and we all go on vacation to Hawaii."

This year, we all wished each other Merry Day Off. That's what it was for us: great coupons for Gymboree and Barnes and Noble's, parties at work (I got mine in a few free soda cans), possible something extra from the bosses ( B and N gift certificate in my case), and, most of all, no waking up at 6:20 am! So, I personally got to sleep in, finally buy toilet brush ( do not laugh, that particular task needed to be performed since before my Birthday), cook for my family, and, the most important one, I got visited by my niece and nephew (yes, my sis chaperoned).

So, looking forward to another extra day off, which is supposed to be New Year's Day (or the anniversary of somebody's circumcision)! Yey!

ANOTHER PIECE OF BREAKING NEWS

On Monday almost every single website I have visited (and, I think, almost every newspaper) exploded with another piece of "breaking" news. Apparently, now, for the first time in seven years, ever since the hostilities between Israel and Palestinians broke out, a whole bunch of Christian pilgrims was able to finally visit their holy sites for their holiest day, encouraged by the "piece talks".

I am not going to waist my time here debating the accuracy of this piece of news, or the historical facts and moral ramifications attached to it. All the information is available on the above mentioned internet, and everyone who wants to know will know all the pertinent facts. All I want to say is this: to all the Jews who participated in disseminating of this wonderful piece of news - I can not say let your conscience judge you, since you obviously lost or never had either conscience or the sense of judgement, so, let G-d be your judge. As to all the gentiles responsible for this: let all those poor, abused, tolerant of other religions, gentle, peace loving Palestinians show you the same love, friendship and tenderness they have shown to Tali Hatuel, her four daughters, and her unborn son.

FAST DAY

Today is the second fast day of the year connected to the destruction of the Temple. We always wish each other "have a meaningful fast", but how do you really make it meaningful in between hunger pangs, serious bouts of caffeine withdrawal, homicidal tendencies during the morning commute, your bosses idiosyncrasies, etc, etc, etc?

As my train was crossing the Manhattan Bridge (thank G-d I had a seat), I was indulging in my usual Manhattan Bridge routine (usual, that is, if I manage to have a view from the window). I was enjoying the view of the Manhattan skyline (which sometimes still brings sad memories), and different thoughts were flying though my mind. I was thinking again how lucky we are to live in America; I was also thinking that, despite all the wonderful things attached to living in America, we are still in exile, and the fact that we reclaimed the Holy Land as ours does not lessen this exile much, and sometimes even makes it harder.

Few weeks ago a thought that was brewing in my subconscious for more than a decade finally moved into my conscious. That thought is very sobering and very sad: we can not live as a community and not start behaving like proverbial spiders in a can. We can not just live together peacefully, acknowledge our differences, use our brains, and just simply respect, if not love, one another. No, we can never do that. We are surrounded by enemies; every single extremist organization all over the world directly or indirectly points to us as the source of all evil and considers our total annihilation as part of their mission statement. In the midst of all this we are very busy proclaiming the superiority of our brand of Judaism (or the lack of it) and denouncing every one else's. The insanity goes across the board from the so called Ultra-Orthodox to people who proudly proclaim themselves Jews but refuse to acknowledge any kind of religious affiliation, and every one in between. Your humble servant herself was witness to more than she wanted to hear or see, and if I start to describe every single incident of sheer idiocy that made my blood boil, I will be typing this entry till next Rosh Hashana.

Can we just take five minutes to stop, breathe, and remember that we are in the bloodiest exile in our history, for approximately one third of our history, and it already cost us millions of lives of our brothers and sisters? Can we then remember that the reason for this exile was our hatred of each other to begin with? When will the insanity stop? What use is is our praying, fasting and crying for our destroyed Temples if immediately after we revert to our "normal" ways? Heavenly Father, please grant us clarity of vision to finally see this!

MISTAKEN IMPRESSION

A few days ago I was checking my friend Moish's blog in hopes that he posted something else that would amuse me. As my computer monitor reflects off the dumb pictures behind me showing some project or other that my company completed, I have to be very careful, never mind dexterous, during my mental breaks (OK, OK, slaking off work).

Alas, the latest entry was that wonderful cartoon that so eloquently shows Russian anti-Semitism and total stupidity imbedded in it. While I was trying to close the page, one of our junior architects, a very sweet Chinese dude, came to my desk to ask for something. Judging by his face, LiveJournal took its sweet time closing, and poor guy went off with a strange impression that yours truly not only has occasional fun during work, but that fun occasionally looks suspiciously like somebody's naked butt. Ow, well! Since he is working here for over a year, I am hoping for the strength of his first impression of me.

THE KINDRED SPIRIT, OR ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE CLUB

When my nephew was born, I have officially congratulated my niece and welcomed her to my unique club: that of oldest sisters and oldest girls. Unique because there is nothing in the world like it, not even being an oldest son: the sense of responsibility is different.

Last night our sweet girl demonstrated to us that she really accepted the membership. It was about that time of the evening when we try to persuade her to put on her pajama with feet, drink her hot milk, and actually go upstairs to bed. Right before that ritual we usually enjoy the last few minutes of horseplay (and I actually do not know who loves horseplay the most, her or adults involved). Moreover, last night we were involved in another serious ritual called "fesim" (I got her ice cream, which I am guilty of hooking her on to begin with). So, here we were: she and I on the couch with ice cream, which she always enjoys tremendously, and her Mom and little brother on the floor right by us. Then is happened: split second, and the baby brother pitched forward and hit his face on the floor (thank G-d all that happened was he got scared). While we were trying to pacify the little brother, the big sister got extremely upset: for him. She started crying bitterly, needed hugs and reassurances from Mama, and refused her "fesim"! The baby stopped crying much faster than she did; little sweedom really got upset for her little brother, could not stop crying, and declined to have more of her absolutely favorite dessert!

Later on, when I re-told the story to her very wise twenty two year old uncle, he was duly impressed and sagely pronounced that it shows that she "has heart". So, welcome to the club, my delicious curly headed gnome! These feelings will not go away ever: as much as your younger siblings drive you crazy, you never stop feeling responsible for them and being upset at all their hurts.

PS For those of you unfamiliar with our family, the responsible older sister just turned two years old on Hanukah!

I AM NOT ALONE!!!!

As mentioned before, my blogging is done almost entirely during work hours (hence the big lapses in the entries, which usually indicate the times I actually have to work). I even told this to one of my friendlier co-workers, explaining to her that this is how I combat my boredom and frustration. She, for whatever reason, interpreted my blogging as retelling (in my satirical way) the events in the office, and expressed a burning desire to read my blog. I had to disappoint her and explain that that is not the case, and half of my blog is actually my political views, which she is more than welcome to read and comment on. As I had already warned her earlier that politics and religion are two topics in which people usually engage me at great personal risk, she very sweetly declined the pleasure, telling me that, since we are friendly with one another, and I have such strong political views, she would feel very bad commenting on my politics (which, of course, contradict what she believes in).

Anyway, few weeks after that discussion, yours truly was navigating the corridors of the office, returning to her own domain. As I was passing the desk of another co-worker (who, incidentally, usually annoys me), my eyes caught the sight of her screen, and I almost fell over! There is was, the unmistakable configuration and color palette of the "create/edit post" on the Blogger! I AM NOT ALONE!! YIPPIE!!

BELATED BIRTHDAY MESSAGE

I really wanted to write this message on my Birthday (since I have treated myself this year and took that day off), but, due to unforeseen (or foreseen circumstances), mainly, my roommate monopolizing the computer for the entire weekend, I am writing it now.

To tell the truth, I really did not feel like celebrating this year at all (last few years, as a matter of fact). I mean, what to celebrate? I am fast approaching middle age without any kind of significant accomplishments of any nature. Then it dawned on me: the simple fact that I am alive and well should be celebrated!

Like any normal human being, I keep forgetting all the blessings bestowed on me. So, in honor of my crossing yet another year towards the Big Four Oh, I have decided to try and list all the things for which I am eternally grateful to the Creator.

So, here they are (in random order):

My parents: even though I probably would never forget the wonderful "present" I got from them around my thirtieth Birthday (their separation), I am very grateful for my Mom and Dad. They are very sweet, loving, and caring. They remember our ages only when they remember our marital status (the rest of the time we usually did not reach the age of fifteen). They still make sure we eat (and eat properly), supply us with groceries, cooked meals, and treats, check the condition of our winter attire and our respective dwellings, and make sure we take proper care of all our health needs (of course, constantly neglecting theirs). May you both live till hundred and twenty, happy and healthy!

My siblings: for constantly explaining to me exactly what kind of Psychological disorders do I suffer from, how they manifests themselves, and how they could be treated. For making constant fun of me, my wardrobe, my hair, and my cooking experiments. For never forgetting my Birthdays and always getting me great gifts. For allowing me to be the clucking hen of an older sister and trying to take care of them in my annoying and bumbling fashion (and, in return, always trying to make sure my life is on the right track). For always taking care of me when I am sick, bringing me soup and tea, and always making sure I do get well (and Sis, as I type this, I keep remembering that only due to your therapy are my hands well and whole). I am blessed to have you, guys!

My cutie pies of nieces and nephew: enough said:)

My friends: close or far, each in your own unique way, you enrich my life and prevent me from becoming a total misanthrope and recluse.

My health: the more I live, the more I can appreciate what a wonderful and unique blessing it is.

My job: yes, it is boring, sometimes annoying, and I definitely hate the hours; but it gives me the ability to support myself, and sometimes buy toys for my niece and nephew, and even an occasional book.

My apartment: roof over my head and depository for my meager wardrobe and way not meager library of romances.

My five senses, which allow me to appreciate art and good food.

All the trips which I took, and, hopefully, all the future ones.

All the sunsets and sunrises that I was able to see and enjoy (and, G-d willing, many more to witness).

Being born a Jew and discovering precisely what it means: all the headaches, responsibilities, and clarity of purpose that comes with it.

Being a woman: hopefully, I do not have to explain that one:)

Being a naturalized American: I am free, but I was born in jail, which gives me extra opportunity to appreciate and enjoy that freedom (and this year my Birthday was actually a day before Thanksgiving, so, extra thanks).

The sheer beauty and pleasure of being alive.

For all these, and many more things I was blessed with, I am really and truly grateful. Thank You, G-d! I will try not to disappoint You.

HAPPY HANUKAH!

Happy Hanukah to all Jews! Here is to remembering the miracles and the blessings, to quite (or noisy) family times, and to enjoying all the yummy foods drenched in olive oil!

THE RANT OF THE OLD MAID

The first time I was in Vegas, I decided to check out their pirate show in front of the Treasure Island. Apparently, I did it just in time, because since then, according to tourist guides, it went X-rated. That, however, is not my beef with them. The show was absolutely spectacular, like everything in Vegas is; but, after it finished, the first comment that I uttered was "Great, wonderful, pirates won!" There was a boy of about eight standing next to me. Clearly coming from somewhere in the Midwest and not being used to crazy New Yorkers, he timidly looked at his mother and asked her what did the lady say. His mother smiled sheepishly and told him that the lady was not happy that the bad guys won.

Well, the lady can not comprehend the glorification of the bad guys that the entertainment industry and all connected to it constantly perpetrate, and the parents obviously compound, judging by the amount of the different products offered for sale. I do not have a child, but I personally do not see any reason, moral of logical, in buying toys portraying bullies, robbers, and murderers.

The main reason for this lament arrived in my e-mail around Halloween time. Like any Harry Potter aficionado worth her salt, I constantly get news updates from all different sources, plus periodic merchandise coupons from WB. Well, lo and behold, here is was: the offer for costumes for adults and kids, prominent amongst them the costumes of the Death Eaters, especially Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange. What kind of twisted loony would want to dress up as mass torturer and mass murderer who enjoys both activities? And what kind of parent would like to dress up his or her son or daughter as such illustrious personages?

OK, rant over.

NOT THE BEST COUNTRY TO LIVE IN?

Yesterday, when I went on Yahoo to check my e-mail, one of the headlines caught my eye. It was something along the lines of UN publishing their annual report about the best and worst countries to live in, Norway slipping off the first place, and US not even being in top ten. Today, I decided to check up on this, and, basically, what it boils down to is the quotient based on different factors, the life expectancy and gross national product being amongst them. So, US is pretty high on gross national product (any surprises?), but is logging behind in life expectancy.

So, here is my humble suggestion to this "problem". Number one, send all the illegals back to their respective countries. That will significantly increase life expectancy by decreasing gang violence (just check out the illustrious resume of MS13), the possibility of TB infection, and the general overburdened condition of hospitals in the metro areas. Plus, it will increase the gross national product by removing the burden of this "population segment" from school systems and Medicaid, never mind the economic picture in general.

Second, and the most important one: get UN itself out of this country and stop any and all US funding for them! That will definitely increase life expectancy and the gross national product in our fair city!