Will the madness never end? Here’s a site called IHateJuice.com, a snarky homage to everyone’s favorite misunderstood anti-Semite.
Hat tip to Jewish High.
More Mel-odrous Mania
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Monthly Archives: September 2006
Cleaning Lady Ethics
How many of us had a housekeeper growing up? Of course, it was your mother who hired her, but she washed our clothes, vacuumed up our pencil shavings and scrubbed our shmutz rings from the bathtub. Do you know if she got fair wages or felt exploited? Do you know if your mother felt awkward having someone else to do the family’s dirty work?
Alice Alexiou’s piece for Lilith (available through JTA) reveals the dirt on Jewish families and how they treat the help. While some remain unaware of their own inherent classism and snobbery, some are beginning to champion domestic workers’ rights. It’s a really good read; take the time and see if it piques any guilt, or maybe just a memory of the woman who always put your brother’s socks in your underwear drawer. Continue reading
Every Mother’s Worst Nightmare
My heart goes out to poor Ya-Ya, a Chinese panda that accidentally smothered one of her twin newborn cubs last week.
Guo Wei, the panda department chief at Chongqing city zoo in the southwestern region of Chongqing, reports that 7 year-old Ya-Ya “appeared tired” while nursing and the baby dropped to the ground.
“The panda then rolled on to her side and crushed her baby beneath her.The tragedy occurred because she hadnt slept or eaten properly since giving birth, Guo said, adding that Ya Ya lacked motherhood experience.”
Worse yet, National Geographic reports that zoo handlers had already removed the other sibling from Ya-Ya since pandas are typically unable to raise twins, and it’s unknown whether her second cub will be reunited with its mother.
What sleep-deprived mother hasn’t dozed off in the glider while nursing, only to wake with a terrfied start that the baby has slipped through the slats?
I don’t know what kind of prayer one would send out to a panda with no religion, but I can’t help but want to say one. All us mammal mothers need to stick together.
9/11: Nothing Original Here
It’s a date you can’t ignore, even if you don’t have much to say except “so sorry for your loss” to the thousands of families affected by this act of terrorism.
I’ll cop giving up on the hype; I don’t think we’ll ever know “The Truth.” Between the second part of ABC’s bogus Path to 9/11 and Wikipedia’s entry on 9/11 conspiracy theories (including the debunking of the Hezbollah-generated rumor that 4000 Jews didn’t go to work that day), it’s a murky swamp out there. ADL president Abe Foxman’s report on the continuing anti-Semitic nonsense rolling around the Web is downright chilling (when will David Duke take his B.S. from MAUP and go rot in Ukraine already?)
It’s been five years, and there’s been no resolution for the victims or for the collective consciousness of the country there’s not even a memorial yet. Instead we’ve got hideous, expensive issues in Afghanistan and Iraq, more terrorist plots, an administration that’s lost all credibility, and fiction masquerading as fact in every corner of the media. I pray that in another five years, rather than the current trajectory, this event will have inspired spurned a turnaround towards sanity.
In the meantime, I’m lighting a yartzeit candle and staying away from the t.v. today.
Sweet Dreams
From Aish’s Jewlarious.com:
Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad calls President Bush and tells him, “George, I had a wonderful dream last night. I could see America, the whole beautiful country, and on each house I saw a banner.”
“What did it say on the banners?” Bush asks. Mahmoud replies, “UNITED STATES OF IRAN.”
Bush says, “You know, Mahmoudy, I am really happy you called, because believe it or not, last night I had a similar dream. I could see all of Tehran, and it was more beautiful than ever, and on each house flew an enormous banner.”
“What did it say on the banners?” Mahmoud asks.
Bush replies, “I don’t know. I can’t read Hebrew.”
A chuckle, nu? For some real belly laughs, go to Freerepublic.com for the captions that go with this photo.
Chillin’ Shabbat Soundtrack
Because his ambient “Jew Age” jazz is just too good to listen to once a year, it’s fabulous that modern Jewish music maestro Craig Taubman has turned his hip Hebrew loops to the holiday we celebrate every week.
“Shabbat Lounge” follows the model of Craignco‘s Jewish “chill out” gems “Hanukkah Lounge” and “Passover Lounge”, both signature blends of ancient prayers and post-modern jazz. This latest installment of the Jew Age fills a room with tracks both mellow and grooving, greeting the Sabbath Bride like she’s a diva decked out in Zac Posen and platform boots.
On the press release Craig spells out his intention to bring the hipster Jews home, if only figuratively:
I wanted to breathe new life into the songs and make them relevant for a generation that might spend Friday night in a club rather than a synagogue.
From the decidedly tribal beats of “Dror Yikra” and the downright funky “Chiri Bim” to the trance-y Eliyahu, it’s a meditation to take you through Saturday evening. Maybe it’ll take some time for the DJs at Crobar to start spinning “Shabbat Lounge,” but when they do, you know Jewish hipsterism will surge anew.
While we’re on the subject of Craig Taubman, I have to something to confess: Though I’ve been a fan for many years, I never had a clue what the man looked like. I assumed that since no photos are ever on the CD sleeves, he must be a mole-like nebbishy guy with transluscent skin, the result of spending so much time in his underground lair/sound studio. Um, hello? The dude’s a silver hottie. Why has this not been brought to my attention before, CraignCo marketing people? You’ve got a major sex symbol on your hands when will you stop keeping this a secret from the Jewish people?
The Sound Of Many Yentas Flapping
Just so you know what you’re missing at the Jewish Family Services senior lunch, here’s an excerpt of yesterday’s conversation:
Beezy, who deserves the title “Head Yenta” far more than I: “Oy, dahlink, where are your sleeves?”
Me, looking down at my H&M tank top and realizing I should have worn something more modest to a religious old persons’ gathering instead of worrying about pit stains: “Eeep, do you think I’ll offend anyone?”
Beezy, motioning towards the men’s table across the room: “Ach, they can’t see you anyway. I meant I could never wear such a thing anymore. Y’know, this.” She reaches under one arm and gives herself a pinch.
Dorothy, who we’ll crown Lieutenant Yenta: “That’s nothing. Look at this!” She holds up her 89-year-old arms and swings them to and fro, the jigging flesh visible beneath her blouse resembling nothing so much as wet laundry swaying in the breeze.
Beezy: “Oh, yeah? When my grandkids come over, they all ask ‘Bubbie, who let the air out of your arms?'”
Cackles all around.
Anne, of the fabulously manicured hands, waves them dismissively: “Pshhh! You ladies have obviously never seen my Hootchie Kootchie Man dance.”
Mickey, 90 years old with a tiny little girls’ voice, claps her hands like a tiny little girl: “Yes, Annie, show them the Hootchie Kootchie Man!”
Anne, turns to me and nods, raises up one arm clad in turquoise polyester and grabs a handful of skin, forming an ersatz face. “Hootchie, hootchie, kootchie, kootchie!” As she shimmies in her chair, her arm does in fact resemble a dancing man. The entire table explodes into hysterical laughter, then dissolves into coughing fits. “My grandkids just love that one. Every time they visit I have to do it four or five times!”
At this point I have surrendered to the surreality of this situation and I say: “It’s a shame you don’t have a tattoo; you could charge for that. Or at least get a spot on Jay Leno.”
More cackling, more coughing.
Larry, the JFS coordinator comes over to see what a bunch of old women could possibly find so funny. “What’s going on here?”
Mickey, who has a high-pitched giggle that matches her sweet, tiny voice: “Show him, Annie!”
Anne: “Hootchie kootchie, hootchie kootchie!”
Larry, who moonlights as a jazz radio DJ and has probably never seen such ribaldry on his day job: “That’s…that’s very entertaining, Anne. But y’all need to calm down before the men’s table starts in with their tricks. I promise you don’t want to Morty Solomon to start with his ‘pull my finger’ routine.”
Beezy: “Hey Morty! Get over here!”
Who knew arm flap could provide such joy to people? Screw tricep curls, yo.
Shmata of The Week: Break the Rules
Here at the Yenta home we have definite fashion commandments for our children: Thou shalt not wear camouflage. Thou shalt keep thy underpants from being seen by others. And this one is El Yenta Man’s special clause: Thou shalt not ever ever! wear something on thine ass because it makes thou look like a baby whore.
Shhh…he doesn’t need to know about these adorable kidlet pants from ChosenCouture, does he?
Hummus From Unlikely Sources
Grocery shopping with children is surely some subcircle of the hell us Jews don’t believe in. Parents everywhere know that it’s sometimes easier to give in to buying things you don’t want just to get through the checkout line. So when my little girl became attached to a package of dry navy beans at the Piggly Wiggly, I figured $1.89 was a cheap ticket to a peaceful shopping trip. She insisted on cradling her beans like a baby all the way home.
But by the time the rest of the groceries were put away, the bag o’ beans was abandoned for pair of her father’s socks (what can I say, she likes to pretend they’re hand puppets.) If there’s anything about the Yenta you should know, it’s that I do not like to waste food. Blame my mother and her “Starving Children in Ethiopia” routine from my youth: I boil down every chicken carcass for soup, I make my family eat week-old rice, I pick mold spots off bagels before serving them for brunch. And yes, I have been known to exploit those poor hungry African children as motivational tools. Bad Jewish mother. (I always make a fresh meal on Friday nights, so you don’t have to worry about salmonella if you join us for Shabbos some time.)
Even though I’m sure those dry beans had a shelf life well into my menopausal years, my curiosity was piqued. I had only eaten beans out of can or in a burrito and I had no idea what to do with them besides sewing them up into a homemade teddy bear made from old towels and forcing the child who brought them home to sleep with them. El Yenta Man saw me musing over the small hill of beans and said, “You know you have to soak those first, right? Like overnight?” I do now, dear; thanks!
During the beans’ long bath I trolled for bean recipes and found this one for lemon olive hummus. It’s low-fat, super tanga-licious and outrageous on pita triangles (I picked off all the mold spots, promise.) I’m so glad I made a double batch (one bag of beans goes a long way) because we’ll try it on cucumber and feta sandwiches for lunch.
What’s ironic is the blogger who posted it is an Orthodox Christian gourmet from southeast Georgia.
Maybe we should get together and discuss hell over hummus, whaddya think?
Denial Is Always A Viable Option
I gotta admit the j.’s jokes page has improved in my absence:
Abe is sitting on a bench in Golden Gate Park reading an anti-Semitic newspaper. His friend Solomon walks by, sees the paper, and stops in shock.
What are you doing reading that paper? Solomon asks. You should be reading j. weekly!
Abe replies, J. has stories about intermarriage, anti-Semitism, problems in Israel all kinds of troubles for the Jewish people. I like to read about good news. This anti-Semitic paper says the Jews have all the money the Jews control the banks the Jews control the press the Jews control Hollywood. Better to read nothing but good news!