My heart is broken for her.

I was walking today. As I walked, I approached a salon. As I neared the door, with my son in his stroller, I saw the door being held open by one of the ladies that worked there. I stopped to allow the people exiting the salon to pass. It was a very old gentleman pushing his wife, in her wheel chair, out of the salon. Every Thursday, he takes her in. She gets her hair done. She gets a manicure and a pedicure, and she gets treated like a princess. Every Thursday, he pays the ladies of the salon to wait on her, and he sits and talks to her while she gets pampered. Every Thursday he tells her how beautiful she looks when they're done and how lucky he is that she is his. And Every Thursday she smiles and nods as he speaks, but never responds. She has Alzheimers, and he does it any way. As I walked behind them, listening intently to him tell her how beautiful she is, how lucky they are to be together, how he loves her, I cried. I cried at the beauty of the love that man has for his wife, how unabashedly he shows it, for the rarity of that sight any more.
And I cried for my friend, Barb. Almost exactly a year ago, I was sitting on her deck, celebrating her marriage to Russell. That celebration was tinged with sadness due to the sudden death of her father. Over the course of the last year, my friend has had nothing but sadness, heartache, loss, and grief. On Tuesday, that grief increased exponentially when her husband of little more than a year was killed in a car accident. Watching that beautiful couple this afternoon, I couldn't help but think about Barb and Russell. That is the kind of love and marriage they had. And that is what was taken from her on Tuesday. What should have been a fairy tale ending to a nightmare of a year, has become a nightmare in and of itself. And my heart is just broken for her.

Victor's first Kippah

A little history:
My Victor is a very curious boy. It's one of the many, many things that I adore about him. He asks many, many questions throughout the course of an average day, and they range in topic from the mundane to the bizarre. One day, while in the car on the way to the babysitter's house, Victor asked about religion. Specifically, he asked why we didn't have one. I explained, as best I could without confusing or scaring him, that I didn't have a religion because I couldn't pick one, and that honestly, there have been more times than not in my life where I have questioned and doubted the existance of a god/gods/goddess/whatever. I tried to explain to him that more often than not, I didn't think there was a god, that what I saw of the world, in the world, lead me to believe that we are on our own. I also told him that just because that's how I feel, doesn't mean he has to agree with me, that because he was a smart boy, he could look at the world and decide for himself if he believed in a god/gods/goddess/whatever, and that when/if he was ready, I would help him find a religion that best suited his needs/wants/beliefs. And then he asked me what religions there were to choose from. So I rattled off a list, giving him examples of people he knows who belong to the various religions I had named. When I got to Judaism, he stopped me. He wanted to know more. So I explained. I gave him the short version of all the reading and learning I've done since I was 13 and developed an inexplicable love for a religion not my own. I told him about Israel, about some of the holidays, about the Saturday Sabbath, and synagogues. When I paused he said "hmmmmm, that sounds pretty cool. Can you take me to a cinnagot?" And I got excited. Despite my lack of faith, and perpetual uncertainty as to the existance of a diety, I love religion. I love the idea of it. I love the ritual, the pomp, the history, and tradition of it. I left Catholocism at 12 because of the intolerant nature of it's flock and the absolute refusal of the clergy to acknowledge, let alone attempt to answer my questions. I got excited when Victor asked about religion, and specifically Judaism, because when I was little and asking the questions he asked, there wasn't a place for me to find the answers I can find for him. I made an attempt to convert to Judaism when I was 13 and failed. I couldn't do it on my own, and was not fortunate enough to have anyone in my life at the time who was able to or interested in helping me do it. And then in my late teens, I found out that my mother's family were Sephardic Jews who fled Spain to avoid persecution under Franco. Out of fear, they outwardly lived as Catholics, but never converted. So the pull I have always felt toward Judaism makes sense. So, yay Jewness!
Victor's Kippah:
So I mentioned to some friends that I wanted to take Vic to a "cinnagot" so he could speak with a rabbi, ask some questions, and just experience Judaism for himself. My friend, Sarah, suggested I take him to
Congregation Beth Shalom in Carmichael. I looked over their website and sent them an email explaining that I had a curious 4 year old who wanted to visit and ask questions. I immediately got a response from Rabbi David, inviting me to bring Victor down. For a variety of reasons it took us a few weeks to get over there. But on Monday, we finally made it. The synagogue itself is a small building with a fenced in yard and play area off to the side. We went in through the fence and were met at the door by Rabbi David. He shook Victor's hand, Oscar's hand, and mine, and welcomed us warmly. We walked through the office area and into his office. We sat around a table and chatted for a bit. He asked Victor some questions and invited him to ask his and explore the office. As Victor spun in his chair and investigated all of the things on the shelves and walls in the office, Rabbi David turned to me and asked me about our family history. I explained that I was raised Catholic, left the church, attempted conversion, and then found out about my family's history in my late teens. As I was talking, he stopped me, reached across the table to touch my hand and said "you know you're Jewish, right? You know this." And I was so struck by his sincerity, by his unwaivering and immediate acceptance of me, that I cried like a damn baby. It was embarrassing, and frustrating that I cried, but I was overwhelmed. I tried to explain why I was crying. I tried to thank him for allowing my son the opportunity to question, to investigate, to learn that I was never given. I tried to tell him that as a child, I was made to feel that because I could not blindly accept, because I could not follow, because I lacked faith, something in me was broken and I was bad. But I didn't have to. Rabbi David understood, and said as much. At that point, the boys were losing their minds. Victor was impatiently waiting to see the sanctuary, and Oscar just wanted out. So Rabbi David asked that I promise to come back to speak with him without the boys so that we could speak freely and at length without being distracted. I agreed and we headed for the sanctuary. Before entering, Rabbi David handed Victor a basket and asked him to pick a Kippah. He explained to him that Jewish men wear the Kippah as a recognition that God is above them. Surprisingly, Victor thought this was pretty cool, picked a Kippah and slapped it on his head like a pro. Inside the sanctuary, Rabbi David showed Victor everything there was to see, told him what everything was called, sat on the bemah (the altar area where the Torah is read) and answered his questions, and even pulled out one of the scrolls for him to see, showing him the beautiful writing and reading a passage for him. He even said a prayer blessing Victor, since it was the first time he'd ever been in a synagogue. Victor was fascinated by the Hebrew he heard and saw. In fact, he was fascinated by everything he heard and saw while we were there. We ended our visit with a story about honesty (which Rabbi David told to Victor as an example of what he might hear during a Shabbat service, and which was very topically appropriate since we've been having "difficulties" with the bendiness of the truth lately) and a tour of the rest of the facility, which includes a meeting room and cafeteria/gathering room where they have dinner after services. On the way out, Rabbi David told Victor he could keep his Kippah as long as he promised to take care of it, which he enthusiatically did. It was an incredible visit, and one I hope to repeat in the near future. Victor has not stopped talking about his experience, and for the rest of the day on Monday, would not remove his Kippah, as you can see here:


And for Auntie Sugarbush:
Surprise! It's Shabbat!

Excuse me

but Fuck you Mr. Voight. Because being a prisoner of war never "programmed" anyone to be "militant and angry". Right. Again, I say fuck you.

It isn't perfect, but it's ours.

Pardon this interruption to my normal assholery.


April 6, 1995. On that day, I nervously walked into the Social Security office to start my first office job. I was hired as a student assistant to help with filing and general office maintainance, and translation when needed. As I walked through the office with the secretary, taking a tour so she could show me where everything was and introduce me to the people I'd be working most closely with, I passed your desk. You were busy. You didn't see me, at least not that I could tell. I noticed your puffy hair and almond shaped eyes. You had, and still have, the most amazing eye lashes I've ever seen on a man. There was something about your demeanor that day that caught my attention, and has held it ever since. You were so comfortable, sitting there, on the phone with whichever claimant needed your help at that moment, so focused on doing your job, on helping someone and getting it right, and yet relaxed enough to laugh and actually enjoy the conversation. I don't remember meeting anyone else that day, but I remember seeing you. It would be weeks before I gathered up the courage to even say hello to you. Talking to you made me so nervous. I felt like a child waiting for Christmas every time you'd walk by my desk. When we took that long walk along the river, talked for hours, and shared more than two relative strangers probably should have so soon, I fell in love with your honesty, your intelligence, and with you. I felt as if my whole life was a dream. 13 years later, you can still make me feel that way.
The day I became your wife was one of the happiest, and hardest, days of my life. Binding myself to you for forever and a day was something I wanted, but not something I was prepared for. Never have I waivered in my love or devotion to you. There have been times when I have felt that being your wife meant being someone or something other than myself. There have been times when I have lost sight of our strength, our connection. There have been times when I have wondered what would become of us. But there has never been a time when I have regretted us. There has never been a time when I wished to not be your wife. The last 9 years have been full of love, laughter, pain, frustration, sorrow and joy. And for every last second of it, you have been by my side, whether I chose to see you there or not. There is no one I would have rather shared it with than you. This life we've made, it isn't perfect, but it's ours, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you for being mine, for making me yours, and for not giving up on us when I pushed you away.

Oh. Honey. No.

Dear Douche Bag Motorcycle Guy,
You're killin' me smalls. The 80's called. They want their leather pants and feathered, permed, and free-flowing locks back. They'll take that vest, too. That look wouldn't have worked on you then, Bubba, and it sure as Hell isn't working on you now. What it IS working on though, is making me revisit my breakfast. Holy. Hell. Man. How did you EVER get into those things. The phrase "painted on" doesn't even come close to describing how tight those suckers were on your rather portly ass. And who told you men should wear bright red thong underwear? They lied. It is not manly. In fact, it's frightening. While I appreciate that your 'whale tail' spared my children the site of your ass crack, I do not, whole-heartedly do not, appreciate having to listen to my four year old point, laugh, cough, gasp, and laugh some more about the fat naked ass that just cruised by his window as he sat in his car seat on the way to his sitter's house. Nor do I enjoy or appreciate having to explain to him that you were not, in fact, bleeding up your back, but instead had made a poor fashion choice in regards to your chonies. For the love of Pete, and all the is Holy and good in the world, do the world a favor and buy some new pants, man. And by pants I mean an entirely new wardrobe. Lest I be forced to knock you off that bike the next time I see you.

Best,

L

Why do people feel the need to be complete assholes?

I need to know this. I need to know why some people just can't go a day without being giant balls of suck. It seems as if everywhere I turn, I encounter another asshole. More often than not, they are the kind of asshole you stare and wonder at, rather than the kind you can roll your eyes and make fun of because their assholish behaviour is just not funny.
I have a myspace. On that myspace, I have many current and former students. I pretty much only keep it to spy on the few kids whose lives would give me nightmares, and because they know they can contact me there and I'll help them however I can.
The other day I got a message from a former student. She was in my class maybe five years ago, and graduated two years ago. She was and is a good kid. When she was a senior, I had several long talks with her about what she wanted to do with her life. When she told me she wanted to go to cosmetology school, it gave me pause, but I supported her (in addition to begging her to consider doing something more than that.) I told her she had a huge opportunity to do whatever she wanted. I told her that cosmetology was nice, but that I saw her as a person with more than superficial beauty to add to the world. She had expressed an interest in law enforcement and criminal justice. So I made her pursue that for her senior project, and at the end of it, she loved it and had a plan. Her plan was to go to cosmetology school right out of high school, work and save money, then go to college for a degree in criminal justice or try to get on with a local law enforcement agency and get into the academy. She could still do the cosmetology thing on the side or when she wanted to make extra money. Great, right? Right. She left me with a plan.
Skip to the other day, and she's feeling like a failure. All of the adults in her life, the people who are supposed to encourage and support her, are trying to talk her out of doing anything more than cosmetology. I don't get it. Why would you deliberately try to talk your kid into a life of poverty and customer service? Why wouldn't you want more for them? Most cosmetologists don't end up in Hollywood, catering to the stars. And even those that do, don't make a huge amount of money. THe salon owners do, but the stylists? Noooooo. This kid could do something. She could contribute to the world in substantial ways. And they want her to do hair? Maybe I'm the ass hole. Maybe it's me that doesn't see. Don't get me wrong. There are people who LOVE cosmetology and cannot see themselves doing anything other than that for the rest of their lives. And for them, awesome! I love the woman who cuts my hair. I am thankful for her every time she fixes this mop on my head. But if I went in to see her tomorrow and she told me it was her last day because she'd taken an office job, or gone back to school, or decided on a new career of any kind, I'd be ecstatic for her because she's be doing more for herself. And I want more for this kid. It just kills me that I can't give it to her.

Catching up

I'm fine. The boys are growing. All's right with the world. Now on to more douchebaggery, and the real reason any of you stop by for a read. Seriously, it shouldn't be this easy to find so many ridiculous examples of retardation, but it is.
More letters to the complete trash that never ceases to entertain me:

Dear Mother of the Year:
I applaud your parenting skills, or not. Really. It's quite a talent to be able to reign in your children while sitting on your ass, smoking a fat pile of cigarettes, by doing nothing more than screeching at the top of your soot-infested lungs for that "little fucker" to get off the slide. Really, it was one of the few times I've ever felt sadness at having grown up and moved out of the ghetto. My ghettiquette is obviously, and sadly, in disrepair, as I could not get my mouth to form a coherent response to you or to the untrained monkeys you claim to be your children. I can only assume that "ass hole", "little fucker", and "dumb ass" are yours, since each of them responded with a finger or a bare-assed salute when you called upon them to leave the playground equipment. You've obviously trained them up right. You ma'am are a true, shining example of douchebaggery at it's best. As long as you continue to stumble through the world, I will sleep safe in the knowledge that my worst day as a parent pales in comparison to you. On the scale of suckdom, you are a perfect ten.

Truly,

L


Dear Douche bag Dog Walker,
Your dog is ugly, really ugly. And she's mean. And no, it's not cute when she growls and snaps at my small children. It's especially not cute when she runs up into MY yard to get at MY children. I don't care that you have her on a leash and you think she's "just playing". She's not. If you knew anything about dogs, you'd know that teeth baring isn't a smile, it's a warning, you complete douche. She wants to eat my babies like a dingo. I will snatch your nuts off like a paper towel if you let that dog on my property again. That is, provided you have any. What kind of man has a tiny dog, anyway? And don't tell me she's your wife's dog, because your wife is just as scared of that thing as my kids are. Me? I love dogs, but I'll punt that little fucker into next week before I let it eat my kid. You'll notice she doesn't run up on me. She and I have an understanding. She stays away from me, she lives.
I suggest you look to your dog for a role model.

Your friendly neighborhood ass hole,

L