That’s right, our own Jessica Pauline had an article prominently featured in the LA Times this week! Dude, we’re famous!!! 

Not only did that article run, but one lame-ass opinion article OF her piece ran on Jezebel that very same day! 

Yeah, fame brings the douche-bags a-knockin’, don’t it!? 

Congrats, Jessica, you do us proud!!!!! 

When my mom joined Facebook, it didn’t really faze me. I’m well past my partying days, and there’s really not a lot I wouldn’t tell my mom. She’s awesome.

All the in-laws and extended pseudo-relatives I can accept with the knowledge that my “crazy liberal” social activism probably boils their blood as much as their inane quoting of FOX News makes me cross-eyed.

My boss is on Facebook and we have a clear, direct, verbally confirmed agreement that we are not going to be “friends” as long as I work for her.

But as time passes, some of my FB connections are straight-up awkward. See… in my haste to feel connected in the Facebook frenzy (friendzy? eh? eh?) that was 2008, I friended everyone I recognized.

It’s one thing to see constant prayer requests for the sick baby of the sister-in-law of some girl I only vaguely remember from high school.

It’s quite another to know personal things about people who I see regularly - and ONLY at work. I feel like a stalker. I know about their crazy party weekends, what they ate for dinner last night, how much time they spend in Farmville, and their philosophies on dating. I run into them in kitchen, or the hallway, and find myself thinking “So, you wore a purple polka-dotted bra today…” but simply say a polite “Hello, how are you?”

And then, because I am a paranoid narcissist, I recently realized they know all of these weird things about me, too. And every time I think of posting something on FB, I’m not thinking about offending cousin Martha or making my brother laugh.  I’m wondering if it’s work appropriate.  Social Network FAIL.  New security settings, here I come…

Back to the daily grind this week, with a hell of a hangover. It’s not just the excessive eating and drinking of things not normally consumed. We also overindulge in leisure, and, if we’re really lucky, surround ourselves with an abundance of love.

And on the morning after, we return to the cold hard workplace, where people expect us to be responsible and to achieve things, and they don’t even reward us with hugs. (I miss you, Mom!)

I dragged myself out of bed Monday at a decent time and planted myself in front of GMA (Good Morning America for those of you not obsessed with keeping up on what regular Americans think of as news). I learned that Sam Champion (the weather guy) was on a recent episode of Extreme Makeover Home Edition (with Muppets?) and my mind wandered… what a cute couple Sam Champion and Ty Pennington would be. What if they’re secretly dating? I mean, Sam is out but I think Ty is still closeted. They are both in really great shape. They would probably have such adventurous vacations, like hiking through the Andes, ooh I want an Andes mint… This meandering meant I missed the two minutes of actual news, which is probably good because it looked kind of depressing. I also missed my window of opportunity to make it to the gym before having to get ready for work, and so my first real waking emotion of the day was a mixture of guilt and regret. That’s when the headache started.

The cottonmouth didn’t kick in until I was halfway to work. My mental conversation started productively enough “Am I on track to reach my goals?” and quickly deteriorated to “Do I even have personal career goals anymore, or am I just serving the goals of my employer?” Second emotional wave of the day: self-doubt + defiant irritation.

Got to work and realized I had two meetings which I was not at all prepared for. (Emotional wave #3: frustration and distant panic). After sketching a rough To Do list (#4: overwhelmed, accompanied by a sense of forgetfulness that is perhaps best described as the antithesis of deja vu), I pushed past the nausea straight to cravings for greasy food. Afternoon came with more meeting requests and reminders of upcoming projects that will take too much of my time, adding trepidation (#5) to the trash heap of negative emotions I compiled throughout the day.

I went straight to the gym in hopes that the productivity and physical exertion would help me overpower my grumpiness and release the toxins. So here’s hoping a good night’s sleep and an evening that ended in Ghirardelli hot chocolate will make for an easier Day 2.

I’m wondering if you’re feeling the way I’m feeling… I mean, 2010???? REALLY????? Remember 1988 when 2010 seemed like a totally ridiculous notion filled with food in pill form, time travel and an all metallic wardrobe for all? Yeah… not so much, as it turns out. Good thing, really, because I love food (obv), and metallic clothing isn’t really my bag. Now, time travel sounds bomb, but oh well. 

According to the Chinese calendar, 2010 is the year of the Tiger: 

The Tiger (associated with good fortune, power, and royalty), is viewed with both fear and respect; hence, their protection and wisdom is sought after. Many people believe the tiger, and not the lion, as the true king of beasts

Booya— sounds like this could be interesting. I’m into good fortune, power and royalty… I mean, after all, you all know what I am… which leads me to my point. I’m pretty sure that while we can certainly share with the Tiger (and Tiger Woods, apparently), 2010 is actually the year of the Jew. Really, like all years. And I’ve absolutely decided that 2010 is the year of THIS Jew. A few things I plan to do are: 

– Fully embrace all things Joan (aka the Jewess at my core) and spend time with those people who bring light and happiness to my life, and not those who bring me down. 

– Engage in extracurricular activities that bring me joy.

– Cultivate new friendships… :) 

– Learn a few new skills (right now I’m considering Spanish, jewelry-making or cooking class… please feel free to weigh in).

– Grow some long hair. 

– Do well at work, and finally save some money (Jew). 

– See my family a lot.

– And last but not least, be present in every moment (and no, I’m not becoming a hippie, this is something Jews can do, too). 

And just for fun, I’m also planning on playing this new game that I just learned from a friend- I’m calling it “About a Goy”. Fill in the word “boy” in movie, song or book titles with the word “goy”. Some clear faves so far are: 

Riding in Cars with Goys

A Goys Life

Goy Meets World 

Gramma’s Goy 

Goys Don’t Cry 

PLEASE feel free to add your own in the comments section, and Happy Jew Year to all!

I’ve always loved being a Jew.  I suppose that after hundreds of years, if not thousands, my ancestors would be pleased that I can do the Jew Strut.  The problem is that no one in my family is remotely observant.  We had a Christmas tree.  We opened presents and ate ham on Christmas Eve (wow, this sounds worse on paper than I imagined).  Yes, we lit candles but we owned retail stores and since Hanukkah is before Christmas, we’d light in the back room of the store and keep an eye on the menorah hoping for the best.  My mother sent me to Sunday school but didn’t make me go to Hebrew school.  To my peers, I was lucky, but I also didn’t get that special 13th birthday party.  My aunt, who I’m certain was meant to be a southern Christian, had babies, they learned how to sing “Jesus Loves Me” and I knew my family was lost.

I went off to college and felt very important and cool that I found family friends with whom to go to temple on holidays.  I never missed the High Holy Days.  I was a pious Jew, finally.  Then I met and married a WASP.  It didn’t last very long and at least I found a rent-a-rabbi who would perform the ceremony.   I moved to San Francisco; not much Jew action there (although I did land a coveted apartment because I played the Jew card knowing the landlady had a 30 year old son).  Finally, I moved to LA and was blown away by the copious amounts of Jew food in the primary promotional aisles of the major supermarkets.  The endcaps screamed MATZOH! GEFILTE FISH!  And kosher wine from the finest wine regions?  Hello LA.

I had Orthodox family friends.  I held seders.  I went to “performing arts” temples.  Chabad services.  It’s Jew Nirvana in this town. (Where do Bob Dylan and Leonard Nimoy go to temple?  Anyone?).   When I met my life partner, I was confused by his non-Jew last name but he looked like a duck and quacked like a duck so I got the nerve to ask his mother’s maiden name.  Nathanson.  Big payoff.  Except he’s as non-religious as my family.

I tried.  It’s not sticking.  I don’t have fun at temple anymore even though my (Orthodox) rabbi is a riot.  I still get mad when my best friend texts at temple but only because I have unreasonable standards of appropriateness.  Yet, I let her talk me into a slice of pizza after Yom Kippur services (non-Jews reading this, Yom Kippur is the fasting holiday).

So hooray for the tradition and goodbye to the religion.  I get strength from my friends and family, not from a book that used to make me feel like I belonged to some tribe.  I will make the meanest latkes on the block and break out the cutest menorah.  We even get the cat to chase the dreidel which is really cute.  Happy Hanukkah, y’all.

I’m a nerd. I loved school. I loved grades. And I wasn’t even the kind of kid who bragged about them – they were my own personal treasure that I hoarded like Scrooge McDuck hoarded gold.

But I don’t love being scored in the workplace. I guess even when you get the equivalent of a 90% on a workplace performance evaluation, it feels like the whole conversation is about the 10 percent you got wrong rather than the 90 percent you got right. Teachers don’t typically write comments next to the questions you get wrong, “Needs improvement on understanding obtuse angles.” They just put a big red X and move on. It’s your responsibility to look back at that and go “Oh I fucked that up. Maybe I should learn how to do that.”

It’s just so tedious and bureaucratic, like an IRS audit where you forgot to bring the shoebox of receipts from under your bed. Your supervisor walks you through, step by step, reading a Big Brother mysterious judgment of you. That’s right YOU, not your performance but YOU. That’s how it feels. The language is unfamiliar – things you didn’t even know you were being judged on. They put numerical values on qualitative ideas such as communication, teamwork, leadership and problem solving. It makes me wish I worked for The New School. How do you think their job performance evaluations go down?

There’s no midterm. No study guide. Why can’t my boss just write 90% at the top next to a giant “A” or even “B+”? I would feel so much more comfortable. And then I could read through it alone later on to be privately mortified by my own misconduct.

The Rise of the Hot Jewish Girl

Need I say more?

My complete lack of interest in Thanksgiving this year has me feeling like a Jew on Christmas. Thousands of miles from family this holiday with no real plans, I feel rather nonchalant about the whole thing. And yet, even without Mom’s sweet potatoes or Aunt Debbie’s broccoli casserole, I still have something to be thankful for: the three-day work week.

Dear three-day work week, I am grateful to you for so many reasons. Because of you,

…I didn’t have to do laundry this weekend.

…my boss is out of the office.

…traffic was relatively light today.

…there are fewer meetings.

…I will treat Wednesday as casual Friday.

…there will be fewer distractions and I might actually get some work done.

I thank you three-day work week. For after you are done, you will give me an even greater gift: four glorious days to myself to do as I please. There will be late nights and afternoon naps. Thursday may even bring Chinese food and a movie.

Our time together will be short, three-day work week, and for that, I give thanks.

If these disgusting, roach-like horrifying motherfuckers don’t stop showing up everywhere I go, I swear I’m leaving California. One of these was IN MY HOUSE TONIGHT. Go ahead, check it out and then I’ll tell you what went down. 

First of all, what’s wrong with those hippies??? Why are they handling that shit like it’s cute??? It’s not. 

Anyways, tonight wasn’t the first time a potato bug infiltrated my home. First encounter was last year, when just chilling innocently on my couch, one of these fuckers came crawling out from under the coffee table. It was so big it literally had a giant shadow and I thought it was a taranchula. After my husband killed it (giving my dog such bad PTSD that she wouldn’t go into the living room for two weeks and still freaks out at the sound of a book hitting the ground) I Googled “giant insect southern CA”. Yeah, it came right up: the Potato Bug. 

According to Wikipedia, it’s also called a “Jerusalem cricket” (which I take personal offense to). 

Jerusalem crickets are a group of large (body length up to 69 millimetres (2.7 in)), flightless insects native to the western United States, along the Pacific Coast, and south into Mexico. Because of their large, human-like head, they are commonly called niño de la tierra (Spanish for “child of the earth”), Earth baby, cara de niño (Spanish for “child’s face”), wó see ts’inii (Navajo for “skull insect”), or old bald-headed man. They are also often called potato bugs.

Despite their name, Jerusalem crickets are neither true crickets nor true bugs and they do not prefer potatoes for food. Active only at night, the insects use their strong mandibles to feed primarily on dead organic material but can also eat other insects. Their highly adapted feet are used for burrowing beneath moist soil to feed on decaying root plants and tubers

Um, EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. They are so disgusting. 

Good news is, they don’t live in homes. Amen. Apparently they just come out from underground when they’re dying or mating. Ugh. Gross. 

A week ago I saw one on my street after not seeing one since the first incident in my old house in a totally different neighborhood. I had a reaction like in the cartoons when someone jumps up on a chair screaming in the presence of a mouse. I did scream. 

Then two nights ago I saw one right outside of my house as I was coming back from walking my dogs. Naturally, I threw the bag of dog poop I had at it, and ran. Also screamed that time.

Then tonight I came home and was thinking as I pulled into my garage, man, I wonder what happened to that potato bug… I hope it’s not in the garage. Well, no. Not in the garage. But right inside the door IN THE HOUSE. 

I had a total panic. No husband at home, just me. Dogs locked up downstairs. Face off. I called my husband and he talked me through it. I (while screaming) sprayed it with Clorox bleach spray (my idea, not his), and put a tupperware over it (his idea, not mine). Then I put a book on top of the tupperware, just in case (my idea, not his). Then I slid it out of the house into the garage, and left it there for my husband to deal with. 

When he got home, he nonchalantly scooped it onto a dustpan with the tupperware and tossed it (far) off the balcony (while I was standing on the couch screaming in the background. Not really, but I felt like it). 

Dude, I swear, nothing freaks me out more than these bugs. That giant red head… it’ll haunt me forever. 

It seems like a stretch, right? Cat’s paws…women’s uteri. But here’s the quote that makes the link, courtesy of the California Veterinary Medical Association:

“Imagine if city councils started telling humans that they couldn’t have legal medical procedures!”

Oh, no! Can you imagine such a thing! What an atrocity! Government limiting access to legal medical procedures!

Oh…wait. That’s what anti-abortion laws do EVERY SINGLE DAY. Every time that a teen can’t get an abortion without her parent’s permission. Every time that women’s health clinics are shut down, protested, bombed, threatened, closed, and legislated against. Because lest we forget — everything that goes on in women’s health centers is perfectly legal.

Anyway, I know I’m preaching to the choir here, but this shit pisses me off. Where is the outrage? Or is it just that denying women access to health care isn’t quite as offensive as denying it to cats?