on stranger babies in the workplace

It’s summer time, friends, and those who are working moms have one thing on their minds: what the fuck do I do with my kid while I am work and they don’t have school?

What’s that you say? I’m not a working mother so why do I care? Well for one thing I am surrounded by stories of children and the guilt caused by leaving them at home to go to work. Also, I have had a month of smiling and grinning through the screams of said children in and around my workspace, so I too have feelings on this subject.

As a feminist, I am supposed to support a family friendly workplace and mother-friendly work environment. And I do. I think flex-time and working form home should be staples that allow working moms to keep up and not lose time with their babes, in this internet-based day. But when a baby-friendly work environment also means a stinky, noisy, distracting work environment with expectations and nauseations that I did not sign on for, who really wins? Not me. Not the bored-ass kid. Not the annoyed mom.

I get it- your kid is sick and you have work to do- isn’t that what remote desktop is for? I mean you are the lucky dog that gets more sick days than the childless among us, because you get your kids sick days too. I’m bitter about that, believe me. But if you already have that privilege, do us a favor and use it. I don’t want to hear about your kids stomach flu, let alone catch it. Not to mention that I hardly think a baby is getting better and resting in your stuffy office. Changing diapers should be done in a bathroom, preferably not one we share on a daily basis and definitely not your desk!

But even healthy kids, when you bring them into the office they distract everyone and cast expectations among all of us. I cringe when I hear adults coo in public, but when it’s in my office, down the hall, I know exactly what is about to happen. That baby is on its way to me. Proud mommy, carrying baby around the halls of the office to show off, and other working moms flock to them, making coochie coochie noises (sounds like a Vagina Monologues reference to me, but apparently its a baby noise to most women my age) and espousing its baby-beauty. And though I show no interest in this spectacle, the baby will be carried past me and I will have to look. I will have to smile while the baby is thrust into my face and I’ll have to squeeze out an awkward, “what a cutie” or “hi, whats your name little guy”. UGH! KILL ME!

You see for me, babies are like people. I don’t like most people I don’t know- I don’t feel comfortable around them and I don’t talk to strangers. But I am a very warm, comfortable and loving person amongst my friends. Same with kids- I love my friends kids and the kids in my family- because I know them and I want to get to know them. Stranger babies are the worst- and at work, when I’m theoretically busy and with my mind in the game, what in the hell is a little baby doing hollering and squealing its guts out, let alone coming over to say hi to me.

It’s so awkward and so invasive and the end result of the inevitable mother and baby roll-by: I look like the asshole who is awkward around babies. I’d rather just be the asshole who hates babies and escape this ritual altogether, but then no one will eat lunch with me. And I hate eating lunch alone.

So here’s my proposal. I spit a lot of wisdom at my readers every week. I need you all now more than ever. What in the fuck am I supposed to do when someone comes over to me in the office and shoves their stranger baby up in my face. Whats the right thing to say? Whats the right thing to do? I would really appreciate some help on this. Thanks.

Love,

the asshole who hates babies that aren’t yours

Shut Up and Sing

I’m not very good at shutting my trap.

Obviously from reading this blog, you can tell that I get frustrated, and upset with some of the backwards and unjust ways of this world. Ranting and calling us all to action is an OK thing to do in a blog. But what about real life? Outside of this blog when something gets me so ticked off I could just scream- Whats stopping me from doing so? Well, I admit that I do sometimes rant- and nowadays my friends and family usually reply with, “Uh Oh! I feel a blog post coming on!” Har-dee-har.

But how often do I kick and scream at the source? Not often. Only probably in the safety of numbers- at protests and what not. I hold in my anger, my fury when a man stares at my boobs instead of my face, sure I’ll flip the bird to a passerby who yells a lewd comment to me from a car, but when it happens at work with a coworker, do I ever explain to them the difference between my eyes and my nipples?

These days I find myself constantly infuriated at a situation I am in temporarily. I know it’s temporary and I should be patient, accept the current state knowing that it will pass and not kill me, therefor making me stronger, but the fury gets so loud in my ears. It’s not life or death, or illegal. I just find it unfair, unjust, hypocritical and infuriating. And though I’m not alone in said situation, no one else screams (there are little rumblings of yelps, but that’s not enough for me) it makes me feel like I’m taking crazy pills- and not the good kind. I feel like if I don’t talk out my frustrations right then there, how will I know it’s really happening? How will I know that someone can acknowledge that what just happened was insanely wrong, or at least ridiculous.

On the street, when I see a girl wearing leggings as pants, flying her camel toe flag like it’s her day-job, I just want to scream, “You know that we can see the outline of your vagina, right?! Put a skirt/short dress over that shit, it’s getting awkward in here!”

When I see parent hit their kid in public I want to yell, “What part of hitting a child makes you think it will encourage him/her to calm down? Violence begets violence. Laying one hand on a child in violence or with otherwise inappropriate intent changes who that child will be as a person, forever. Be a fucking adult and calm yourself down. Here, I’ll watch the kid while you count to 10.”

When I overhear a racist/homophobic slur, it makes me so mad I want to burst. “What if I said that shit about your parents/kids/friends? You’d hate it right? OK, so now imagine you have a friend who is not white/not straight… I know it’s hard but try. UNACCEPTABLE!”

I love that I’m a fighter. Most of the people who love me, love me in part because I’m a fighter. I dedicated the title of this post to the Dixie Chicks- who went through a major ordeal a few years back when one of the chicks made a comment about George W. Bush, and his successful war in Iraq (still going strong Georgy, you must be so proud!). Shut Up and Sing (to read the entire story in detail, click the link) is the name of the documentary made about the reaction of their mostly-country bumpkin fans who were not to fond of their open and brutal criticism of fellow Texan George W. The Dixie Chicks even received death threats in reaction to standing by the statement. Their song, “Not Ready to Make Nice” is one of the best anthems for speaking your mind even when the opinion is unpopular and not giving in just because the alternative, standing your ground, hurts.

I admit though, sometimes I just wish I could shut up and do what I’m supposed to do. In some situations it would be easier to smile and bear it. I think… I wouldn’t know. Even when I’m quiet, my face always shows you just how I’m feeling. It’s no use trying to hide it.

So, since I probably won’t be shutting up, keeping it to myself or disguising my face any time soon, I dedicate this song to all of the people I will inevitably piss off, aggravate, motivate and inspire:

Operation Get Skinny: Join the PAA

Join the PAA.

No, not the Palestinian Authority Acrobats and not the Parents’ Asshats Association.

Pizza Addicts Anonymous

OK, well I am not such an anonymous person- as you already know I like spilling my guts out on the webpages of this blog- it helps me think, it allows me to feel and be honest with myself… and yourself and whoever else’s self will listen.

But I am addicted to pizza. Man, I love pizza.I mean, I grew up in New Jersey for God’s Sake where the pizza is delicious and made with the love that only a skinny man named vinny truly holds for cheese, sauce and crust. With toppings like baked ziti, eggplant, pineapple, or mountains of green olives like in Israel- or my newest recent topping-love: onion! The stinkier the pizza and the more fattening, the better.

When I was a kid, I remember that we had Pizza day once a week for lunch. The rest of the days I think we mostly brown bagged it, which was fine. But on this one wonderful day a week, we got steaming hot, oily, cheesey aromatic pizza with a thin crust and a messy shirt by 12:45 in the afternoon. I used to wait for these days to come around. Maybe I still do.

Today, as an adult, I should know better. One slice of Pizza has 400-4,000 calories, half a pound of fat and, and 0 nutritional value and yet it comprises nearly 100% of your daily required happiness. It’s sad but true. The pizza train is a one way trip to Fatassville. Population: me and 10 million Americans.

So I need to quit my one true love. The one thing that, aside from the dog, has always been there for me. When I left my ex with a couch, a TV and a bed, I moved into an empty apartment. Before my new fridge was delivered, I ordered Pizza. That pizza was there for me that first night. And it was there for me when I woke up the next morning. But I can’t stick by pizza the way it stuck by me. Because it’s making me chubby and lazy.

So I hereby officially break up with pizza. It’s not you, it’s my spare tire. We can still be friends (I say that now, but we both know it can never be true). I never meant to hurt you, you were always very good to me. I’ll miss you. *Tear*

Quickie: The Rule of Go Big or Go Home

Go big or go home!

There is no way to succeed, make change or make a difference without putting your foot in your mouth a few times on your way there. Because the second you speak, or at least the second I open my big mouth, there is always a fair chance that I will say something stupid. In my family, we call this Foot In Mouth Syndrome, FIMS for short.

(Usually, here is where I’d put a picture of a little kid his foot in his mouth but when I searched Google Image for “foot in mouth” I got the most disgusting images on my screen. DO NOT DO THIS SEARCH IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH! I threw up in my mouth a little and couldn’t stay on the page long enough to get a picture. So no picture for you!)

FIMS symptoms include mumbling, stammering, insulting people to their faces, divulging secrets, saying things that are obviously false and saying the worst thing at the exact wrong time. Physical reactions include blushing, backing up towards the door and in the hours after the FIMS attack, smacking ones hand against their forehead, repeatedly screaming, “I am such a dumbass!!”.

The thing is, that in order to create change, you usually have to make a mess first. Change doesn’t usually come easily or smoothly- you gotta rock the boat, you need to take chances. You gotta start a revolution by making some noise. I’m not talking about violence, unless you consider explosive retardation violence. For me, every new job or new activist project I have ever taken has begun with 4-6 weeks chock full o’ fadichot- mortifying embarrassing moments. Granted, I work in my second language so I am no stranger to a consistent flow of blunders. But it never fails. When I take a step in a bold, new direction, I always come down with a case of FIMS at some point in the very beginning. I always recover, move on to be my eloquent, successful self but first, I embarrass the shit out of myself.

My usual FIMS flub is an unintended indirect insult in the form of verbal diarrhea. Like talking shit about a politician that my donor, who I am having lunch with, helped campaign for in his last election. Now, am I right about the politician being a douche? Probably, and in the long run it might even help my cause to have discovered their relationship. But in that moment, I just unknowingly insulted my donor and for days, I commence the head-smacking and “Dumbass!” proclamations.

The list goes on- including holding in my pee weeks into my new job, too embarrassed to admit that I still have not found the bathroom and not having asked in the first week, I fear it’s too late now. Embarrassing and bad for the bladder.

I’m not saying all of this to scare you- quite the opposite.  Go ahead, do something bold, get yourself a spitting case of the FIMS and then recover. Go big or go home- rock the boat, you’ll probably fall in at least once so bring a dry set of clothes! Don’t not do things because you might make a fool out of yourself. Do things knowing that you will definitely make a fool of yourself. Make a big ass fool of yourself because that’s how you roll- taking hits for your team in order to go places and do big things. I suffer from chronic, regenerative FIMS and you don’t see me crying about it- I keep on trucking, rocking, making moves, and taking names.

FIMS-  Nothing hurt, except your pride!

92 Days

Well, it’s done. I got my get- my divorce is finalized .

It’s over and I’m so relieved. It was a surprise- a pleasant one that got thrown together when the opportunity presented itself- and the quiet in my head is tangible. I think I actually saw the weight lift from my shoulders as he repeated the words after the rabbi in the rabanut.

To my surprise, the rabbis were sympathetic to my place in the unwanted relationship with an unstable man and they seemed to understand the urgency of this ceremony, allowing the arrangements to go on for hours, once the opportunity presented itself.

That having been said, the process in the rabbinic system is RIDICULOUS. The ceremony of divorce involved the man doing a lot of  ‘repeat after me’s and the woman doing a lot of ‘waiting outside so as not to worry my pretty little head over this big man business’. I spent the better part of the time in the hallway/waiting room. It’s mildly offensive. Also, I have not counted out the possibility that there was a game of circle jerk going on inside the courtroom while I waited outside during the “writing of the get”. I’m just saying, it’s possible. The sexual tension in that room was overwhelming!

At the very end, when they recalled that my ex was actually divorcing me and not the 9 bearded old men in the room, I stood up and did my part- no talking, no words, no voice- just catching a paper and walking to and from a door (that’s actually all true). As a part of the ‘repeat after me’s, my ex said the words that freed me from him and freed me for others. Thanks to no will of his own, while repeating after rabbi oldie mcoldberg, my ex acknowledged our divorce, my desire to get out and be free, out loud and in my general direction. It wasn’t heartfelt- it didn’t need to be- but it gave closure in retrospect. Somewhere, hidden deep in that nasty patriarchal world, I found something symbolic that only made that sweet day sweeter.

The rabbi informed me that it is now illegal for me to marry a Kohen- a Jewish man who is a descendant of the bibalical Aharon- and that it is illegal for me to get married within the next 92 days. So unfortunately for you, you will not be receiving a wedding invitation from me in the next 92 days- well, i guess 90 days now. Brilliant.

Thank god for the wisdom of… well, 90 year old Ashkenazi homo-erotic rabbis. Thank god for the strength and support of my friends and family. Thank god that part of my life is behind me.

Quickie #8: Legs

My legs and I have been having some issues these past few weeks. God bless ‘em.

my legs

Now I know I’ve already admitted to being a soap opera-loving granny, but this is ridiculous. My 90 year old neighbors are helping me with my groceries and that’s just sad.

So let me tell you how it went down.

I innocently made my way to my car one sunny morning when there, in my way, mocking me, was a curb. The asshole curb was taunting me, calling me fat, and challenging me to a fight. Well, I had to defend my honor, didn’t I? Besides, it was the one thing standing between me and my car- and I was running late for work! So I charged that curb will all of my might. And then that curb kicked my ass. By the time I got to the car, I was flying through the air, fell on my ankle and rolled it under the weight of my entire body- all 110 lbs of me and the curb howled in victory while screamed in pain.

As I lay there writhing in pain, a woman walked by, slowly, and glanced in my general direction. Between my yelps of “Ouch!” and “Fuck!” I caught the woman chuckle. She’d witnessed the battle between the curb and myself– and she found it amusing. She didn’t ask politely, “Are you OK?”, she just laughed at my clumsy ass and went on her way.

Being as used to my clumsy jelly legs as I am, I didn’t think it was anything. In fact, I went on with my daily routine and then flew to the US for an amazing visit with my wonderful family. On that trip, on the first beautiful, sunny day, I went with my talented and sweet brothers to the Jersey shore. As we relaxed and caught up all day, we sat on a blanket in the sand, since klutzy sis was in no shape to walk around. By now the story of how I kicked the curb’s ass had spread through the dirty Jerz. I was a small town hero. Anyway, my brothers and I spent the whole day on the beach, and though we three are white as casper himself, I felt sunblock would be unnecessary. And that is how I got sun poisoning on my legs.

So I couldn’t walk for days- not on my ankle and not on the sunburned legs. But the day after the beach, was baby bro’s graduation from college. And on that proud day, I held on to my 80 and 88 year old grandma’s as I shuffled around campus. I passed out from excessive painkiller popage, face first into my eggplant rollatini. Not cute.

Did I mention the sunburn caused major inflammation… as in swollen ankles… as in CANCKLES?! That’s right, the women in my family pride themselves on our tiny ankles and wrists but me, I saw my obese potential- I had major canckles going on. Again, not cute.

So now, weeks later, while my skin peels and my ankle still aches, I decide to go to the doctor.

Prognosis: I’m a fucking idiot.

Moral of the story: Thank whatever deity you worship, or your freakin’ lucky stars, for the use of your legs. The human body is a miracle. Kiss your feet (and your canckles, if you got ‘em)!

Quickie #6: A Boob for and Eye

It’s not what you think. I do not believe in violence as a solution to a problem or the death penalty. Unlike Israel’s shameful, sexist, woman-hating new Prime Minister Bibi Netanyahu (I fucking told you not to vote for him!) I do not think that people who want peace need to wage war.

I do, however, think that we should redefine cultural equality. My earlier post on men olging women did not do much to reverse the trends of perverts staring at my ass, unfortunately. I mean if I cannot immediately stop sexual harassment, then I want to find a way to fight back. We need to level the gender playing field a bit… and if we start to play by my rules, boys, it’s gonna hurt.

I just spent a great week with a valued sexy girlfriend whose boobs are big like mine. It was an Israel-wide sexual harassment eye-ball bonanza.

I have come to the following conclusion about gender relations and cultural equality: As a big-tittied blond, the site of my tank top on a hot-ass Jerusalem day unwantedly elicits what I consider to be violent, if still non-physical, crimes against me. I should be able to counter them with equally invasive acts. If a man has the right to make eyes at me and give me the thumbs-up while passing me in his car or undress me with his eyes to the point where I get so uncomfortable in a cafe that I actually leave before being served my coffee, then there should be an equally reproachable and violating thing that I can do back to him. It’s only fair, until we get this whole patriarchy thing out of the way.

Problem is that if I stare back, he’ll like it. If I talk to his balls instead of his eyes, he’ll like it. If I give him the thumbs up, he’ll take it as an invitation, and if I undress him with my eyes, he’ll love it and put it in his spank bank for later.  Therefor, if the man enjoys the equal act in return, it is not reciprocal to the crime being committed against me.

I propose the following equally degrading, embarrassing, invasive violations to fight back:

1. Screaming “this guy has a small dick” as loud as I can while pointing at my ogler
2. Firmly lifting my knee into said assailant’s balls
3. Digging my finger nails into said man’s googly eye-balls
4. Throwing my hot coffee into the lap of the guy at the cafe that undressed me in his mind against my will.

punch him

In case you weren’t angry enough before, look at this boob vending machine.

I’d love to hear from the 2 straight guys that read my blog as to what you think might be a fair punishment to deter your perverted male counterparts from staring at our hot bodies all freakin’ day.

Happy hunting, ladies!

“I am not an angry girl but it seems like I’ve got everyone fooled. Everytime I say something they find hard to hear, they chalk it up to my anger and never to their own fear. ” Ani Defranco

Quickie #5: memories of a diaspora Jewess

When I saw this video, (thanks to my hip Mom and her hip friends for sending it my way!) I just had to share it. It reminded me so much of growing up as a young Jewish woman in a secular world. I think this speaks to so many of us who know what it feels like to be totally American, totally Jewish and totally unapologetic.

Memories of my life altering trip to Poland when I was 16 and my identity as the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors are things I carry with me all the time. I take the responsibility of bearing second generation witness to these atrocities very seriously. My Jewish Polish family history includes victims, refugees, persecuted people and that deep knowledge courses through my veins as a social change professional and as a human being. But my Jewish American family history and present also includes matriarchs, determined, hard working, persevering, empowered women, feminist, strong men and women with strong voices. I think identifying as Jewish has made me the compassionate, diversity-loving, gringo activist I am.

I think this awesome poetress, Vanessa Hidary, might agree and I hope you do, too.

Besides, I love Def Poetry Jam and Mos Def is a serious dreamboat.

Enjoy!

Quickie #4: Funny things

So Purim is upon us Jews. It is meant to be a fun time, a time of drinking, laughing, making noise, costumes and parties. We tell yet another story about the near-annihilation of the Jewish people and other good jokes like: hey! did you hear the one about the queen who refused to dance naked for her drunkass husband and his drunkass friends and was then vilified in Jewish fairy tales for thousands of years? It’s a time when religious boys and men are allowed to finally dress like girls and let out their repressed sexual energy and blame it on alcohol the next day.

In case you are in danger of getting your Purim buzz killed by some of life’s little annoyances (divorce, shmivorce- it’s a freaking holiday! is nothing holy?!) here are some things that will make you laugh:

First, funny animal pictures:

Karate Cat

and now from Wasted Pets:

and some others from This makes me laugh

Have a happy, funny week!

Quickie #3: Drivin’ Me Crazy

Israeli drivers, you are completely out of control.

You turn every traffic circle (kikar, roundabout, whatever) into a death trip around the block. You drive like speedy, fearless daredevils in the pouring rain. You honk when there is nothing but traffic for miles and miles and nowhere to go.

You blatantly ignore crosswalks, red lights and stop signs. And yet when the news reports tell us that in January 2009 along there were 2,235 casualties in 1,232 road accidents, you sigh and mumble something about loss of life on the road being a damn shame. But that number can be altered dramatically by 2 things:

1. Personal Responsibility: Every single person needs to realize that their own aggression, distraction, lack of attentiveness on the road, can cost a life. I take driving very seriously; if misused, a car is a murder weapon and it’s as simple as assuming that level of responsibility.
   
2. Law Enforcement: If the morons incapable of taking personal responsibility were spending their lives in jail, or paying tens of thousands of shekels in fees for minor traffic infractions, this would prevent accidents and therefor deaths.
   

And to the burly, overbearing, swarthy Israeli ars-men (read: off-duty cops) who stand next to my car as I parallel park, obnoxiously telling me to turn the wheel, when and how much: SHUT THE FUCK UP. If I need your advice on parking, which I never in this godforsaken life will, I will ask. Do not force your unwanted man-advice in my unsuspected woman-face when all I want from you is silence. Keep on walking because, gever, I am the parallel parking QUEEN. My ass lived in New Brunswick, New Jersey and I parallel parked with the best of them, racking up RU/NB PD parking tickets like it was my job. So until you represent Jersey with your parking skills, back the fuck up.

I can’t complain about the parking on sidewalks. I love parking on sidewalks.

To all my civilized expat friend who drive like normal people: keep up the good fight! Drive defensively, don’t let them cut you off, drive you off the road and honk you into an early grave.

Bon Jovi is so dreamy and so cool

Pump up that Bon Jovi and ignore their blasting Eyal Golan (douche bag ars Israeli singer, picture below).

Show those arsim wankers how it’s done.

Here are some tips on driving in Israel.

Safe travels!