Reliving the Bible Slap

I posted last week, not to mention in late 2010/early 2011, about this search I'm having for who I am and how I got here. This is another installment, sort of a follow-up to that post, as well as a pairing to go with my Don't Forget to Review the Conversion Manual post, that got a lot of mixed reactions. That post, of a little old man bringing into question my Jewishness, came about in December of 2007, whereas this post came about a year after my conversion in April 2007. From this post below to the one in December, I think I'd been through a lot. The pairing here is that in my Conversion Manual post, it is a Jew that challenges me. In this post, it is a Christian who challenges me (although without knowing that I am a convert). 

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Date: April 6, 2007

Post title: A Challenge 

I'm sitting in Argo Tea near Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Just by Water Tower place. I'm at a table among tables crowded with people, headphones in, listening to Explosions in the Sky (my Torah music). My Etz Hayim is open to Ezekiel 37:1-14, reading between talking via GChat ...

An older man with bad teeth appears over my shoulder, and with a thick British accent says, "Greek?"

I pull off my headphones and show him the cover, "No, it's Hebrew ... Torah."

He responds very quickly, as if waiting to quiz someone -- anyone -- with, "Ahh, how many Sabbath days in Passover!?"

I, taken aback at his random quizzing because it doesn't appear as a friendly exchange, but rather a challenge of "what do you know there little Hebrew girl?," respond with, "Well, the first two and last two days are treated as holidays." I, being Reform and in the Diaspora, know there are differences in the traditions. But this is the first thing I say, of course.

Wrong! He chides me, says "look it up! look it up!" and points me to Leviticus. There are TWO days, he says. And of course, in tradition, yes, there are. He then retrieves his Christian bible and reads the verses to me. I respond by mumbling the Hebrew translations and he continues to correct me when I say that the harvest was 'raised up' ... in the Christian bible it says it was waived about, I guess.

Then, almost as an insult he says, "You must be Reform, eh? Maybe someday you'll become Orthodox and really know your stuff!" He then talks about Easter and the crucifixion and blah blah blah. A barista approaches, mouthing "Are you okay?" The guy eventually shuts up and walks away.

It was like he was challenging me. Like he could see a sign above my head that says "Pick on me! I'm the Reform girl reading Torah in a tea shop! Please, quiz me!"

But it's bigger than that. He stood above me and I sat. I was below him. He reciting words from his Christian bible proving he knows better than I about the tradition. But I knew. Why didn't I just say "Listen man, this is the Diaspora, we do things differently. Not everything in the bible is word for word nowadays. It isn't the precision that matters, it's the passion." But I didn't. Why? I felt intimidated. Unprepared.

Why?

It's Good Friday. Beware one and all. These used to be the days when the Jews got nervous and skittish. Blood in matzo and all that. Mrph.

What a day. Chunks of meat in my ranch and getting lectured by the Christian on my own holiday. Slap! Slap! Slap!

Be Prepared to Review the Conversion Manual

December 25, 2007. I was living in Chicago, at a point of frustration with my Judaism. Unsatisfied with the Reform synagogue I was attending, I stopped attending. On December 25, 2007, I was in flux. I volunteered at the Spertus Jewish Museum for their family day because, well, what else do Jews do on Christmas? I was excited. I was eager. I was stoked to spend Christmas Day -- a day of alienation in the U.S. -- with gobs and gobs of other Jews, appreciating Jewish history and art. And then? Well, I'll let you read for yourself. I think that this day, and this post, was a huge turning point for me in my Jewish journey. If you've never been put in a situation like this, then you likely don't know how intense and soul-crushing the words of a single little old Jewish man can be. Even as strong and confident as I am in my Judaism today, this story continues to hurt. This, folks, is the reality of being a convert.

Warning: It's long, but I promise you, it's worth it. And if you do read it? You'll be touching my soul in a way you cannot possibly understand. 

Please read all instructions carefully. 

I read all the books. I made sure to read and reread all of the chapters and digressions into the plight of not converting Super-Mega-Ultra-Orthodox. I checked the little box that said "You realize that a lot of Jews won't think you're Jewish, right?" I joked with my Reform rabbi and my Reform friends and even made sure to read all of my mom's nonchalant e-mails about how "You know, you'll never REALLY be Jewish, right? Just look at what's his face, you know, Sammy Davis Jr.!" But a lot of the time, it doesn't matter. About, oh, I'd say, maybe 36 percent I guess. But then there's wanting to marry the perfect Jewish mate (did he have to go through this? or was he lucky enough to be born into?), or have kids, or go to Israel, or interact with other, well, Jews. And most of the time, I don't really think about who thinks I am or am not a Jew. It's irrelevant, because I know that I am a Jew. Yes, I went through the process, I dipped, I was presented, I had the bet din, I did the whole shibang. But I did it Reform, and to a lot of Jews, that isn't good enough. It isn't enough because those three Reform rabbis aren't *really* rabbis and the ceremony wasn't *really* halakhic, and my process definitely wasn't *really* halakhic.

And then this guy today had me back to that square one point, where all Jews by Choice end up at least every now and again, when something happens or someone says something. That point where you think, "If I was meant to be a Jew, then why the heck wasn't I born that way?" It's not a statement of denial of the present person, but rather a struggle to figure out why it's so much easier for everyone else, why the trials and tribulations for me? And as I write this, I recognize that it's quintessentially Jewish to run into these hurdles, these questions, these insecurities -- but for these things to be brought on by another Jew? Albeit, a Jew who thinks ("knows") he or she is a *real* Jew?

Listen. I volunteered today at the local Jewish museum. It's Christmas, and for Jews that means we need something to do that doesn't remind us that, ya, the rest of the world is ignoring their credit card debt while opening shiny new toys and noshing on ham. So I volunteered to hang out for three hours and make sure little kids didn't shmear their chocolaty fingers all over the new exhibit on the top floor of the brand spanking new building. The day was going along absolutely perfectly. I was so stoked to see Orthodox and Reform and the random passersby join together for some Kosher baked goodies and a giant inflatable caterpillar. It was this Jewish utopia where all Jews are created equal. I even ran into a coworker who is as excited about Judaic studies as I am (she's the Orthodox gal I work with). I was on top of the world, I was hanging out in the upper echelon of Jew excitement and happiness, and it seemed like it was only getting better when this stout elderly man in a newsboy cap started talking to me.

His name was Wolf. He was carrying a bag of something and had his pants pulled up in that old man way where they sit far above the waistline, which disappeared years ago. His little cap made him look like an overgrown child and when he asked me where all the food was, I thought, this is someone's grandfather! someone's father! and here he is asking me where to get a nosh. I explained that the treats had been gone long ago, swept up by hungry munchkins. I then told him he could go down to the cafe for some food if he was interested. We walked for a little bit and he struck up a conversation with me, poking fun as to why I hadn't managed to save him a brownie. After nearly two hours of silence and wandering around, I was excited to be talking to this little old Jewish man.

Then came the questions.

Is the cafe kosher? he asked. Yes, I answered. Do you keep kosher? he asked. I grinned, knowing where it was going. I made a motion with my hand to sort of say "so so" and said, To some extent, yes. He responded with, You're a good Jewish girl, no? You should keep kosher! I laughed a little and explained that I was working toward it, feeling almost guilty that I didn't, in fact, keep fully kosher. Old people have this way of making you feel guilty, and this guy, without even trying, was laying it on thick. What's your name? he asked. Amanda, I replied. What's your last name? he asked. I hesitated. This is that point where that whole "What's in a name?" thing comes out. Um ... Edwards, I replied. The look on his face made me anxious and nervous, so I blurted out, Not very Jewish, eh? He got a very stern look on his face. You are Jewish, yes? he asked. I quickly responded, (realizing that if I was volunteering there on Christmas I had to be Jewish, right?) Oh yes, of course I'm Jewish. He cocked his head a little, still looking fairly serious, children were buzzing around us, strollers and people muddling about the lower gallery. So what are you then? he asked. A convert? I got excited suddenly, with this jolt of convert pride flew up out of me, forcing me to respond, Yes, I am a convert ... by my own accord, too. He then started asking me why I converted and what led me to where I was and I gave him the brief version of how I ended up where I did. I explained Nebraska wasn't filled with Jews and that I'd spent about three years on the process.

So what are your parents? he asked. Christians? Jews? What? I never know how to answer that question, because they're more or less agnostic, I guess, but they believe in Jesus, so they're sort of Christians, but completely non-practicing. I explained this to him and he said, So are you sure they're not Jews? Are they definitely Christians? I didn't get what he was implying, though now that I think about it perhaps he wanted to know if there was any Jewish lineage in my past. I responded, Nope, they're Christians all right. I'm the only Jew -- so far as I know -- in my family tree.

Just then a lady he knew walked by, and I felt absolutely relieved. He went back into jovial-old-man mode and started showing pictures from his recent trip to Israel. He had pictures of him playing the violin for the rebbe (or at least this is what he said, I'm not sure about the status of the rebbe, so I could have been misunderstanding) in Israel. He was so proud of the pictures, and kept saying, Now those! Those are some serious Jews! Eventually the woman walked away and the old man named Wolf picked back up his questioning. This is when the situation got truly uncomfortable, and at the end, I was left feeling emotionally drained and as if I'd let down the world. As if I wasn't good enough. As if I'd failed on my mission to become who I was meant to be (Lech L'kha). So you converted? he said again. Yes, I replied, in April 2006. How did you convert? he asked. I stopped, dead in my tracks. It's times like this that I wish I could create lies on the spot, but I've never been good at that. I can't make up fake telephone numbers or random facts or anything. I'm just no good at lying, but I regret the truth so much because of how it made me feel, because of how it turned this nice little old man into the ultimate naysayer about who I really am. Well, I said with a slight tone of disappointment, I converted through the Reform movement.

He just stared at me. With these piercing eyes, like all of a sudden I was a stranger, I wasn't worth joking with and I wasn't really his kin, his anything. I laughed uncomfortably.

But, I said, you know, I have considered going through more serious (yes, I said serious, because I knew that was the right word for this man) conversion. I think about getting married or having kids, I said, and I wouldn't want them to be ... (I trailed off.). Then he finally spoke up. You know, he said, do you want to marry yourself a nice Jewish boy? I replied, Of course, of course. Then, he said, you know you're going to have to convert Orthodox, it's the only way, really. At this point I just listened. He started talking in this flurry of urgency that when I think about it almost sounds more like he was saying "You idiot, what were you thinking!? You have to be more serious! You have to go the whole nine yards! What a waste of time and flesh!"

But then came the real kicker.

You know, he said, I don't want to sound like I'm judging you, because I'm not, but you know, and I'm being serious here, that you're not really Jewish, right? You're not really Jewish Jewish. I felt like I was going to vomit. It was those words "You're not really Jewish Jewish" that echoed in my head from the point he walked away until just now. And those words will continue to echo from this point forward. Before, I'd read those words, from my mother and friends and people who didn't really believe what I was doing. But I'd just read them. On paper or the erasable tablet of the Internet. No one had ever said them to my face in a way that was so cutting, so vile, so personal ... and even now, as I write this, those words and this story -- what should have been a pleasant story -- brings me to tears.

Our conversation deteriorated after that. He repeated the "I'm not judging you" line, and continuously encouraged me again and again to convert Orthodox. He wanted me to understand the "reality" of it. He then started talking about wanting to hit up Lake Geneva and then wished me a good day and walked away. I was absolutely devastated. From that point on, I started noticing things. All the men with their yarmulkes and the Orthodox women with their caps and long skirts and the tzitzit and sidelocks and the quintessential "Jewish" nose. I went to the bathroom to escape it. I suddenly felt like I was on the outside looking in. I was outside the window, looking through the glass at this world that I so want to belong to, that at my very core I know I am a part of, yet at that moment I was so far away from it. I looked into the mirror, and thought to myself, At least you were born with hair as dark as night and skin as white as the snow. At least you look Eastern European, Amanda. At least you have something going for you.

I get that being Jewish isn't about looks or about perceptions. And 98 percent of the time I really get it. But this time, just this time, I stopped feeling Jewish and started feeling like someone who is trying so hard to be something that she wasn't born as. I looked at the kids and the teenagers and was reminded that I'll never go to Hebrew school or have the traditional bat mitzvah. I will never grow up learning the aleph-bet or see my little brother be circumcised in the tradition of our people that has survived thousands of years. I will never. And every time these thoughts crept back in, I reminded myself that when they came for the Jews, they didn't come for the Orthodox, they came for ALL Jews -- secular, converted, religious. They came for them all. And I hate that this is what it comes to, sometimes, when I'm reminded that I am not Jewish enough for the rest of the world.

I'm struggling right now to feel positive about where I am, and it's because of an old man named Wolf who just wanted a nosh, but the words from this old-school Jew who plays the violin and keeps kosher was enough to really tip me over and spin me around. I don't think my reaction to a similar conversation with a Jew my own age would have incited such panic and stress and emotion in me, but when an elderly Jew who has managed to retain the tradition his entirely life calls me out and questions my Jewish authority, I just feel the need to feel accepted. Maybe it's because I never connected with my own grandparents, or maybe it's because I admire the Jews of generations past who had to grow up with such different lifestyles than me, when assimilation and acculturation were so pressured upon new Jews in America. Now, I know I can't know where this Wolf comes from or how long he's lived here, but I do know that when he was a kid his family used to go to Lake Geneva. He had the slight hint of an accent, so maybe his parents were from the old country or maybe even he was born in the old country. Either way, I'm projecting this imagine of the traditional Jew who, despite all odds, managed to hold on to his tradition, his culture, his people-hood. And what am I to this old man?

A nothing. Schmutz. Someone who is trying, but hasn't tried hard enough, and who isn't Jewish Jewish. If you get my drift.

I'm not sure where to go from here. I have this mental image of what I want my life to be like, how observant I want to be, how observant I want my future husband to be, how I want to raise my children to be proud and involved in their Jewishness. And I know -- at this point I am completely conscious of this -- that my present state just isn't going to make those things happen. And then here comes Wolf, reminding me that I'm definitely not able to make those things happen, being Reform and all.

Listen. I'm happy with who I am, believe you me. I'm happy with my conversion, and it was right for me when it happened. I was my newly ordained rabbi's first convert, and for him and me that's something memorable. My conversion had a goof in it and caused me to dip in the mikvah twice. My rabbi took me for sushi afterwards and we talked about how I should enter the rabbinate (his idea, not mine). My conversion, the night of, that is, was the night of the final banquet for my college newspaper, and a few of my friends skipped the formal part to come watch my conversion ceremony at the temple. I then went to the party and got drunk, on what else, Manischewitz. The thing is, my conversion has a story, and there was a lot leading up to it that is emblazoned on my brain, and I wouldn't change any of it for the world. In 2006 when I converted, I truly became Chaviva bat Avraham v'Sarah.

But times like these, times like these I wonder if I shouldn't go further. If that Orthodox kid who I met at Starbucks in D.C. in summer 2006 -- ho said "So why are you Reform again?" when I explained my status, my beliefs, my observance -- had a point. I think, if anything, his point was more significant and dare I say it, thoughtful, than old man Wolf's thoughts on my situation. At any rate, if I convert more "seriously," it won't be because of Wolf or the Orthodox kid. It will be on my own terms, in my own time, and in my own efforts. And that will never change.

I just wish Wolf, and his posse of holier-than-thou Jews, would let me be, would let my mind be at ease, would allow me to be who I am, Jewish as I am. I get that I'm not Jewish enough for a lot of you, but I'm Jewish enough for me. I checked the little box, remember?

A Shabbat Adventure (With a Skokie Aside)

This past Shabbat, Tuvia and I were in Chicago staying in Lincoln Park, just a short schlep south of my old shul. On Friday, after a lengthy (read: 4-mile nonstop) trek in Skokie* to search out Zelda's kosher sweets, Ken's (kosher) diner (which was closed) and as a result Breadsmith (a delicious kosher bakery), we headed back to our hotel to get cleaned up and head off to shul.

We arrived almost at the end of mincha, but in time for evening services. They were being held downstairs, and the place was packed and became more packed as the services went on. I saw plenty of familiar faces, as well as a lot of unfamiliar faces. The rabbi wasn't there (which bummed me out), but the usual crowd was enough to make me feel at home. We went into the evening not knowing where we'd eat Shabbos dinner, but hoping for the kindness of others to fall upon us. Luckily, the hostess with the mostest, Miriam (one-half of the outstanding musical duo Stereo Sinai) invited us over to dine. I'll admit I've always loathed tofu, outside of the tofu I've had in an old friend's vegan lasagna, but after our Shabbos dinner, I'm sold. It was a vegetarian feast paired with conversation running the gamut of conversion, observance, movies, and our great (and sometimes irrational) fears. The next day, thanks to exhaustion and a great deal of pain (I have the knees of an 80 year old, I can't lie), we slept in and enjoyed the Chocolate Chip Challah Muffins for lunch. Shabbat sort of came and went, quite quickly, but the experience over all was incredibly restful, and it was nice to be home back in a place that made me quite happy for a time.

* = As an aside, our time in Skokie was pretty interesting. The 4-mile trek was absolutely painstaking, as the weather was pretty darn warm, and my knees are in really, really horrible shape. The buses don't run in any convenient way near the locations where we were going, so we had to walk and walk and walk. It was a silent, grumpy trip that sort of ruined my day (sorry, Tuvia). We arrived at Ken's, only to find out it was closed, but I did find this HILARIOUS poster in the window that I can't help but share. We went next door to a Judaica shop where a nice frum guy attempted to help us figure out a place to eat and even offered us a ride if we'd wait around an hour till he closed up. Tuvia ended up buying me a nice pair of Jewish star earrings from the fellow, too, while I hit up Breadsmith for some challah and peanut butter (which is so rich I'll only be using it for COOKIES). After there we schlepped off to find Zelda's, a store I've purchased from frequently online but never in-person. It wasn't that impressive of a store, and I much prefer the mystique of the online business. We left there and walked -- MORE -- to a place described to us by one of Zelda's shop girls donning a cross (ironic, if you ask me) that led us a bit astray. Finally? We found a bus and headed back toward the city. My knees were never happier. And all the while, we never once got our kosher meal up in Skokie. What a bummer!

A Chicago-Inspired Tzedakah Goal!

Having just returned from a five-day trek to Chicago for a little vacation (I'm on Spring Break this week, huzzah!), I will be writing a few different installments about my trip -- some uber-Jewish, some not. Enjoy!

In an effort to increase the returns on karma, I have decided to give tzedakah every day. Yes, EVERY day. I've made plans to commandeer Tuvia's UJF tzedakah box (though I have yet to mention this to him) that his mother sent his way, since we have a nice, new Purim-inspired, Chabad-issued tzedakah box at Tuvia's place. The effort was sort of randomly begun while we visited Chicago after I found myself giving twice in a series of days to jewish causes.

On Friday, while at Breadsmith -- a delicious kosher bakery in Skokie and Lakeview that dishes out amazing challahs, and interesting jars of peanut butter (including a jar that was almost taken from us at security -- chocolate chip cookie dough peanut butter!) -- I was procuring two chocolate chip challah "muffins" while Tuvia spoke with a nice Jewish man in the next shopping center over about our options for a kosher lunch. I saw the run-o-the-mill tzedakah box on the counter and threw my change (about a dollar's worth) into the box. A few days later, on Sunday, while waiting to get brunch at my favorite "kosher style" diner in Chicago -- Eleven City Diner -- I saw another Jewishly oriented charity box on the counter, dug through my purse and pockets and threw some change in. It was then that I decided and made the vow to donate a little every day. So Monday, in an effort to continue the trend, I took our two seven-day passes -- both with three full days left on them -- and passed them on to complete strangers preparing to buy their OWN CTA bus/train cards at the airport.

Now, I'm not saying I'm going to give $20 every day, neither am I intending on only giving a dollar in change every day. The amounts will vary, and I will do my best to document them as such. I always end up with some change taking up space. My old method was to chuck it all into my personally painted piggy bank that I made years ago when in high school (or was it college?). Piggy banks scream "treyf," so I'm going to pack the little piggy away and replace it with the UJF tzedakah box until I manage to get a more fancy tzedakah box.

I'm blogging about this in the hopes that perhaps others will see how easy it is to give just a little bit every day. Whether it's $20, 50 cents, or something in between, every little bit can make every little bit of a difference. I'll be blogging EVERY DAY in order to log my efforts, hoping that maybe I can inspire a few other bloggers to do the same. If it becomes excessive? Well, I'll probably set something up and merely put a link to it on the side.

Until then ...

A Shabbos to Remember, a Lifetime to Go.

If you could paint a picture of your best or most ideal Shabbos, would it look anything like this?

I picked up Tuvia in Ye Olde Jeep on Friday around 4:30, and having an hour until we really needed to be at shul, he took me on a mini-tour of his old stomping ground in West Hartford. We headed to our host's house around 5 p.m. and, with open and warm arms, we were welcomed into their home. We said hi to the little ones who were pre-Shabbos bathing and we ran upstairs to put our things down and make sure all the lights we needed were on. Tuvia was in the library -- a room full of Judaica books, nifty artificats and a gigantic air mattress -- and I was in a room down the hall with possibly the most comfortable guest bed I've ever slept on. We thanked the host again and again, said we'd see her in a few after the service, and headed off to shul in the car. At the shul, we parked the car -- making sure we didn't leave anything in it that we might need, and (armed with umbrellas thanks to the impending storm) headed in for the service.

I don't need to go into the service because, well, as usual it was awesome. The rabbi is doing a series on how to go about asking/getting a non-Jew to do things for you on Shabbos that are necessary (the heat in the sanctuary is too hot, too cold, etc.). It's a pretty fascinating series, which we just started last week after a series of weeks on muktza.

After services, Tuvia and I put up the umbrellas (I know, assur to some, but I refuse to be soaked walking home from shul), and set off for our host's place. The house smelled absolutely divine when we arrived. It was the hosts, a few others, and us for dinner and we dug right in to the meal over casual conversation and stories. It was a pretty tame dinner, and shortly afterward we helped clean up the table, chatted with our host in the kitchen, and then set off to sleep on the third floor. I'd hoped to do some reading first, but man alive I conked out. (Probably because the night before Tuvia and I schlepped 4+ hours round-trip to see FrumSatire get his comedy on in Crown Heights!)

I can't say that I slept super well -- I was up every few minutes thanks to a heater that was touchy and the fact that I was worried about oversleeping. We were set to get up at 8 a.m., get ready, eat some breakfast (challah + jelly and butter? yes! coffee with hazelnut creamer? YES!), and head off to shul -- children and stroller in tow. It was incredibly windy and cold, but the walk was outstanding. There's something nice about schlepping to and fro from shul -- you work off all that food you haven't eaten, and all the food you will eat. The morning service is still a lot for me to pick up on. The rabbi's wife helped me out in what I should daven while the Torah service was going on, and by the time I was done it was time for the service to move on. I followed the rest of the service with ease, and the kiddush was pretty interesting (we ate on a food stamp budget), especially since the crowd, well, pretty much heckled the speakers. Tuvia and I left with a few other guests for the lunch at our host's place and on the way we talked about a lot of things, including the community, observance, and how I converted (a popular topic these days!).

The lunch and rest of Shabbos was just mind-blowing. The meal lasted several hours, there were l'chaims and discussions about Israel, faux meat, veggies, delicious wine and the most amazing everything challah I have and will ever eat, and plenty of time spent playing with the kids (there were FIVE children there, and I am in love with each one of their cute little faces). The crowd dwindled bit by bit, and those of us that were left discussed blogging and Hebrew. I was lucky that the guests at the lunch were so diverse -- lawyers, mothers, Israelis, super Orthodox, sort of Orthodox, you name it. Shabbos slowly dwindled and Tuvia and I packed up our things while the family got ready for their post-Shabbos plans. Havdalah rolled around and we smelled the spices, blessed the wine and the light, and said goodbye to probably the most restful, fulfilling Shabbos I've ever had. To be sure, it was my first real, complete Shabbos (umbrella-use aside).

I can't really describe how thankful I am for the community in West Hartford that has so welcomed us with the most open of arms. I have yet to run into a single person who isn't as eager as ever to have us over for a meal or to offer a bed or an ear or shoulder. People have stories, want to hear stories, and love to tell stories. It's a beautiful community willing to go to any length to fulfill the mitzvot while also acknowledging the great, big world that is out there and in their community. These people? They're my kind of people.

On Thursday, Tuvia and I will be in Chicago at my old shul (SO STOKED), and then after that, we'll be spending most weeks at our host's home, dining at the homes of friends, and meeting with the rabbi every Wednesday together to discuss the steps in our future -- and more specifically, in my future. There are a series of difficult aspects of the timeline for Tuvia and I, and they're making a lot of things really come into focus. Between our relationship, my conversion, graduate school, the geographic constraints of where we both live, and everything else, we're having to think about a lot of things. In reality, our lives are being put into perspective, and the most oft thing heard between us is, "I can't wait until we're married, living in West Hartford, with a kosher home."

I've come a long way from three years ago, don't you think?

Ruby Tuesday!

I present for your approval, another installment of Ruby Tuesday, a blog photo project where you post a photo with some red in it -- a lot or a little -- and the only catch is that it must be one of your very own. This photo is from the 3rd of July at Montrose Harbor and if you look carefully, you can see the red stripes of our very own American Flag, as well as some ruddy red boat bottoms.

Photography break.

Black pipes and light from a desk lamp at Dollop Coffee in Buena Park, Chicago, IL.

Project Black, Chavi Style, Take III.

Rust.
Originally uploaded by kvetchingeditor

Here is more of the Project Black, this one is a picture I took Friday while waiting in the humidity at the Madison stop on the Green/Brown/Orange/Pink line in the Loop. Pigeons are such hideous, yet such beautiful, simple creatures. Rats with wings, but when they tilt their heads just so ... Don't forget to check out/join Project Black over at this blog.

Shalom!

Oy.

The thing is, shopping for dorm stuff -- sheets, a shower caddy, laundry bags -- is weird. I went down this road six years ago when I was heading to undergrad, and now that I'm heading to graduate school in August, I'm doing it all over again. It was sort of uncomfortable, actually. I mean, I have an entire apartment full of things -- a bed, tables, bookshelves, kitchen appliances, a TOASTER! And now? I'm getting rid of everything. Every last thing. I'm keeping my books, my clothes, and a few bowls and cups for the dorm life. It's so strange. It's downright otherworldly.

And I have four words for you: Extra. Long. Twin. Sheets.

Give me about five to six more years and maybe I'll be settled back into the domestic life. Maybe sooner, actually. We're shooting for age 30 here. It's weird that I'm not even 25 yet. But I will be living in the dorms as a 25 year old.

That, well, that's the strangest thing of all.

The World Wide Web and Chavi.

I have plenty of responding/writing to do about my Faith post, especially since I received several e-mails on the topic in addition to those in the comments field. Believe me, that will probably come Sunday night after some weekend reflection.

But for now, I wanted to post about my last night.

This whole Web 2.0 thing boggles my mind. Twitter, for example. I signed up for it eons ago, and only a couple months ago did I finally log back in and take the time to realize that it wasn't nearly as difficult as I was making it out to be. In fact, there wasn't much to it, and now I'm pleasantly addicted to it. It's sort of like when I got my BlackBerry and it took me a full two days to really feel like I was in sync with it, and not that I was too old and outside the generational gap for that kind of technology.
So last night I went to my first tech-style meetup: A Tweetup. It was at a bar in downtown Chicago on Clark Street and was instigated by some folks at the Chicago Tribune via Twitter and the Chicago Tribune site. The meetup was actually meant for folks of all e-stripes: Flickr users, bloggers, Twitter users, etc. And boy was the showing impressive. I showed up in time to get myself a fancy paper Chicago Tribune hat (which I proudly display here, of course), not to mention a prized "Spoiler Alert" sign held by a one Stephanie Izard -- Top Chef Chicago winner! It's probably as close as I'll ever get to Stephanie, so I'll take what I can get.

But Stephanie, if you're reading this (which you probably aren't), mazel tov on the win and THANK YOU for holding the "Spoiler Alert" sign. Yes, folks, I'm a huge geek.

After my time with the Twitterers and other folks, I headed up north to Belmont and Sheffield for a meetup hosted by OyChicago.com, a website for Jews "in the Loop." I ended up settling in nicely with a crowd of cool folks, including a super cool Sarah Follmer, who has written a few articles for OyChicago already. It was a pretty stellar time, organized by the awesome folks at OyChicago. I just wish I had eaten dinner so I could have stayed longer. But alas, I wasn't feeling so hot so heading out was only very natural. Did I mention that I was a featured Jew You Should Know on the OyChicago site? Yah. So I'm sort of almost but not really at all famous.

I have to say the Web world has swept me up and has me in its grips. I'm a contributor at HeatEatReview.com and JewsbyChoice.org, not to mention that I have this blog and my weight loss blog as well. Really, the e-world is my oyster and slowly but surely I'm taking it by storm. People recognize me on the street (and someone last night at the Tweetup knew me from an event I'd posted) from my "work" on Yelp.com, as well. I'm busy on Facebook and BrightKite, and my Flickr account is growing since I bought a Pro Account, and some of my photos were even used on a music blog!

It's such a big place, the web is. And I'm glad to be so interwoven into it all. Let's just hope that when I head back to school in a couple months I have the same amount of time to devote to these passions I have for social media and networking.

A Birthright.

I'm standing just off the curb near the bus stop, watching taxicabs and cars zip by, waiting for a free space in the traffic to make it across Broadway. Really, I'm at ease -- my skirt flapping wildly in the wind; gale force winds have painted the day. I wanted very much to just stand there, eyes closed, early summer wind brushing over and around me, making my kosher-for-shul skirt dance. And then there's a clearing, and I run, sandles clicking against the ground, and I'm thinking: when did skirts become oppressive. And then I'm thinking: I should blog about this and shul tonight and about how it's hard to fight the urge to blog after something beautiful whips around your mind making it difficult to think -- you must get the words out in some form, else they'll continue to stir up and around making it uneasy to concentrate, to breathe.

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I showed up 15 minutes late to shul. I followed a young couple in and as they were picking through the headcoverings I opened the sanctuary door to find it empty. I tucked myself into their space and asked if they knew what time services were. I then found out that sometimes they have services in the basement, in the room where on my first visit to the Orthodox shul they'd had a Shabbat dinner and where I'd scooted myself into an already-full table of Jews. I plodded down the steps and there, in the big room, were crowded dozens of congregants separated women from men by a lace curtain divider. I (reluctantly) grabbed my transliterated (brown) siddur and grabbed a seat. The men's side was pretty hoppin', and the woman I'd run into mentioned that when they have services downstairs, there's dancing and lively(er) singing. Now, I'd skipped a service at the Conservative shul because I was hoping to avoid acoustic guitars and the like, so it was funny that the Orthodox shul had a similar thing going down; but rest assured, there were no drums or guitars or anything aside from the voices -- the beautiful voices -- of the congregants.

I quickly found my place in the siddur, but realized for the first time at the Orthodox shul that I really loathe the transliterated version. The thing is, the transliteration does that whole "s" versus "t" bit from the Ashkenazi/Sephardi pronunciations and it just throws me. I know the prayers, but when you're staring at a transliterated page you have a tendency to read what you're given and it's just frustrating. If only everything weren't so ... fast. Yes, if things were slower I could probably keep up in the Hebrew. But at the same time, the pace is what enthralls and excites me. There is so much, so very much, and all of it is beautiful. I found myself marveling tonight at how quickly I was moving along in some of the prayers you find in all shuls for the ma'ariv. I wouldn't change the service at all. It's me who needs to change. The Hebrew needs to be like a second skin, a glove. I should be able to open the siddur and know precisely where we are in the service, know the words and the melodies. And in due time, well, I'll be there.

And there was dancing. On the men's side, anyhow. The women sort of smiled and looked on over the divider as the rabbi and several other (also rabbis) danced in a circle. I wish I could convey the beauty that emanates from this congregation when they're singing and davening. It's like our entire past, all of our ancestors, are in the room voices belting loudly in many different melodies making the most serene sound. I can close my eyes and it's as if the entire room has become Israel -- the people, the entire congregation. And that, of course, is what Shabbat is meant to be. I've never experienced that before, that washed over feeling of generations past and present alive in the voices of those singing and davening.

But then there is the guilt. I left services, opting to skip out on a (most likely delicious) Shabbat dinner to go home. The day left me weary -- the heat was suffocating and the wind left me feeling worn. I need sleep, it's true, and I have many a plan for the weekend (not partying hard, folks, but going to a green market and chalk art festival and book fair). The entire week drifted by seemingly without any sleep, and despite the joy and absolute happiness I feel when joining a Shabbat table, I knew I needed to come home. I trekked down the street and, seeing two buses coming, stopped at the corner and waited. As I stood there, people leaving the Orthodox shul walked by, and a feeling of dread overcame me. I began to think, What will they think of me? Am I being judged? Should I just start walking so they think perhaps I was just taking an idle break?
No one said anything to me. They probably didn't even notice me. I'm sure there are plenty of people who take the bus -- not everyone lives in the eruv or within walking distance, right? I was over-thinking it. But having already started thinking about blogging about services, I'd also turned on my Blackberry, which I subsequently (and shamefully) shoved in my bag. The bus came, I hopped on, pulled out Potok, and read the entire way home.

And now, we're back to where we began.

I'm trying to figure out how to reconcile a lot of things. From what I hear, this (modern) Orthodox shul isn't like other Orthodox shuls. The rabbi is one of a kind. The people? Also unique. The atmosphere? You won't find it anywhere else. I'm beginning to worry: Is this going to turn into another situation like with my "starter shul" back in Nebraska? Will it come to be that no shul on the planet will be able to compare with this shul? On the same note, is this synagogue "acceptable" in its Orthodoxy or is it talked about by the folks up in West Rogers Park and Skokie? Scratch that. Now that I think about it, every year I guess there's a mass migration of new families from this Orthodox shul up to the Orthodox neighborhoods in the near suburbs. They even have little reunions I guess. So yes, it's kosher.

Why am I asking all these questions? Who cares?

While standing in services, not paying attention to the prayer, my eyes floated through the lace curtain to all the young bachelors. I began to wonder (so much thinking going on) whether -- if I really wanted to land me a nice Orthodox boy -- this whole conversion debacle would make someone apprehensive about me, even if I had chosen to convert Orthodox. Would it keep someone from loving me? From accepting me? And how would I handle that. Is it even worth it? Afterall, I've been known to be in love with goyim (past and present).

Oy. My head hurts from all the thinking, but this is what shul does to me. I go, I experience something beautiful, I leave, I begin to think. Sometimes I wonder if my approach to Judaism is too academic, too serious, too fretful. And then I step back and look at those words and think of the sages and great thinkers and realize no, this is precisely what I'm meant to do. It's who I am.

It's my birthright.

A Photo Montage, minus the montage.

I trekked around my neighborhood yesterday taking photos for a Yelp project. There were a lot of beautiful textures and unique oddities to be seen, and here are a few of the photos. The rest can be seen over on my Flickr page.



Oh, and also, there are pictures up from the Death Cab for Cutie concert that I attended at the Pritzker Pavilion here in Chicago. Check those out as well!

Life is AWESOME!

Let's deconstruct this e-mail.

Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2008 09:31:25
Subject: Happy Administrative Assistants Day

Please enjoy some pecan nut roll and cake in the Workroom. Don’t forget lunch will be held in Walker 302 at noon.

For starters, I never thought I'd be an administrative assistant (read: secretary) for more than a few months. Here I am, a whole year and a few days later, still doing it. Thank G-d I'm going back to school. Secondly, the nut roll and cake? Happy Pesach! Not to mention the lunch meal that I won't be able to eat. Awesome! It's convenient, as well, that this whole shebang was planned for when the other Jew in the department is out for Pesach with her kids. Coincidence? I think not (you see, she keeps fully kosher, and I think some might find that irritating when it comes to ordering food for staff lunches).

Luckily my dinner last night was SO AWESOME I can't wait to eat it again today.

Child abuse.

This morning on the Red Line, a woman got on at Sox-35th with her child. This woman proceeded to smack the child around for the next few stops until I got off at Garfield. The kid was playing with a newspaper, and this woman was hitting him, slapping him (or was it a her? I couldn't see). People on the train just stared -- what do you do?

I got off the train and went up to the train conductor, who upon my talking to her gave me the nastiest look.

There's a woman on the train smacking her kid around
----She just got off the train, whatchu want me to do about it? (Points to a woman walking by with two kids)
No, she didn't, she's sitting in the back of the train, hitting her child.
----Where she at?
In the back of this train car, the first train car.

The conductor gave me a nasty look and then went to check it out. As I was riding the escalator up, she was back in her position, driving the train car away from the station. She did nothing. She just wanted me out of her face. I was distressed.

I couldn't get out of the train and go about my day without saying something. I didn't know what else to do, and I thought perhaps the lady would stall at the station, call to the security upstairs (there's always security at the Garfield station), and maybe they'd hop on the train and watch. Call child services? Something. Anything.

If this woman was willing to beat her child in public -- and, I'll be honest here, my parents spanked me in public all the time, and I don't think there's anything wrong with it, but this woman was just wailing on the child for no reason -- imagine what she does in the privacy of her own home. Child abuse is such a serious problem, but -- like those on the train -- we mostly remain mum about it.

I didn't know what else to do. But the image of that child being smacked around while the passengers looked on in horror is going to stay with me all day, if not longer. Sigh.

Today, and my life.

While looking for some new music on iTunes yesterday, I happ'd upon a series of language learning podcasts that happen to be free. Now, I imagine that there are about a million of these out there for Modern, Conversational Hebrew, but I thought I'd give this one a go, and it turns out to be incredibly well produced and very easy to listen to. There's a website, which I imagine can direct you to the iTunes, over at LearnHebrewPod.com.

I managed to get out and about today, grabbing some groceries, through the goods in the crockpot (I'm making Crockpot Creamy Italian Chicken, and boy does it smell good), head back out to Crate and Barrel where I grabbed a pepper grinder and a brand new shiny grapefruit-eating device. I have to say thanks to Kosher Academic for giving me my first taste of grapefruit at last week's shabbat lunch. I then went to the bookstore to see if there were any good Pesach books, and happened to pick up two copies of the Passover Haggadah with comments by Elie Wiesel, because well, it was on sale!! So it was a good day of getting out and doing things, darn't.

For the first time, today, though, while riding the Sheridan bus downtown and watching runners along the lakefront and the skyline of Chicago's downtown get closer and bigger, I realized that the moment I leave Chicago I will most certainly be devastated. Chicago is *the* perfect American city. I missed Denver desperately when I left several years ago, because I was the happiest I'd ever been when I was living there. I was eating healthier and was active and engaged in life in so many ways. But the way I feel about Denver and the way I feel about Chicago are very different, and I know that when I'm done with school I intend to move to either of these cities. Chicago, though, holds this special, unmovable place in my heart. Everything is so close, almost scrunched, there are areas of town that are so jampacked with people and stores it almost looks dirty, but it's just the way a blue-collar city was meant to look. There are bars and little joints selling burgers and dogs on every corner. Cars are unnecessary and the lake is right there. People go out, they do things, and without their cars. It's a moving city that rarely ever sleeps, but not in the same manner as a place like New York. The people here are -- for the most part -- friendly, working people who know what it means to earn and lose a buck. Yes, it's gentrifying like every other city in the U.S., but it will never lose it's classic roots that define it as a rough-and-tumble town where people work to get by, where people stop in after work for a beer, and it's easier than you'd think to become a regular just about anywhere.

So there we are. On that note, I can say that I also realized today that I am happier right now, in this very moment, than I have been in quite some time. I feel good about where I'm going, and I feel good about where I am right now. I have a solid group of friends, including several who I can talk to about the most personal, emotionally devastating events in my life. I'm excited about what I will be doing with my life, and I feel like there are big, big things in store for me. I feel like I'm on my feet. I feel like there is nothing that will keep me down, and that I am growing evermore every day in my Judaism and identity of the self. I feel like I'm doing really well with my blogging, and that, if anything, maybe I'm helping someone out there in some way. Basically, folks, I feel good. And it feels so, so good.

The Great Divide: Conservative Judaism in the 21st Century.

So ... Shabbat Shalom, friends.

I've sort of taken on a, well, academic endeavor into Conservative Judaism. I realize that I have slowly floated away (more or less) from Reform Judaism, in which I converted. Now, I have to give the precursor that the Reform Judaism that I converted into in Lincoln, Nebraska, in my mind, is nothing like the Reform Judaism I have found anywhere else. The Reform Judaism there is filled with people who are active in the shul, everyone knows each other, the same people go to services every week, it's just very close-knit. I mean, not everyone keeps kosher or davens daily or anything, but it felt more genuine. Like the people were there because they believed in Judaism, not necessarily Reform Judaism, but Judaism itself. It never felt like church. It never felt like the Protestant Reform Judaism that I've witnessed elsewhere. I went to shul, it was shul.

But as I grow, and as I learn and explore what it means to be religious or observant or devout in Judaism, I realize more and more that what Reform Judaism is (with the exception of that which I came into, which is always the sweetest) is not the kind of Judaism that I practice or want to practice. I don't mean to offend, and I know I have Reform readers. But in my mind, it has become all the more clear that it -- in my mind, once again -- is insincere, it's like, a show. A repetitive, droning show that no one really wants to be at. The b'nai mitzvah celebrations are benign and the kids -- it would appear -- are not having to learn much of any Hebrew to become b'nai mitzvah. The people look bored, except when they're noshing at the pre-oneg or scarfing desserts afterward at the oneg. It's more about socializing than anything. It's like, belonging to a club. A club where you see people and you say hi and then you listen to some guy speak and it lasts way too long and then you go home and that's that. It feels like church to me anymore. It doesn't feel passionate. And I know that it depends on the shul, but I've been to shuls in Denver and Washington DC and New York and Nebraska and Chicago. And save for the one in New York and my home shul, I'm just not getting it. It's so suburban and benign. And the idea that I keep "somewhat" Kosher or -- G-d forbid -- go to shul every week or study the Torah portion or want to go INTO Judaic studies just astounds many of my Reform/Secular friends.

So as time has pressed forward, I have found myself more and more leaning toward Conservative Judaism. But then I realized, I really, truthfully, know nothing about Conservative Judaism except that it was birthed as a middle-ground, to keep the shtetl Jews who wanted to Americanize but keep their traditions. Reform was too lazy, Orthodox was too crazy. So what is Conservative? What does it say? What is its function? What is it all about?

And so I found a paper by Jack Wertheimer, "The Perplexities of Conservative Judaism." I read this paper with great interest last week on the train ride home from work. I often find it incredibly difficult to focus on reading anymore on the train, but this had me glued. I'll admit, too, that the "lazy" and "crazy" lines are taken right out of his paper, because his comments on the issue of what Conservative Judaism strives to achieve really struck me and actually are what made me realize that what I know about the movement could fit on a single page of paper. Says Wertheimer,

"In religion as in other areas of life, disunity and disorganization can be symptoms of a deeper confusion. A wag once memorably classified Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform Judaism as, respectively, 'crazy, hazy, and lazy.' The 'hazy,' at least, is not inaccurate."

At this point I realized that what I didn't know and now did know made sense. You have this middle-ground movement that is losing members left and right to, well, the left and right -- Orthodox and Reform. Why? Because of the hazy. Conservative Judaism, it would appear from this paper and other documents I've poked at, doesn't know what it's doing with itself. In its beginnings the rabbis had things one way and the lay community had things another way. I also didn't realize that there is no defining body of Conservative Judaism, but rather the body of rabbis and then the organization for the synagogues. What's more, Orthodox and Reform leaders predict the movement will go defunct in the next 10 to 20 years, for lack of membership.

It makes sense, of course. I am sure there are those within the movement who keep strictly kosher and walk to shul and edge on Modern Orthodox, but perhaps who grew up in the movement with parents or grandparents who came to the states and vowed to not maintain orthodoxy. And then there are those who go every now and again, enjoy a nice pork chop, but appreciate the services with their bounty of Hebrew or perhaps simply grew up in the movement. So what do these individuals do? Over time, they shift, one way or the other. It's only a natural progression, nu?

So here I am. I have a few books here from the library, including "Conservative Jewry in the United States" by Goldstein (which surveys the demographic and trends among the community), as well as "Conservative Movement in Judaism" by Elzar, which is, well, what you would expect. Avi has suggested some texts to me off the Conservative movement's website, and, well, we'll see if I can't pick those up locally or up in Skokie and then go from there.

The thirst for knowledge is strong in this one, believe that folks. I just want to understand what the movements have to say -- while knowing, of course, that within every movement are a million microcosms of different ideals and beliefs and systems of living the law. Then, perhaps, I can figure out why I feel as though I'm in this weird dimension of floating around, feeling like I don't necessarily fit anywhere, but at the same time craving the organized chaos of a Sabbath service. I mean, I feel fine at the Conservative shul. I love it, I really do. But if there is this tension and confusion that I don't know about, I'd rather be prepared than hit head-on when people start defecting to the other movements en masse. I feel like "Jews in Space" or something. Trying to find a planet that will accommodate my specifications, if that makes sense.

So with all that in mind, Chavi shall search for a place to land that has more to offer than simply oxygen and challah.

Be well, and Shabbat Shalom.

My Big Fat Jewish Day, Part II

So I wrote yesterday about my Big Fat Jewish Morning on my way to work. Well, today was ... quite the same. What's the deal? Am I just more conscious or what? I feel like there's something I'm supposed to get from all of this. I can't figure it out. ARGH! The universe is so WEIRD!

+ I injured my leg over the past two days, with it coming fully to a head last night where I overextended it and basically jacked up my knee. I woke up this morning, unable to walk. Thus, I got on the horn and called the orthopedic clinic and they set me up to come down in the early afternoon. I got there, and my doctor, was Dr. Cohen. Now, aside from this being a coincidence (there are a million doctors named Cohen), the guy was sort of nuts. He started talking about chances are a cyst behind my knee popped, causing pain in my leg, and could result in a blood clot which could cause me to DIE. I was freaked out. Thinking, "I just wanted to get my leg checked out, come on." So he sent me away to this other place where they do ultrasounds and things, to get my leg on the ultrasound to make sure I had no clots.

+ I stop at Subway to grab some lunch (it was that or McDonald's) in the half-hour I have to burn between appointments. I grab my food and sit down, look at the table across from me to find an African-American gal with a magen David necklace. She looks, I look, we smile, both on our phones. Then, this guy who was at the Young Adult function three weeks ago walks by, looks in as if recognizing me, and then keeps on walking. I can't remember his name.

+ I head to the building for the ultrasound, where I sit in another waiting room. A man and his wife come in and he is wearing cowboy boots and a nice rural getup. He picks up a copy of the New York Times. His wife asks him what he's reading about. He then says the following:

I'm reading about Germany. (pause, then he says louder) They're building another memorial, you know? Because of the Nazis. (pause) Do you see any other countries doing that? No. (pause, he looks at the cover of the paper and then looks at his wife, laughs) New York Times. (pause) Not going to agree with much in here.

I couldn't help it. I felt like he was talking to me.

+ I leave the appointment, get on the bus, and head north to the Walgreens where I get my prescriptions filled. I get off at Belmont to the sound of chanting, flags waving, people in traditional Palestinian scarves. Israel flags, a few, are waving in the blustery, cold wind. A little man approaches me with a flier and I look up at the crowd and back at him and say "Fuck that." I walk away a bit and turn around to watch as the cops pile on the crowd in front of the theater. The little man waddles up. "I'm with YOU!" he says and points at the Jewish star around my neck, glistening like some badge of honor or something. He hands me a flier, goes back to his little group and brings another and says "Join us on Saturdays!" He explains to me that they're protesting the Israeli film festival -- a one-night event. I slowly gather that there are three groups of people here: 1) Palestinians and their supporters, calling for a free Palestinian state and the destruction of Israel and its power in the world; 2) Jews from "Not in My Name," a group of Jews who sympathize with the Palestinians and call for an end to the atrocities; 3) Jews who believe the "Not in My Name" folks are a hindrance to the Jewish cause and are sporting the Israel flag with pride -- they are the smallest group there.

Had it not been for the fact that my knee and leg were killing me, that I needed to get my prescription, and that I was lacking a scarf, gloves and a hat, I would have stuck around. The cops were really coming in and the chants were getting more heated. "Zionism is Racism" and "Zionism = World War 3" and "Down with Israel." Now, I've posted plenty about the issues of Palestinian/Israelis, but I looked at this particular protest as moronic. It's a freaking film festival. Yes, freedom of speech, amen and all that. But come on. Protest something else, like call for political action. Don't protest a freaking film festival. Sigh.

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But that was the big Jewish day. It was all in a period of about 5 or 6 hours. I mean, it was strange. Or maybe it wasn't. Either way, peculiar and makes me wonder about myself. I feel like I'm in a really weird place emotionally, physically, professionally, religiously, and in general. So here we are. I had a lot I wanted to talk about Jewishly, but we'll leave this at this right now.

Shalom, friends.

Work, Stress, Exhaustion, and Shul.

Note: This is a long post, but it's meaningful. To me, anyway. I hope you read the whole thing. And if you don't? Well, you've saved yourself a slice from my life.

Yesterday -- that's Friday for those of you keeping score but not a calendar -- will go down in history as the Worst Day Ever in my Career as a Minion to Some Guy Who Thinks He's More Important Than Everyone Else. I've complained about my job in the past, but at this point I'll say I've hit my threshold. I've never in my life been thrown under the bus (I'd never used that expression before this job) or walked all over like a ratty Thrift Store rug this many times. I've never been treated so poorly, nay, treated like a complete waste of space, before in my life. I have also never met a human being in my life as ungrateful as the person that I work for. Every detail of my job basically comes down to kissing ass, bowing down, and doing it all without breaking into tears and/or telling said boss how I REALLY feel or what I REALLY think he should do with that thing HE misplaced, not me.

So I left work early yesterday, around 3 p.m. I went straight home, and when I got there, I checked my e-mail, paced around the room, and at 5:15, took an Ambien CR and called it a day. My doctor prescribed them for me months ago, but after taking them two or three times, I realized that the CR (controlled release) was a myth and that I was left feeling like complete crap for a full 24 hours AFTER waking up. But for days like yesterday, when you want to go into a coma and sleep at least 12-15 hours, it's perfect. It'll zonk you out enough so that when you do wake up every hour or so, you feel so horrible you have to close your eyes and force yourself back to sleep.

I know this isn't a healthy philosophy on life or sleep or a job. And I get that. I really do. I never expected to be working as someone's administrative assistant for as long as I have been, not me, not the girl with a bachelor's in journalism who spent some time at two of the nation's biggest newspapers. Life doesn't always fit the magical plan though and I blew it by not heading to Michigan and declining acceptance last year. But I'm in the process of righting that wrong. It's all the bullshit I have to put with to right that wrong that is slowly killing me.

People ooo'd and ahh'd at Heath Ledger when he died. Sleeping pills, they said. He couldn't sleep. He was strung out. He was tired, he was exhausted. He had too much on his plate. He once took two Ambiens and woke up an hour later. And I get it. I get how that feels. Where every little thing you do just feels like this gigantic weight placed on your head, like you're balancing it all and at any minute it's going to all crash to the ground and you'll have nothing but a pile of broken stuff at your feet. And you cry. And then you hit the wall, take some pills, and hope for the best. You hope to sleep. For once, to really sleep. To really feel like you've slept. Not the nights where you wake up constantly or are semi-conscious the entire time.

I now GET why my dad is so worn out. I get why that glitzy star was worn out.

I'm too young to really allow myself the pain of sleep deprivation. I'm too young to allow myself to be so stressed out about a job I don't even care about. But all of these things just hit me yesterday, and as I sat in my supervisor's (technically my "boss" isn't really my "boss") office with the light glaring through the mini-blinds at me, I realized I was done. I started bawling. "I can't do this anymore," I said. The thought of having to search for another job just to pass the time until I get those acceptance or denial letters haunts me. I don't want to job search. I don't want to sit in stale offices and interview for something I don't care about. Something "just to pay the bills." I want to save some money and finally pay off that last bit on my credit cards, I really do.

I'm just tired of being treated like shit and feeling like a zombie (sans brain consumption), day after day.

So there's that. The past two days have been absolutely miserable and I forced myself out of bed this morning, despite the urge to just stay there, all day, staring at the ceiling. I was awake, wide-eyed at 7 a.m. So I hauled my heavy body out of bed and got a peach from the crisper. I sat in the dark, in my bed, in my pajamas, and ate the peach. Ian would have killed me for that. He never let me eat in bed; but Ian's a part of that past of those things. So I ate my peach, threw away the peach pit, and got on the computer. My far-away friend Thom was there, thank heavens, and as we exchanged e-mails about whether I should or shouldn't go to shabbat services this morning, his final "just gos" were enough to put me in the shower, into some fairly decent clothes, and out the door to 9:30 service at the nearby Conservative shul.

Before I left home, I was examining the possibilities. There were a dozen different services at the synagogue today, and I didn't know what half of them were. I saw that the 9:30 service included a bar mitzvah, so I figured it was the most "normal" of the Saturday sabbath services. I didn't want to encroach on a minyan, because, damnit, I just don't get the Conservative service yet. I love it, because it feels more full, it's more filling than the Reform service, but I don't get the rhythm of it.

To me, Conservative service is like organized chaos. And it's beautiful.

I was at shul for THREE hours this morning. It wouldn't have felt like three hours, but the entire row of pre-teens behind me yapping for the entire three hours kept me aware of the time; they were keeping tabs, that is. It was the first bar mitzvah service I've ever been to where the bar mitzvah doesn't feel like a sideshow. I try to avoid such services because -- in the Reform movement anyway -- the kid typically sputters through a few things in Hebrew and gets blessed and all we have to talk about at the end of the day is how squeaky his voice was. At the service today, the kid LED the service. The integration was impeccable. Now, this kid was particularly well-spoken. His d'var Torah was about Jethro, not the decalogue. He talked about how leaders cannot do everything themselves, about how it is our responsibility as a community to assist and it is the responsibility of the leader to ask for help. Nothing can be done alone.

This kid's a fucking genius, I thought.

It took me a while to get into the flow of the service, but I magically always figured out where we were on the page. It's like the words glow and stick out and say "yo! we're here!" The sanctuary -- which, might I add, was beautiful -- was pretty full for what I'm used to and the bouncer at the door was shoving yarmulkes on the heads of everyone coming in late. People came in and out the entire three hours. This is something sort of foreign to me, as I show up early, and leave when it's over. Though, the next time I might have to step out for one of my Weight Watchers-prescribed snacks, lest my stomach start participating in the responsive reading. I also loved how there were many different aliyas for the Torah portion. How different people read and the bima seemed like it was exploding with people wandering about, singing and chanting and talking. When the Torah came around people filled the lower aisles and I just stood there, not wanting to fight the rush for an encounter with the scrolls. The best part, though, was that the chumashim were Etz Chaim, my chumash of choice. I liked having the full-size version; it's better on the eyes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is -- I felt like I was at shul.

One of the things I notice right away about the Conservative service is that everything is read so quickly. You can go through two pages silently in 30 seconds. Even the responsive stuff is hard to keep up with. I'm going to have to master my Hebrew speed reading. Maybe this is why the Reform service feels like it lags and drags and moves at a snail's pace. But then I wonder, are we missing the quality, for the quantity? Maybe there's a middle ground I haven't found yet.

I was glad I went, though. I'm glad I went out in the cold and trudged down to shul and sat there with those obnoxious tweens behind me talking about haircuts and only chiming in with their tone deaf voices when it seemed like parents were glaring back at them. I'm glad I got to experience that kid's bar mitzvah, even if I might never see him again. I attempted to wish him a hearty Mazel Tov afterward, but he was busy. I'm glad that I got to experience the chazzan, who I can't believe I haven't mentioned yet. The man has the voice of thousands of years of Jewish chanting -- it's mesmerizing, and it makes me get how people can sit there for hours on end, even if they're not participating. It's like attending a classical concert, every week, mostly for free. I'm glad I got to experience all three rabbis. At least, I think the three guys who led the services were the rabbis. I'm glad I got to sit in that huge sanctuary, watching and listening the different way the people around me recreated Sinai.

I guess it was the perfect week to go. After the crap of the past few days, it fit. I gathered with the tribe and we stood at the base of Sinai and listened to this bar mitzvah read to us the decalogue, the 10 Commandments. In our hearts we were there, in our minds we were there. It was emotional, and I'm not saying that to be cheesy or to make it more important than it was.

So I think I've found a new home. I need to do some more exploring and figure out what all those people my age were doing up until the last hour or so of the services when they finally joined us. Then I need to do whatever it was they were doing. It's not so important to belong, but to figure out the flow of the 30 different services on any given Saturday and then fit myself in.

Until then, though. I'm going to settle in for a Shabbos Nap and hope that when I wake up, the snow has stopped and my eyes are unheavy.

Shabbat Shalom, friends.

Chicago Winters.

Despite being sick, the fact that I more or less haven't left my apartment in going on three days now is giving me serious anxiety and cabin fever. I live in a studio, and there isn't far to go. Television can only last you so long and the books I'm attempting to read, well, I just can't focus on them. So, despite the fact that my browser tells me it's 3 degrees outside, I'm going to go out. It's dangerous and ridiculous and I should stay in, I know, but I just NEED to get out. So I'm going to bundle up like nobody's business and trek to the tea shop and do some reading. Everything I do absolutely winds me (including taking a shower, imagine that), but I just need out. It's times like this that I wish I A) had cable or B) had an apartment with multiple rooms or C) had a La-Z-Boy. But I don't. So, I leave. I brave the cold, and hope I don't die or get frostbite. It's times like this that I also wish I A) had a head for hats or B) had long hair. Shabbat Shalom, friends.

Mucus Production, Level 5, Third Corridor.

I'm sick. Yes, I wasn't feeling this crappy yesterday. My throat had progressively started to get scratchier and more sore. But today, today I wake up throat closed up, breathing difficult, throat aching, ears clogged, nose congested and draining at the same time. I rolled over to look at the clock, which read 6:38 a.m. and my body screamed at me in all ranges of achy. I rolled over, threw back the blankets, and groaned. I got up, walked over to the table where my box of tissues resided, and I almost burst into tears. I swear, every time I really need a tissue, I have just run out. I ended up e-mailing in that I was staying home. Eating a banana. Crawling into bed. And going comatose. Over the past two to three weeks everyone at work has been sick. I suppose it was expected.

Mom e-mailed, told me to stay in bed (where I presently am) and to drink lots of OJ. There are are least three different places within a block of my apartment where I could get OJ, including a Jewel and 7-11. But I haven't even been able to bring myself to turn on the light, let alone put on shoes and leave my apartment. I made my soup in the dark. Toasted my toast in the dark. Buttered my toast in the dark. Changed clothes in the dark. And now I'm sitting in the dark.

I think I might go back to sleep.