774 Days and Counting

My Big Bro and SIL got me the most uplifting and yet heart-rending gift for Chanukah:


It would be hilariously funny if only he hadn't actually said this stuff:

"I couldn't imagine somebody like Osama bin Laden understanding the joy of Hanukkah."

"Arbolist...look up the word. I don't know, maybe I made it up. Anyway, it's an arbo-tree-ist, somebody who knows about trees."

"We need an energy bill that encourages consumption."

Only 774 days left...

Degrees of Charity

You may recall that last year we inaugurated the new family tradition that on the third night of Chanukah Bambina would receive no gifts. Instead our family will GIVE a gift to someone else. It is so important to me that she learn the lesson of generosity. But more importantly, I want her to learn that she is lucky; that not everyone has all of her opportunities, that life is not fair to everyone, and that no matter how seemingly little we can give, we ought to give it simply because it is the right thing to do. How else to keep her perspective in the wave of presents that arrive at this time of year (for kids of all faiths)?

Anyway, as I was researching potential charities, I just kept coming back to the DC Central Kitchen

Here's why:

According to the sage Maimonides, there are eight degrees in the giving of charity, each one higher than the other:

8. When donations are given grudgingly, reluctantly or with regret.

7. When you give less than you should, but cheerfully or graciously.

6. When you give what you should but only upon being asked.

5. When you give without being asked.

4. When you give without knowing whom you are giving to, but the recipient is aware of your identity.

3. When you give without knowing the recipient's identity, and vice versa.

2. When you give anonymously.

1. When you make someone self-supporting, through a gift, or by extending a suitable interest-free loan, or by helping them find employment or establish themselves in business so as to make it unnecessary for them to be dependent on others.

I love these degrees because they really help me to focus on the important question of holiday giving, which is: where can my gift do the most good to make someone self-supporting? I also love these degrees because they encourage charity at any level. They don't require you to achieve the highest form in order to give. Instead, they say that all are honorable and worthwhile and therefore should be easy to achieve. In short, Maimonides is saying: Just Give; however you do it, just do it. And even if you start giving reluctantly, you will soon find the joy in giving when asked, then without being asked, etc.

Don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with giving a gift and getting recognition. We do it in memory or honor of people all the time. There's nothing wrong with the two parties knowing each other, in the cases where you might sponsor a child's education in Kenya, for example. But the greatest gift you can give is to make someone self-supporting so that she will never again need charity.

All of which, as I said, keeps bringing me back to the DC Central Kitchen. It's the kind of organization that accomplishes that highest level of charity that allows a person to earn respect and dignity by earning a paycheck. They certainly do give meals to those who are hungry, but they also train men and women for food service jobs, they run a fabulous catering service called Fresh Start which employs graduates of the culinary training program and which makes--I swear to you--absolutely amazing party food for individuals and organizations like the Smithsonian. The Kitchen also has a food recycling program, a Campus Kitchens project, and...what else can I say?...they simply take the notion of ending hunger seriously. The director, Robert Egger, once said at a conference I attended: If all I'm doing in ten years is serving food to the same people every day, then I will have failed. Our goal is to end hunger, and that means getting men and women prepared to have jobs, paychecks, and opportunities to succeed.

Amen.

It's No-Post Wednesday Again

See you manana.

License to Ill

Just for kicks I've started reading all the early James Bond novels, starting with From Russia With Love.

Now, I always knew that the Bond series was sexist and all British-Empire-Long-To-Reign-Over-Us-Happy-and-Glorious in theme. I got that. But have you read the books? The actual prose? Ian Fleming's writing is BEYOND sexist and BEYOND racist.

I was reading the book on the plane and was floored by references to how one guy chained a naked woman under his table and fed her scraps until she married him, and how Bond threatens to put a woman over his knee and spank her, how every pseudo-forced sexual encounter turns into ecstasy for the very lucky girl involved, and how, in describing the people in the North African nation where most of the story occurs, he paints a picture of shiftiness, savagery, stupidity, and laziness. And those were the characters HELPING Bond!

I was stunned. And mad. If he were alive, I'd have a mind to put Ian over my knee and give him a good spanking. Before I chained him naked to my table and yelled "Say my name, b**ch!!" until he relents. I figure, he's so pompous and supercilious and culturally imperialistic with his beady English eyes and his pasty white skin, that disdain and threatened violence would be the only thing he'd understand. It's in his blood, poor savage b**tard.

But Ian is not alive. So all I can do is stop reading the books, go directly to Casino Royale, and let the thought of becoming the meat between a Daniel Craig-Sean Connery sandwich take my mind off Fleming's disgusting objectification of women...

WWJD: What Would Jeff Do?

By now you've heard the earth-shattering news that Greg "The Yellow One" Page is leaving The Wiggles for health reasons. No, not MENTAL health reasons, although I can certainly sympathize with anyone who must sing "Fruit Salad Yummy Yummy" 988 times in one year. Although, I take that back. He's richer than Nicole Kidman and Russell Crowe combined, and I'm genetically unable to offer sympathy to people in certain tax brackets for any reason.

So no more Greg Wiggle. His understudy Sam will be taking over, which begs the question of whether he will become "Sam Wiggle" or whether they'll keep calling him Greg. Or will they do a Charlie's Angels type thing where Jill Munroe's cousin Kris Munroe comes to visit and voila! Hello, Cheryl Ladd, buh-bye Farrah Fawcett? Or was that Chrissy Snow's cousin Powdery Snow visiting and voila! Hello Jennilee Harrison, buh-bye Suzanne Somers? Or when Van Halen just kept firing singers till they couldn't even hire Clay Aiken? Or when Sandy Duncan moved in when Valerie Harper moved out of The Hogan Family/Valerie's Family? Or maybe it will be more like when Derwood Stevens was, like, three different guys in the space of 4 seasons of Bewitched?

I'm getting some health issues just trying to figure it all out.

Good thing Bambina is all about Jeff. About whom, I might add: someone asked whether Bambina liked him because he's Asian. I was like, "Um, no. It's because he wears a purple shirt. If Dolph "Viking Poster Child" Lundgren wore a purple shirt she'd be all into him too, Aryan credentials notwithstanding."

Okay, I didn't actually use the word "notwithstanding." I think I said something more like "Duh." Point being that purple is where it's at right now. I've spent approximately the GDP of the Federated States of Micronesia on new purple shirts in an attempt to get her to stop wearing this one, not-actually-cute purple shirt she wears night and day, day and night, every single day, even under the still-ubiquitous puppy costume. I have grown to hate that shirt, so large is its presence in her pantheon of Important Things.

Today I think we had a breakthrough. I explained to her that Jeff "The Purple One" Wiggle does indeed wear a purple shirt all the time, but it's not the same shirt every time. See? In that photo he's a cowboy! He's wearing a purple (can anyone say "gay bar"?!) shirt with tassles and (oh dear god I never noticed this before) purple chaps. See when he's in bed and we're singing "Wake Up Jeff!" He's wearing a purple nightgown! See him pretending to be an opera singer? Purple tuxedo shirt! Therefore, we must Do What Jeff Would Do. And that means we will now wear THIS purple shirt with long sleeves, pink stripes, and a pink heart in the middle. Trust me. It's still purple. And Jeff would approve.

Success! She excitedly put on the shirt, clapped her approval, smiled and giggled at her "Jeff nighttime shirt," all while I managed to follow two separate--but equally necessary--mental tracks: one to plot the destruction of the original purple shirt, and the other to ensure the health and safety of Jeff Wiggle till Bambina is in college.

Jet Blue: So D*mn Nice

Had a hellish flight experience this weekend due to weather conditions. What was supposed to be a one and a half hour flight turned into a ten hour ordeal, five of which were spent sitting on a plane on the tarmac.

Kill me now. No, really.

I was starting to get a little flippy right around Hour Four because when I made the decision to travel, white counts notwithstanding, I justified it on the basis of "oh for god's sake; it's only a 1 1/2 hour duration on the flying germ/recirculating oxygen aircraft." So as it approached that fourth hour in the plane I was starting to imagine myself in a scene from the movie Outbreak. I wore a surgical mask the entire time on the plane, but those babies only last about an hour then you have to get a new one. Luckily I was so rushed when I left the house that I just threw the whole bag of ten into my purse. I was never so grateful for sloppy, rushed packing than when the guy two rows in front of me sneezed about 6 times in that half-sneeze/half-shout way that tells you there are microscopic droplets aplenty coming at you at 120 miles per hour and no half-assed quote-unquote mask is gonna stop them.

So, short story long, I spent a good part of the ten hours in barely-restrained stress, praying to god that I was not currently breathing in dengue fever, tuberculosis or SARS. It sounds so dramatic, and it is a bit, but I had told my doctor that it was a short flight and that I'd be careful. Oops. I meant it would be a five hour plane ride and I'd be sitting right behind Typhoid Manny. My bad.

That said, what could have been an even larger nightmare was made somewhat bearable by the good people of Jet Blue airlines. The pilot came out and spoke to everyone, the flight attendants never stopped being solicitous and friendly, and the information never stopped coming regarding our chances for taking off within the next fortnight. Most importantly of all, they handed out Terra Blue potato chips like crack, which I thought was a good move weakened only by the fact that they were not also handing out gin and tonics.

So what's my point? First, if you see a woman on a plane with a mask on, don't assume she's a Michael Jackson fan. Second, if your doctor tells you to stay home and you take a trip anyway, pack extra meds. And third, if in doubt about flying conditions, make sure your employees are super nice, super friendly, super professional--and provisioned with a quantity of gourmet chips.

You're Only As Good As Your Last Email

How distressing is it that your work will now be required by law to store all of your electronic communications? The new law that went into effect on Friday codifies the practice of corporations producing electronically-stored information during the discovery phase of a trial. That means that--seriously--every single thing you email at work will be stored. Everything. On your desktop, laptop, IMs, and blackberry. Everything.

So. You may want to email your girlfriend that little shmoopy doopy love-you note (with photo) from home, loverboy. Oh, and if you need a gmail account, just let me know and I'll send you an invite. ;)