After the Fallen Matzo Ball

So there we were, all three of us: me, George, and the big fat matzo ball hanging out between us. What could I do but follow George's lead? So I'd play the same card. It's a card known by Donald Trump's hairstylist, by Britney Spears' ex-husbands, and the Inventor of Crocs. It's the "Let's pretend that didn't happen" card. Ever-calm and controlled, George was slick with this move.Ever-sensitive, genuine, and klutzy, I...tried.

For weeks, I buried my feelings during shared breakfast smoothies following romantic sleepovers, bbq dinners at George's place, and snuggle-time for the purpose of watching Millionaire Matchmaker.  We even took a merry trip to Lake Tahoe. There, George and I played in the snow, ate at buffets, toured the town, ate at buffets, shared a cozy hotel room and yada yada, and we ate at buffets.

On the drive home from Tahoe, though, a surge of emotions struck. A silent waterfall of tears scurried down my face. "I love him, but he doesn't love me," I thought. "Stop it. You're always too negative," I re-thought. "Yeah, but he never expresses his feelings," I counter-thought. And so on. And then I'd stop crying. But then I'd start again. I positioned myself to look out the window and managed to stop long enough, after stretches of time, to chat a bit: "You doing okay with the drive? The snow looks beautiful."

Yet memories and questions badgered me--my ex-husband and the insurmountable pain that resulted from our fall-out, the fact that George hadn't even called me his girlfriend yet, and the timing of the whole thing. It'd been six weeks. Isn't that enough time? When does a matzo ball expire?

Alas, the long drive was over. I dropped my bag on George's hallway floor, when he noticed that I'd been crying. "What's wrong?" his tone conveyed warmth and nervousness.


to be continued.
 

Whence I Dropped the Big Matzo Ball on George's Lap

  Preface: Remember George? Me too, and here's an awkward moment between us. See, I desperately wanted everything to be okay despite our political differences. It's been five months since the break-up, so it's not too soon to embarrass myself with this scene. It's never too soon for that, I suppose...Enjoy.

  Seemingly out-of-the blue, George argued about governmental regulations and all the red-tape involved in running your own business. Or perhaps he was ranting about light-bulbs - that they're not the wattage or voltage or something as advertised. I don't know, but he injected the phrase: "damn liberals who want governmental control."
   "Everyone wants the government out of our businesses," this damn liberal countered. "Less government sounds good to everyone." There. I'd begun to level the playing field. I COULD be a relationship with a R...R...someone on the other side of the political spectrum.
   I continued with confidence and pride. "Stupid incompetents rise to the top in every system. And California loves regulations. That's just a fact, having nothing to do with the political leanings of those who create all the red tape."
   I was on a roll. Thing is, I don't debate well and I hate to argue. But I really liked George, and I needed to prove to him and to me that we could work as a couple. So I babbled about hippie-dippy systems and big corporations, about how slews of regulations govern all. As I heard myself talk, I thought: That's pretty damn good. You're making good points. But then I heard myself say: "And I love you." 
   Holy sh*t and oy vey! I'd dropped the big matzo ball* on George's lap, only two weeks into our courtship. Awkward.
   Within a fraction of a second, George appeared terrorized. He then continued, with calmness and control, and as if he hadn't heard the raucous matzo ball that could be detected by the rabbis lost in prayer at Jerusalem's Western Wall. "Now they have those energy saving bulbs and..."
   "Excuse me, while I go potty," I told him.
   I looked at myself in the mirror, my face flushed with complete and utter embarrassment. Maybe he didn't hear me? "Big, big matzo ball you let fly. Really big," I whispered to my reflection. Gulp.
  
-to be continued sometime.
*Watch this Seinfeld snippet for reference.

The Week Before Yom Kippur & A Message to Kim Davis

Preface: Has Beans Cafe in Chico is home to a wonderful Thursday night Open Mic.The talented cast has become my local family, and I recite poetry several times a month. My most recent poem follows. It's not erotica; I couldn't figure out how to sex-up Labor Day or the Jewish New Year. Instead, Kim Davis and her buds inspired this one.

If you want to see and hear me, bless you. It's here.
Happy New Year to the Jewish world, and happy new week to all!

PS I just noticed that my Rabbi wished all a happy 5776. Oops. One of us is a year off. We won't correct a Rabbi, though. Smiles. 

Striking a Pose for the Labor Movement!

I'm inspired by Brandon and Bryan's interpretation of Labor Day, so inspired that I dusted off this 'ole post. It's not nearly as entertaining as A Beer for the Shower's, but I'm rushed by a surge of pro-labor adrenaline. Enjoy!~~~~

That’s me on the left of each photo. I was a hell-raiser back in 1998...and once since then. Wink. I helped organize this strike, was a union steward, published a chapter newsletter, and participated in contract negotiations. During one shining moment of said negotiations, the CEO interrupted me, and I abruptly asserted, "I don't appreciate being interrupted." She shut-up.

We were flying high, until we caved two days later. All was not lost. I wrote the warmhearted song to follow. To appreciate this diddy, you should know that: (1) the CEO had an unusual frame, involving big hips and a tiny waist, and (2) she was impeached by her own peers a few years later.

Before the song, a shout-out to laborers everywhere. I remain grateful to workers who gave their lives for the cause of an 8 hour day and 40 hour week.

We Will Survive
aka Ode to a Big-Hipped WomanSung to the Tune of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive

When first we saw her hips, we were mystified.
Kept wonderin,’ “How could anyone with legs so small have hips so wide?”
We spent oh so many months just as polite as we could be.

Now we’re venting our frustrations for all the world to see
That her ego, we’ll stand no more! She’s power tripping, and her tactics we abhor!
-CEO's name- is the one who deceives us with her lies.
Does she think we’re stupid? Does she think we’ll give up all our rights?

VERSION 1, BEFORE FINAL VOTE
No, no, we won’t! We’ve too much pride.
Oh, as long as we put up a fight, we’ve justice on our side.
We’ll show that big-hipped woman that we’re not afraid to strike, and we will fight
Until she does us right.
We’re unified. We are 535! Hey, Hey!

VERSION 2, AFTER FINAL VOTE:
Look what we did; we changed our minds.
We voted for the money and set principles aside.
We showed that big-hipped woman that she can buy us out.
And so we pout, ‘cuz we ain’t got no clout.
We broke our stride, and we got fried
By someone who’s really wide. Hey, Hey!

Happy Labor Day, to those who get the day off. A good new week, to you all! xo

Chef Gordon Ramsay, The Ruthless Critic: IWSG

 google images

Hi, dear friends.
   We're back with another edition of the IWSG/Insecure Writer's Support Group, founded by our beloved Alex J. Cavanaugh.

   We all know the harsh critic, right? This person suggests major overhaul and offers no positive feedback. They might even go so far as to rip you to shreds in hopes of sabotaging your efforts.
   Well, when you're slammed by knife-piercing, soul-crushing critique, accept the criticism for what it is: garbage. Then pick yourself up and turn to nicer, more grounded people for input. Ruthless critics reveal only one thing: they have issues. Don't let them win.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chef Ramsay's dialogue in red / Robyn in black / Stagehand Macaulay Culkin in blue

I'll now role-model how to interact with a raging critic, Ladies and Gents. For this purpose, I've invited one of the most ruthless of them all, Chef Gordon Ramsay. Yo dude, come on out her, Gore Dung!

Chef Gordon Ramsay walks onto the stage, a raging lunatic. What the f*k is this place? It's rubbish, pure rubbish! And what's all that sh*t all over you, you little f*n midget?
Laughing, Robyn responds: It's Dollar Store chocolate pudding, Gore Dung. What's that? Robyn leans to the side and points towards his rear. What's what?!  The thing that's been up your *ss for years? Oh, I don't have time for this nonsense. You're pathetic! You hear me! Pathetic!

Robyn nods at stagehand Macaulay Culkin, who pokes his head out from behind the stage curtains.  Naked French Dancers! Macaulay squeals in a playful, high-pitched voice. Naked French Dancers! Where? Chef Ramsay dashes towards the curtains, unknowingly stepping onto a huge fishnet made of miscellaneous drug paraphernalia. Macaulay yanks a long rope attached to the net. Ramsay is snatched up by the net, which soars towards the stage ceiling.

You f*n little runts! I'll f*n sue your f*n *sses! Get me the f*k out of here!
 Robyn gives Macaulay a high-five and a Dollar Store chocolate pudding for his efforts.
All in a day's work, she tells him. Best work you've done - the only work you've done - since Home Alone, dude. Nice.

Rib