You wake up to news that the President Elect for whom you worked so hard and to whose campaign you donated time, money and jewelry, has decided not to tax gas and oil companies on their windfalls. You read that Mumbai’s Islamic terrorists tortured their Jewish victims prior to executing them. You read that Deepak Chopra–whom you never liked anyway– is fuming because someone challenged his contention that America is to blame for Islamic terrorism. You sigh, think of the hashishim and the Old Man in the Mountain and you wish Deepak were not such a silly prat. Then you realise that blaming the victim is not silly, it is contemptible and you feel that if you were not a good-Jew-in-training you would probably feel like kicking Deepak very hard on his netherlands.
You try to rally. These are bad days, yes, but at least you are not in the Congo or Darfur. You may be poor as a church mouse, bit by golly, this economic meltdown is a temporary thing. This is the land of we-can-do and hell no, the Chinese may not buy GM. You say this to yourself while drinking a cup of coffee that is supposed to taste like Maya chocolate, but that actually tastes like a mix of potting soil, sugar and unknown chemicals. This does nothing to lift your spirits.
You avoid your studio because work is not going superbly. In fact, is not going well at all. The pendant from hell continues to be hellish difficult to finish. You have not recovered from the trauma of having an antique squash blossom necklace come apart in your hands as you tried to clean it at the bathroom sink. You watched in horror as very, very old handmade bench beads tumbled down the drain and your horror grew when the man in your life severed the bathroom’s drain pipe during a well-meant but disastrously attempted bead rescue. Best to stay away from jewelry making for a while.
You turn down an invitation to go to the Walters Gallery to see 5, 000 Years of Jewellery. You would like to go, but you have a doctor’s appointment. At the doctor’s office you must get a tetanus shot–metalsmiths are forever injuring their hands–and a flu shot. The doctor proposes an array of tests which you decline, but the thought lingers–cholesterol level, blood sugar, liver function? Does she think you are dying? The doctor quickly displaces your hypochondria with a revelation, she voted for McCain. Your dear, adorable doctor is one of Those. So are several of your dear friends, for that matter. Some of them rant about lazy people being on Medicare, criminals being sprung by liberal lawyers, Welfare mothers swindling the system and all that jazz. Oy, oy, oy and gevalt! Have they been brainwashed?
Ah, well there is always soup, but today, it is a disaster–The Turkey’s Swan Song. You could take to drink. Really.
Occurs every week on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday