The annual Purim play was tonight. Purim, for those of you who don't know, is the Jewish holiday that celebrates the events of the book of Esther. It records an event in mediaeval Persia wherein the Jewish queen of the sultan successfully prevented his vizier from having all the Jews executed by begging her husband to save her people. It's traditional to have lots of food and dress in costumes and get drunk (but only if you're an adult male). Many communities put on plays of the story. We are one of them.

Have you ever seen the movie "Waiting for Guffman?" I assume many of you have. (Did you know it's almost always the most popular rental at video stores? It's always out.) If you haven't seen it, do. I will summarize our Purim play for you by the following: it' s like "Waiting for Guffman." Only without the Guffman part and not nearly so good a product. My father has played Ahasuerus (the king) for the past three years. My sister is in the chorus. It is often funny and always ridiculously embarrassing. I'm serious with the Guffman thing.

This year, the theme was "2001: A Purim Odyssey." My father had what appeared to be a bunch of paper towel rolls painted silver attached to his head. They sang "Fly Me to the Moon," "Hernando's Hideaway," and "Gangster's Paradise" with Jewish words, among other songs.

I just wrote "Jewish food" instead of "Jewish words." That may be a Freudian slip. I'm not sure. It may just be a Foodian slip.

Actually, Meg was fairly good, and Hope, the mother of Abby, my rival/admired colleague of all of Hebrew school, was very very good in an enormous dress concealing at least six children beneath it. Neither this dress nor Hope's character are actually in the Purim story. I have no idea why this bit was in there. She sang a gospel song. With Jewish words.

My father was perhaps better than some years. He still needed to pick up his cues, but he had a lot of energy, which is great.

The disturbing part, however, was another inserted story bit, in which Haman, the villain (the vizier who wanted to execute the Jews), who was dressed as Darth Vader, pled for his life. That in itself is not so unexpected, though it's not in the story. What was disturbing was that he then claimed to be a Jew and/or willing to convert, and was executed gleefully anyway. This was to justify his saying "Mordecai, I am your father" (Mordecai is the hero, the surrogate father/cousin of Esther, the queen). I still found it disturbing. There was no call for such a display of heartlessness towards one who claimed to have repented. Also it's not in the story. Not that that has ever stopped this community before. Anyway, it left me severely disturbed. But I'm trying to ignore it.

I'm going to New York on Thursday with Mama! She's taking her class (she teaches a program for high school seniors that combines English and government). I went last year too. She asked me to come count heads. It'll be fun. I love New York. When I'm not there (and I've only been twice), I think it's very nice. But when I am there, I think "my God, I love this place. I love it. I am in love with it. It is so beautiful it makes my body ache." So I'm looking forward to that.

Last year we met a vampire. That was wonderful. I hope we get to go to H&M again. Is that girly? I know it is. But I love H&M. It's so eurochic!

I took the Butch/Femme Test that Jamie linked to on her site a few days ago. I came out "Soft Androgyne." I like that. It seems to suit me. I might call myself that sometimes now. I am a soft androgyne.

I also really like being able to apply the word "androgyne" to myself in any form, as it's one of my favorite words, simply for itself. Its structure is so beautiful, and the "r. . .gyne" in the middle makes me think of a lovely sort of yielding but resisting feeling. Like a delicious rubber garment. No, I don't own any rubber garments. Yes, I know they make you sweat like a sweaty dog. I just love love love when I see some in a store and I get to go pet them. Oh, they feel so good on my hands.

That was me who loves clubbing and club gear talking. Some people don't know her. But she exists. And she's the one lovingly stroking the racks of rubber miniskirts.