In my house we do the first night of Passover on the second night because of familial scheduling conflicts. On the second night, my sister-girl, her daughters, my husband, his brother and his brother's family and whatever other strays we can rope in come to my house for the seder. Marc has a box of plagues that he adds to every year. We have fake blood, rubber frogs, plastic ants, ping pong balls to stand in for hail, and way too much fun. I have a matzoh cover that my paternal grandmother made by hand and that my father remembers from his childhood eighty-odd years ago. We eat a mixed menu of sephardic and ashkenazik dishes, except for gefilte fish which I personally loathe and refuse to have in my house. And we tell the story of the Passover, using various and sundry haggadahs, because we can't find one we all agree on. My husband swears by the old Maxwell House give away. I prefer the one written by the former rabbi of the local Reconstructionist synagogue. Astrid prefers a more traditional book. The kids just love Marc's box of plagues. We eat and drink and sit at the table long after the littlest ones have found the afikomen.

And I love Passover. This is my favorite holiday of the year. For me it isn't so much about the story as it is about being part of something larger. I have photos of my family's seders from my childhood. Marc has the same. Every year I think about friends far away, and have a sense of comfort in knowing that we are doing the same thing, at the same time. Partaking separately in the same rituals. And my family, far flung and half estranged. And 80 years ago, my father was the youngest at his family's table, asking the four questions. For as far back as Jews can record history (well, since the event itself) there have been seders and children asking the questions. And in my mind's eye, I see the same thing going forward.

Passover, to me, transcends time and space and weaves all Jews in a web of connectedness. This, more than anything is what makes this holiday so dear to me. I never feel more at home in my skin than at the seder, never feel more of a Jew and what that means.

This year, may there be peace. Next year, in Jerusalem.

Think about this. You are with a couple hundred of your computing peers. At a conference about a single product. In this instance, Adobe Acrobat. This is two full days of all about PDFs. There are many men in shorts and sandals. And t-shirts. There are presenters talking in depth about form fields. There are more computer nerds from schools and government agencies than any other conference I've ever been to. At the opening night mixer there was more beer drunk than wine. People hung out at the nosh bar and didn't mingle. Of course they didn't mingle. They are computer nerds.

And so am I. I must be, I'm here, aren't I? And scarily enough, learning things that will be useful at my job.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Fortunately we are at a Disney resort hotel and they have a wonderful theme bar. The resort is the "Coronado Springs" so the swimming pool has a forced perspective Mayan temple (with water slide). The theme is "Mexican Fiesta" so they have terrific frozen margaritas. And that's where this little conference attendee is headed right now. To the bar. Arriba! Vamanos!

I picked mulberries on Sunday and made jelly tonight. Last year someone dropped about three garbage bags of carambolas on my doorstep and I tried two different jelly recipes and both refused to set. This led to my husband teasing me for a whole year about my inability to make a proper jelly.

Which is, of course, utter crap. I make great strawberry jelly when they're in season. I've done orange marmalade, pickled green tomatoes, dill pickles and several varieties of chutney. My work in the kitchen (presentation aside) is usually specially delicious. I've only had two batches of jelly fail, and that was the two batches of carambola. Both recipes came from the same county extension office pamphlet, too. And I didn't like the mango bread recipe out of it, either.

Tonight I was able to recapture the crown. Eight little jars of clear, brilliant purple mulberry jelly. And when I washed the pot, there was a tasty residue of JELLY, not juice on the sides and bottom.

So there. I am so the queen of the kitchen. You may touch the hem of my apron. Thank you.

So Paul McCartney lost his voice and had to cancel concerts? He lost his voice 20 years ago, did he just notice it today? Can he cancel his career retrospectively? Does he really have to reschedule? Can't he just go back to the countryside with the new wife and raise sheep or something?

I didn't think so. But a person can hope.

sitting next to me on the train this morning.

DO NOT PICK YOUR FACE IN PUBLIC!!!!!

Are you fucking mad? Dressed to kill, small child at her side, and she is using an Elizabeth Arden Red Door hand mirror to pull the chunks of dead skin that remained after the last chemical peel off her face. Pulling, picking, scraping and otherwise giving herself a dry facial at 8:30 in the bright light of public transit. Pulling, picking and scraping until some parts actually bled.

EWWWWW. Thanks for making my fucking day. That image is going to stick in my head for fucking ever, no doubt.

Speaking of No Doubt and things that stick in your head, I've had No Doubt's live MTV version of REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) rolling in an endless loop for about two weeks now. Probably no coincidence that that's how long the war in Iraq has been going on. But there it is. And I can't make it stop. I've tried actually listening to it but that doesn't make it go away.

Another thing that's been stuck in my head for about 4 years now is an old quote from Diana Vreeland: "Pink is the navy blue of India." I'm not sure I know what that means, but I keep thinking about it. It has made an impact on my fabric stash. My studio is starting to pile up with hot pink and rose and orange and coral and saffron and purple. I keep rearranging the piles and there are all these ideas for how to use the fabric pushing around in my mind. (If they could only get rid of No Doubt) (No, I like No Doubt: I just don't want to be singing It's the End of the World as We Know it for another 6 weeks)

Now I want to make a mosaic on the bottle green wall behind the koi pond that says "Pink is the navy blue of India." In some kind of twirly funky type and pink glass and pottery shards. I can see that wall from my sewing machine. I think it'll be inspirational. Or at least cool.

I'd like to think that what I do has some meaning. Granted, my whole career has been one long orgy of ephemera, but still, I like to delude myself that what I do matters. Somehow. To someone. I've won awards for my work. I have had a photo used as an album cover (for Jimmy Buffett, and that is a whole other story). I have a t-shirt I designed in the collection of the Smithsonian Institution. (Another story, but it was for the Y2K team and went to the technology museum... or was it American History?)

But now, well, the web is even more ephemeral than traditional publications. And since I work for a corporate site, not even a very (literally) Flash-y site, my work tends to be a lot of brochure ware. So what am I complaining about today?

This: verbatim from our employee newsletter, an announcement of Passover services. Read it. Then parse out the second sentence.

Passover celebrates the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. It celebrates the victory over freedom from slavery. The story is retold at a "Seder," a festive meal in which freedom is raised as the highest deal in the human family. For more information, contact the Pastoral Care Office, XXX-XXX-XXXX.

As I read this, that means that "freedom from slavery" was the loser in that conflict. I also question the use of quotes around the word seder. I have visions of Dr. Evil using finger quotes. And finally, freedom is the "highest deal" in the human family? Can I get a clarification from some religious leaders about what constitutes a deal?

When I questioned the generating department, they conceded an "i", as in the "highest I-deal" in the human family.

But still, how much more disspirited can I get when this is the level of drivel I am reduced to publishing? And my friends and family wonder why I drink.

I don't wonder. I only wonder that I haven't started bringing a fucking hip flask to the office. Do you think I should send this to Dilbert?