Look, Purim is coming in a coupla weeks and you know what that means: 12-hour days in the kitchen spreading poppyseed paste on six thousand pointy little cookies. Don’t the hard-working balabustas deserve a few perks, like fresh coffee in the kitchen and a ban on aprons that make a girl look hippy?

I’m not sure what a Jewish Teamster looks like, but many thanks to the new Jewnion Label for organizing some new shmatas for the Yenta to share. Say, can you folks help me negotiate some blogger’s benefits?

Be sure to rise up and join the International Order of Challah Makers and the mighty n’ able Union of Jewish Handywomen (or Handymen, as it were.)

Y’all already know how I feel about Crocs. And there are plenty more like me, in spite of their hideous ubiquity. In fact, the I Hate Crocs blog is my new favorite home.

But now the Croc lovers have gone and made it personal. This is the “Kroc Kippah,” which someone at PopJudaica.com thinks is amusing enough to sell. Maybe you think it’s amusing enough to buy. But if you’re wearing it and sitting in front of me at synagogue, so help me I WILL snatch it off your head and fling it like a cold latke from hell onto the bima.

Consider yourself warned.

Tip thanks to Meredith at ModernJewishMom with my sincerest apologies, because she likes it.

I’m thinking about all the smaller chozzerai I could stuff into this adorable pita purse:

My iPod and some lunch money, an extra pair of socks and a small notebook, a Tupperware container of babaganoush made from the dozens of eggplants El Yenta Man’s got growing in the “backyarden” (that’s Little Yenta-ese for the fertile plot of land behind our house.)

Come to think of it, if I threw in some of the other happy veggies, I’d have a pita pocket full of purple peppers.

$18 at ModernTribe.com.

A little something for all the sinners from Thorn Busch.

Although already versed in New Testament scripture from my Mormon neighbors, I didn’t hear about the Rapture (that special moment when Jesus comes back with lollipops to take away all the believers in a big balloon) until my parents sent me to a non-denominational summer camp in Pinetop, Arizona.

One night after the fire circle, we 8 year-olds we sitting around our bunk telling scary stories. Ashley Winter, not to be outdone by my one-armed hatchet man-hiding-in-the-bathroom tale, informed all of us that while the gays, Jews and Satan-worshippers were going straight to hell, she and the rest of the good Christians were going to fly up to Heaven. There will be no warning, intoned blond Ashley of the ski-sloped nose. Everyone will just be *poof*! gone.

The next morning I woke at dawn. It was eerily silent, no breathing or snoring sounds (in spite of the Gidget-y perfectness Ashley’s nose, it was not so efficient in the exhalation department.) I looked over at the next bed, which appeared to be only a pile of covers. I sat up and surveyed the room in the shadowy light. All the beds were empty! Jesus had come in the middle of the night and taken everyone but the little Jewish girl with the potty mouth! Looking back, I should have been pretty happy because it meant I could get to the showers first and have at least five minutes of hot water, but instead I started screaming.

Suddenly, the sleeping bags came alive, which I mistook for the heathen-eating demons Ashley described in great detail. My counselors placated me with hot chocolate and told Ashley to keep her beliefs to herself, but I was psychically scarred, people.

My folks decided to send me to Jewish camp after that.

Wish I’d been sporting this on the way to work, when the methhead in the Chevy Impala yarming into her pay-in-advance cell phone decided one lane was not enough for her and that weaving in between two or three was the fastest way to her destination. Without it, I had to resort to my trusty middle finger.

From Kosher Kafe. It also comes in a thong version, which changes the context considerably.