tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71959230023745978512012-02-15T06:02:43.725-06:00A middle-aged Jewish woman ponders life.Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-70673178574668698582007-01-31T13:52:00.000-06:002007-01-31T14:15:56.525-06:00

I am happy. I am miserable. Sighing heavily. Wistfully. Everywhere I go. You see, I think I've found someone with whom I want to share my box. And for him, I'd get an extra large box. I admitted recently to Happy that I want what he has with Dick Minim. I said: Maybe I'll get me a larger box and advertise on telephone poles. Wanted: One man to share box with. Must have all teeth, not

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-73890272168182905712007-01-26T09:44:00.000-06:002007-01-26T18:25:21.547-06:00

Happy's at it, again. Postmodern this. Postmodern that. I can hear him clacking away on that ancient typewriter of his, and sometimes cursing when he hits a wrong key. The smell of White Out permeates the air immediately around the dumpster. Between that and the Thunderbird, he must be damned near aphyxiated. Really, the guy oughta get out more. Tutor, too bad you don't talk more about Jonah.I

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-49432186201353349722007-01-25T15:39:00.000-06:002007-01-25T16:13:15.516-06:00

Damn. I remember this guy. I was minding my own business when he handed me a hundred dollar bill. I don't beg, as a rule, but I don't turn down hand outs, either. Some might call that a random act of kindness. Me, I think of it as tsedekah in its purest form. No shame. No embarassment. No judgments. No lectures about being a roustabout. Quite a contrast to the time when I went to shul

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-22431284794576497862007-01-10T17:02:00.000-06:002007-01-10T22:30:45.503-06:00

Q--- What do you call a crazy person from Michigan?A--- A mishuganer Michigander.Many years ago, an Israeli woman came here to study. After she'd been living in Chicago for a few months, she was asked, "So, what do you think of Chicago?" She responded, "Beautiful city. But there's one thing I don't understand. Why is the city on Crazy Lake?" Of course, Michigan is derived from the Ojibwa meaning

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-69682933728285624462007-01-09T10:13:00.000-06:002007-01-09T10:59:56.550-06:00

I was in my cardboard box minding my own business, when all of a sudden stuff comes flying out of the dumpster I'm currently residing behind. Matter of fact, there's been a huge commotion around here as of late. There's a cement mixer and a wheelbarrow parked here, along with shovels, picks and some other equipment. Honestly, I don't think the guy's got a permit to remodel his dumpster, but if

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-48656760115789232412007-01-01T16:51:00.000-06:002007-01-01T18:01:50.874-06:00

I need to set the record straight. I am Miss Shuganah. I am a loner. I live in a cardboard box behind a dumpster. I am not to be confused with Debbie (see email address). She's married, has two kids and lives in a bungalow. If I knew how to figure out Blogger better, I'd give her her own log in. She wants to talk about her kids (!) It's not quite so cut and dried, but, honestly, great

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-60512982567094108882006-12-27T19:41:00.000-06:002006-12-27T19:54:37.000-06:00

Yeah, yeah. I am cutting and pasting some old stuff. Well, hell, I didn't want to lose it out there in the vast internets. The main impetus for finally getting a blogger account was to give some family members access to other stuff that's not yet posted here. Posting is gonna be sporadic. A whole bunch on one day and not so much at other times. See, I'm a mom, and the two kids require a

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-60661204928055394162006-12-27T19:33:00.000-06:002006-12-27T19:39:51.861-06:00

Tick, tock the clock struck. Infinity. Spiraling outwards into space. Wondering who invented time? Why is the circle 360 degrees? Gee, I'm a tree, said the acorn that fell not too far from its oak parents. And then itself grew into an oak and spread its roots. Forcing its roots deep into the earth and reaching, leafily, towards the sky. Aren't we surrounded by sky? Isn't the division between air

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-4962550184578088642006-12-27T19:24:00.000-06:002006-12-27T19:30:16.000-06:00

Difficult to write when one has a pen stuck up one's ass. Much too easy to get attached to the importance of the answers one has to offer. It occurs to me that I do have the answers. Just not the right questions to help ferret them out of the recesses of my grey matter. And you know what they say, "Oh, dear, what can grey matter be?" I am, by nature, a burrowing animal. Wasn't a cosmic accident

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-36479101844263930582006-12-27T18:30:00.000-06:002006-12-27T18:34:41.759-06:00

singing Sometimes I feel like a rudderless child. Sometimes I feel like a rudderless child. Sometimes I feel like a rudderless child. A long way from home. I've been trying to call home, just like that ET fella, but they won't accept the charges for a collect call back on the home planet. So I'm stuck here without carfare. Why am I here, anyway? I often feel like Kafka's K, stumbling and

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-82896895059309885432006-12-27T17:33:00.000-06:002006-12-27T18:28:27.808-06:00

Life is a masquerade. That's what The Happy Tutor would have you believe. He's Morals Tutor to the Stars. Or so he'd have you believe. Yeah, sure. Guy lives in a dumpster and drinks Thunderbird all day. And he expects me to believe he earns a living, dishonest or otherwise. Mostly he just shrinks in the corner with his partner, Dick Minim and they both stay out of the way of Mistress Candidia

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-90414879387784229532006-12-27T16:06:00.000-06:002006-12-27T16:09:12.404-06:00

I have been thinking about honesty and what it means. I have joked that truth is a great, white whale. Well, at least you can know the truth, even if you cannot pin it down. Harpoons only hit a part of it. And if you tried to capture that sucker, it would drag you about the ocean. Best to aknowledge it from afar and to know that it's formidable. At least in its entirety. Now honesty within

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-68021259942360092612006-12-27T15:49:00.000-06:002006-12-27T15:53:59.827-06:00

So help me, God. If you say, "I hear you," one more time, I am going to scream. Hearing is what the ears do without any actual analysis. The ears merely transfer the noise, yes, noise, because that's all it is to ears, to the brain, to then be translated into sound so that one may act accordingly. And just what kind of action are you taking when you lean back, hands behind head and say, "I hear

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-34487216456369999672006-12-27T15:38:00.000-06:002006-12-27T15:43:03.201-06:00

You think that calling me nice is gonna get you somewhere with me? You think that calling me sweet is gonna get you somewhere with me? Do you think that I am that shallow, or do you lack ability to see my emotional and intellectual depth? I think, fella, you should get your depth perception checked. I know you wouldn't call a MAN nice or sweet. What makes you think that it's acceptable to do that

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195923002374597851.post-61814047720023332552006-12-27T15:12:00.000-06:002006-12-27T15:34:33.758-06:00

Why, why, why, why, Miss Shuganah? That's what I'd like to know. Answers, like many lost things, tend to present themselves just when you give up looking for them. Like the lost items, you usually knew all along. Why this blog and why now? Because I promised people I would. Promised myself I would write more often. Hopefully I will honor both requests.

Miss Shuganahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14023137137248072735noreply@blogger.com2