10:48 a.m. Can I make a confession? Can I actually report that I feel a little teeny tiny bit of a letdown? I mean, I made the two-month mark yesterday, and now what? I know. I know. Once I confess it, even to myself, then I begin to know what to do. I have to become the mother to my own fussy nature. Picture, if you will, the perfect mom: gently supportive, endlessly patient, strongly and forever in your corner with tea and pudding -- and then turn around and listen to that person when you need help.

When I was growing up Catholic, I didn't really understand the Blessed Mother. I was a big fan, sure ... I collected all the holy cards. I also liked St. Theresa a lot, because of the roses. Loved the clusters and frames of white and yellow roses, tightly tucked together in lush, tasteful extravagance in her pictures, just as St. Martha would have you buy and arrange them today.

But the Blessed Mother. I never thought of her as my mother, since I knew she had her hands full already, what with raising the son of God and all. Can you imagine the pressure she must have felt? What if he did something less than angelic one prickly morning when everything else was going wrong in the carpentry shop and St. Joseph was none too attentive? Would she have felt bad for trying to discipline Him?

Well, since I don't know exactly where the line for sacrilege forms up, I think I'll just leave this train of thought at the local station. Don't want the Catholic Defense League shutting down my tiny little house of straw here.

Which reminds me. Last night, late, on our TV here in Los Angeles was a most disturbing incident. I'm reporting it here, now, in the hope of getting some action on it. In this case, it would be the Jewish Defense League that's called for. In fact, I think it was this incident, rather than the two-month mark, that sort of took the wind out of my sails. (And I now know, firsthand, what that metaphor means.)

Here's what I saw: in an infomercial for some kind of vo-tech training school called UEI, (I think that's the name ... there were three letters, with the "E" lying down and the "U" prominent, I think.) The reason I'm so foggy about it was because we only started half-watching it, thinking it was a parody on Mad-TV, and then when it obviously wasn't, watching it a bit longer in total disbelief.

Then Igor wandered off and I continued to watch. The basic premise was that if you were feeling motion sickness because your life was swirling 'round the drain, here's your second chance. You know: training. Nurses' aides, computer literacy, that sort of thing. But before they got to the good stuff, there were these unfortunate vignettes in which a Latina or an African-American would lament his/her fate. And quite vividly, I might add.

Poorly acted, sure. Literacy-challenged -- so be it. But out and out racist and anti-Semitic? I don't think so. It was totally chilling, actually, and I'm not even Jewish. I don't play one on TV. But I know mean hatred when I hear it, and we've all seen what's at the bottom of that slippery slope, all piled up there at the bottom.

Here's the scene I saw: the loser guys are bemoaning their fate at a cafe table, casting miserable sidelong glances at the successful guys at the next table. You know the first guys are losers because they are wearing watch caps and have a boom box. You know the white guys are successful because they wear ties and have a laptop. Clee-shays all in place?

Loser guy in the middle looks disgusted and cracks a joke: How do you tell a Jew from a jailor? The losers on either side of him look blank. They search their mental change purses and come up empty. Middle guy finishes his joke: "One sells watches and the other watches cells." Get it?

I mean, do you really get it? Jews/jailors: the source of all our pain. Gotta hate somebody, right? Let's all get together and gang up on 'em. Get rid of them? That's understood, even in the dimmest recesses. Then there will be more opportunity for us. Them/us. I just feel sick about it. My husband, thank our Lord, was out of earshot.

I wasn't, and so now I have to do something about this. Make some calls, make some trouble. Stand up and make some noise. I am a mother myself, after all. Somebody's kid could get hurt. And I know that the Blessed Mother, who was Jewish by the way, is going to be right beside me on this one, rolling up her long pretty sleeves.