It was one of those freezing nights last weeks where I wanted to just isolate in my overheated apartment.  I’ve  been staying in alot lately and I’ve been blaming it on the weather.  It’s cold…icy…slushy.  But the fact is I really don’t want to be around people.  I guess this is the opposite of “networking.”  So, there’s an event at the synogogue accross the street from where I live at 7:00 and I figure maybe I should go.  Perhaps there will be some good tips.  I leave what’s become my cave and head for the meeting.  I hope there are cookies. Not on the “Poodle Girl Diet.” I make it across the street into the temple which has an awful smell.  The meeting room is packed.  Two slim, blonde women are heading the discussion who are obviously not part of the congregation.  They are perky and animated, pointing  to a powerpoint.  (Irish Catholic I guess.) They talk about resumes and two minute pitches.  Linked-In and FaceBook.  All familiar jargon if you’ve been a professional.  So where’s the rugalah and the turkey sandwiches.  Apparently we don’t get food as we’re the disenfranchised.  I notice a pamphlet on Jewish Poverty at the head of the table and I have trouble breathing.  I young woman raises her hand and starts talking about her depression.  She talks on and on and won’t stop.  Out of the edges of my eyes I see old friends and boyfriends in the crowd.  We do out best not to acknowledge each other.  The program ends.  No rugalah.  I sneak out in shame and eat a bag of double chocolate Milanos in secret.