During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:
It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.
While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.
Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Fast Fast
Sundown on Sunday (doesn't that sound lovely - how alliterate or onomatopoeic or whatever literary term) marked the start of Yom Kipur, the most serious Jewish holiday. Observers are supposed to spend all day begging God for forgiveness, giving him one last reason to inscribe their names in the Book of Life for another year.* The need to focus on atonement is so intense that fasting is required.
Even when I was a believer of sorts (as opposed to just a cultural Jew), I never fasted. Children, pregnant/breastfeeding women, and people with health conditions are exempt from starving themselves for 24 hours to show repentance. I gave up on the whole traditional God thing my freshman year of high school, when I learned that the story of Moses coincidentally appeared in Jewish liturgy when the Jews were slaves in Babylonia, and lo and behold, there was a Babylonian myth about a baby in a basket leading people out of bondage. Hence, I never had to fast.
Yesterday, though, I arose from a night of much needed beauty rest and discovered that my usual morning appetite was not present. Well, I thought, maybe I'll see what it is like to fast. It'll be some type spiritual cleansing. (I'd already failed to fully observe the dietary rules of Yom Kipur by eating a large chocolate bar well after the holiday began on Sunday night.)
My fast lasted about 17 hours. I slept through eight of them, which is almost half, so I suppose that helps. Putting 1% milk in my tea around 4:15 probably means I cheated, but whatever. At 5 pm, when I wolfed down a cheese stick. For dinner, I rapidly absorbed a double cheeseburger (milk with meat - how kosher!) and cheese fries, which made me feel rather ill. Later, I ate more chocolate.
Although I totally kept with my concept that foods that begin with the letter "c" are the best, I think it is a day I'll not repeat soon. Stomach is not so happy this morning.
*Now that I think about it, how awful is that? If someone then dies over the course of the year, is it their fault because they did not atone enough? How blame the victim!
Even when I was a believer of sorts (as opposed to just a cultural Jew), I never fasted. Children, pregnant/breastfeeding women, and people with health conditions are exempt from starving themselves for 24 hours to show repentance. I gave up on the whole traditional God thing my freshman year of high school, when I learned that the story of Moses coincidentally appeared in Jewish liturgy when the Jews were slaves in Babylonia, and lo and behold, there was a Babylonian myth about a baby in a basket leading people out of bondage. Hence, I never had to fast.
Yesterday, though, I arose from a night of much needed beauty rest and discovered that my usual morning appetite was not present. Well, I thought, maybe I'll see what it is like to fast. It'll be some type spiritual cleansing. (I'd already failed to fully observe the dietary rules of Yom Kipur by eating a large chocolate bar well after the holiday began on Sunday night.)
My fast lasted about 17 hours. I slept through eight of them, which is almost half, so I suppose that helps. Putting 1% milk in my tea around 4:15 probably means I cheated, but whatever. At 5 pm, when I wolfed down a cheese stick. For dinner, I rapidly absorbed a double cheeseburger (milk with meat - how kosher!) and cheese fries, which made me feel rather ill. Later, I ate more chocolate.
Although I totally kept with my concept that foods that begin with the letter "c" are the best, I think it is a day I'll not repeat soon. Stomach is not so happy this morning.
*Now that I think about it, how awful is that? If someone then dies over the course of the year, is it their fault because they did not atone enough? How blame the victim!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Going to Hawaii Again!*
At the end of 2007, Husband had a lot of vacation time that he needed to use. (His employer does not let people roll over vacation days from year to year.) We decided to plan a blow out trip to Hawaii. Using large numbers of airmiles and hotel points, we were able to book one of the many luxury hotels on Oahu. Husband initially planned to stay at the historic Moana Surfrider, which was the first hotel in Waikiki, but it was full. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent thing, as we stayed next door at the Royal Hawaiian instead.
Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)
Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.
We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.
Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.
*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...
This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.
Known as the Pink Palace because everything - from the exterior to the linens - is pink, many famous people and presidents stayed at the Royal Hawaiian. (I love places steeped in history.) Because I like strange things that no one else cares about, I was particularly impressed that the doors to each room were a thick wood with a carving of Hawaiian royalty of some sort and a motto in Hawaiian. As always, I was a little obsessive about learning how to say things in the local language, so trying to pronounce the motto was a challenge. (We were in Hawaii during Christmas, so I managed to learn how to say "Merry Christmas" - Mele Kalikimaka! - which was fun. I love how that feels on my tongue. But I digress...)
Anyway, not only were we in Hawaii for Christmas and New Years, but I also celebrated my 32nd birthday while we were there. We indulged in the famous breakfast buffet at a restaurant that seems to no longer exist at the hotel. As always, I pocketed the little jars of jam that hotel restaurants always put on tables. (With flavors like Mango and guava, who can blame me?) I like giving them to people with the souvenirs that I actually purchase for them. I also like eating them at home. I don't really know why.
We pretended to be normal people and went to the beach once. Really, though, it was too chilly in December (for me, anyway) to spend much time in the water, plus I hate sand, and I had to protect the stab wounds I had on my feet from when I fell on a sea urchin or five while attempting to snorkel on the Big Island earlier in the trip. While on O'ahu, we spent most of our time hiking, meeting up with friends who happened to also be in Honolulu, eating, and enjoying our pink hotel room while I soaked my feet to prevent infection. We also snuck over to a local bar to watch the Giants game one afternoon. It was a good rest for my painful feet.
Man, I would love to go back. I am especially nostalgic because Husband is unable to take vacation in the foreseeable future. Those were the days, I tell you.
*Sadly, I am only revisiting this magnificent state on my blog. I wish I was heading over there...
This is a Traveling Mom dedicated post.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Definition of Ironic
On Wednesday, I went to the Museum of Jewish Heritage, which is a Holocaust and Jewish culture museum, in lower Manhattan to do some research. Upon my emergence from the subway, I looked for a food vendor from whom I could buy a carbonated diet beverage in a bottle. The first cart in my path was a hot dog purveyor. I asked for a bottle of Diet Coke.
"That's $3," he said.
"What?" There was a lot of traffic, so I figured that I didn't hear him. Who on earth would pay $3 for a 16 ounce bottle of pop? Usually, the street vendors sell such drinks for $1.75, or $2 at the most.
"Three dollars," he nodded.
I was offended. "No, that is ridiculous. I don't want it."
He shrugged, as if it were not possible for me to find a better deal. In a huff, I continued toward the museum. A Duane Reade pharmacy loomed. Ah, in the past I have purchased my chemical refreshments there for $1.79 plus tax. I went in. I nearly fell down when I saw the price rose to $1.99. Still, better than the stupid hot dog guy, and I get bonus points on my card, which eventually will get me $5 worth of goods for free.
I paid (and told the cashier about the hot dog vendor - she agreed that he was outrageously overpriced) and went on my merry way. My next obstacle was a police barricade. A metal detector was set up at the opening between gates. What the fuck? I stood for a minute before I noticed a sign routing museum visitors around the labyrinth.
At the museum, I asked the man at the admissions desk what the hubbub was about. "Oh, Ahmadinejad is staying at the hotel across the street."
"You mean the president of Iran?" I asked like an idiot.
"Yes, him."
"The one who denies that the Holocaust happened?"
He peered at me above the wire rims of his little round glasses. "Uh huh."
"He's staying across the street from the Holocaust museum?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wow, does he pick it on purpose to poke a stick in your eye?"
"No, he's actually assigned there by the NYPD. It's the most isolated hotel, so it is easier to secure."
I felt slightly better, although it seemed wrong that the man got to enjoy the luxurious accommodations of the Ritz Carlton and not face any of the protesters. The admissions desk guy made a whaddya-gonna-do gesture, sort of like the hot dog vendor. I did my research (which was useless), and on the way out, decided to stop in the gift shop.
The clearance table in the entrance caught my eye. A book called "Letters from My Sister: On Love, Life, and Hair Removal" was on sale for $1. I thought this would be a good use for the dollar I saved from that overpriced hot dog seller. When I brought it to the counter, the shubbly cashier told me that books were two for the price of one.
"But this is only $1," I noted.
"Yes. I know this. You get another one at the same price or less for free."
Man, my refusal to overpay for Diet Coke was really turning out to be smart! I got another copy of the book. I figured that my friend would enjoy it. (It turns out that she knew one of the sisters, who directed a documentary about a corset shop on the Lower East Side. I missed it in theaters, and was quite disappointed.)
Anyway, I was very proud of my bargain. Take that, Ahmadinejad. Your absurd lies cannot stop us from telling our stories and saving money.
"That's $3," he said.
"What?" There was a lot of traffic, so I figured that I didn't hear him. Who on earth would pay $3 for a 16 ounce bottle of pop? Usually, the street vendors sell such drinks for $1.75, or $2 at the most.
"Three dollars," he nodded.
I was offended. "No, that is ridiculous. I don't want it."
He shrugged, as if it were not possible for me to find a better deal. In a huff, I continued toward the museum. A Duane Reade pharmacy loomed. Ah, in the past I have purchased my chemical refreshments there for $1.79 plus tax. I went in. I nearly fell down when I saw the price rose to $1.99. Still, better than the stupid hot dog guy, and I get bonus points on my card, which eventually will get me $5 worth of goods for free.
I paid (and told the cashier about the hot dog vendor - she agreed that he was outrageously overpriced) and went on my merry way. My next obstacle was a police barricade. A metal detector was set up at the opening between gates. What the fuck? I stood for a minute before I noticed a sign routing museum visitors around the labyrinth.
At the museum, I asked the man at the admissions desk what the hubbub was about. "Oh, Ahmadinejad is staying at the hotel across the street."
"You mean the president of Iran?" I asked like an idiot.
"Yes, him."
"The one who denies that the Holocaust happened?"
He peered at me above the wire rims of his little round glasses. "Uh huh."
"He's staying across the street from the Holocaust museum?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wow, does he pick it on purpose to poke a stick in your eye?"
"No, he's actually assigned there by the NYPD. It's the most isolated hotel, so it is easier to secure."
I felt slightly better, although it seemed wrong that the man got to enjoy the luxurious accommodations of the Ritz Carlton and not face any of the protesters. The admissions desk guy made a whaddya-gonna-do gesture, sort of like the hot dog vendor. I did my research (which was useless), and on the way out, decided to stop in the gift shop.
The clearance table in the entrance caught my eye. A book called "Letters from My Sister: On Love, Life, and Hair Removal" was on sale for $1. I thought this would be a good use for the dollar I saved from that overpriced hot dog seller. When I brought it to the counter, the shubbly cashier told me that books were two for the price of one.
"But this is only $1," I noted.
"Yes. I know this. You get another one at the same price or less for free."
Man, my refusal to overpay for Diet Coke was really turning out to be smart! I got another copy of the book. I figured that my friend would enjoy it. (It turns out that she knew one of the sisters, who directed a documentary about a corset shop on the Lower East Side. I missed it in theaters, and was quite disappointed.)
Anyway, I was very proud of my bargain. Take that, Ahmadinejad. Your absurd lies cannot stop us from telling our stories and saving money.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
My Subway Pervert
Usually after class, I join my classmates for drinks and bonding at a restaurant/bar near school. I happen to loathe the gathering spot, as the waiters seem to count the second from when we walk in the door to when we will leave. Nothing makes me feel more like socializing than an ancient waiter in a red coat throwing my overpriced Diet Pepsi at me and demanding payment the second the mini bottle hits the dirty reddish table cloth. The free snacks do not make up for the general nasty atmosphere.
On Monday, we went elsewhere, and while I now fear that I misled the waitress about my interest in her, at least no one yelled at us or forced us to keep ordering as we chatted into the wee hours. Despite our positive experience, the group headed back to the crappy restaurant bar. I decided to go to a wacky open mic event instead.
The event was still going strong when I slipped out at 12:30. I could barely keep my eyes open. Fortunately, I did not have to wait too long for the subway. I sat toward the front of the train, reading a magazine. A few stops into my journey, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone with grey-ish colored jeans walking rapidly toward me.
The woman sat in the seat on the bench next to me. What the fuck? I thought. The entire car was empty. What was wrong with this asshole? Then she pressed her thigh against mine.
It took me a nanosecond to decide that this was bullshit. I didn't even look at her. Eye contact seemed like an invitation to chat. I got up, walked out of the car, and re-boarded the one behind it. I had just settled down to read again, when the jeans reappeared. Fuck fuck fuck!!! I knew I shouldn't wear a dress that was so low cut. Now I have stalker.
The woman sat down on the same bench on which my ass resided. I looked over at her. It was my friend T. from school. I burst out laughing, as did she.
On Monday, we went elsewhere, and while I now fear that I misled the waitress about my interest in her, at least no one yelled at us or forced us to keep ordering as we chatted into the wee hours. Despite our positive experience, the group headed back to the crappy restaurant bar. I decided to go to a wacky open mic event instead.
The event was still going strong when I slipped out at 12:30. I could barely keep my eyes open. Fortunately, I did not have to wait too long for the subway. I sat toward the front of the train, reading a magazine. A few stops into my journey, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone with grey-ish colored jeans walking rapidly toward me.
The woman sat in the seat on the bench next to me. What the fuck? I thought. The entire car was empty. What was wrong with this asshole? Then she pressed her thigh against mine.
It took me a nanosecond to decide that this was bullshit. I didn't even look at her. Eye contact seemed like an invitation to chat. I got up, walked out of the car, and re-boarded the one behind it. I had just settled down to read again, when the jeans reappeared. Fuck fuck fuck!!! I knew I shouldn't wear a dress that was so low cut. Now I have stalker.
The woman sat down on the same bench on which my ass resided. I looked over at her. It was my friend T. from school. I burst out laughing, as did she.
Notes on the Economic "Recovery"
Several times in recent weeks, I read blurbs in newspapers about how the economy is recovering. It's not like economists are all gung-ho about it, but there are supposedly glimmers of a happy smiley sun peeking through the rain clouds of economic woe. Let's take a moment to sing:
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.
When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.
I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.
I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.
Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.
When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.
I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.
I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.
Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Accidental Encounter
After class last night, my compadres and I went to a bar. When we arrived, a tired-looking waitress testily sat us at a table. Slllllllooooooowwwwwwly, she brought us our drinks. No one minded terribly. She looked like she had had a long day.
She also looked like Thandie Newtown, but skinnier, which was a little frightening, but whatever. Everyone has their own body equilibrium, so who am I to comment? Over the course of the night, pseudo-Thandie warmed up to us. I especially liked her because she did not bother me about nursing my Diet Coke over several hours. Plus she gave it to me for free because she forgot to bring it initially, which also cheerfully disposed me to her. I thought it a little odd that she did not comp a guy his cider after she forgot it, but I figured maybe it is easy to write off a glass of pop and not a $6 bottle.
At the end of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I finished my business, someone entered the facilities, humming. I discovered it was the waitress, which for no real reason made me wash my hands extra well. As I rinsed, she chatted me up.
"Are you an actress, too?" she asked.
I chuckled. "No, I'm a writer-wannabe."
"I'm an actress."
"Everyone at my table agreed that you look like Thandie Newtown."
"Really? Wow! That's so nice of you to say, especially as an actress."
"Well, you do look like her, and actress or not, it's a good thing. She's pretty hot." I had to shout above the racket the hand dryer made.
Pseudo-Thandie stuck out her hand and fluttered her eyelashes as she introduced herself to me. As I shook and told her my name, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) woke up from his nap and galloped on the wheel. The rusty gears screeched turned to process the situation. Crap. I think I just hit on her. Ooops.
She also looked like Thandie Newtown, but skinnier, which was a little frightening, but whatever. Everyone has their own body equilibrium, so who am I to comment? Over the course of the night, pseudo-Thandie warmed up to us. I especially liked her because she did not bother me about nursing my Diet Coke over several hours. Plus she gave it to me for free because she forgot to bring it initially, which also cheerfully disposed me to her. I thought it a little odd that she did not comp a guy his cider after she forgot it, but I figured maybe it is easy to write off a glass of pop and not a $6 bottle.
At the end of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I finished my business, someone entered the facilities, humming. I discovered it was the waitress, which for no real reason made me wash my hands extra well. As I rinsed, she chatted me up.
"Are you an actress, too?" she asked.
I chuckled. "No, I'm a writer-wannabe."
"I'm an actress."
"Everyone at my table agreed that you look like Thandie Newtown."
"Really? Wow! That's so nice of you to say, especially as an actress."
"Well, you do look like her, and actress or not, it's a good thing. She's pretty hot." I had to shout above the racket the hand dryer made.
Pseudo-Thandie stuck out her hand and fluttered her eyelashes as she introduced herself to me. As I shook and told her my name, Maurice (the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain) woke up from his nap and galloped on the wheel. The rusty gears screeched turned to process the situation. Crap. I think I just hit on her. Ooops.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Oy Vey Iz Mir
Oy vey iz mir means "woe is me" in Yiddish. Things sound much better in Yiddish, don't they? I'm having some technical issues today, and it is making me feel slightly better yelling, "Oy vey iz mir," as I pull my hair out.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Two Star Review
There are sixteen reviews of my book about unusual things to see and do in New York, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, on Amazon.com. Fifteen of them rated the book with five out of five stars. (I am humbled and honored!) In the wee hours of this insomnia-filled night/morning, I discovered a two star review:
Honestly, there are some potentially excellent reasons to give it two stars. I find it hilarious that it was rated poorly because it delivered exactly what it promised to deliver. It's almost one of those compliment/backhanded insult situations. So, if you are thinking about buying a copy of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, I hope you will not be disappointed that a book about unusual things to see and do in New York City focuses on places that "are very odd."
This book is much more suited to people who live in New York or know the city very well. If you are new to the city is not a good way to get accustomed to the city, as the book doesn't really lay out general information and most of the attractions in the book are very odd.The first part of the comment is probably true. The second part is definitely true, as it is a book about unusual things to see and do in New York City. The subtitle is, "New York City's Best Unusual Attractions." Amazon's description includes lines like, "Off the Beaten (Subway) Track is the first book to focus on the hundreds of off-the-beaten-path destinations in the city," and "These are the types of places and things that fit perfectly with New Yorkers' psyches and egos and satisfy the desire of tourists to see the unusual." Given these cues, I am not sure what else a reader might expect. Mission accomplished.
Honestly, there are some potentially excellent reasons to give it two stars. I find it hilarious that it was rated poorly because it delivered exactly what it promised to deliver. It's almost one of those compliment/backhanded insult situations. So, if you are thinking about buying a copy of Off the Beaten (Subway) Track, I hope you will not be disappointed that a book about unusual things to see and do in New York City focuses on places that "are very odd."
Shana Tova
Sundown marks the start of the Jewish New Year. Tomorrow, Husband and I will join his parents, his brother and his wife, his brother's wife's parents, and my mother-in-law's friend and her son (whew!) for a Rosh Hashanah celebration. Meaning: we will stuff our faces. Husband's parents and brother, Husband, and I are not at all religious, but believe strongly in keeping our culture alive. (Hence tonight Husband and I are not doing anything special because he doesn't want to battle hours worth of traffic to join the mispucha in New Jersey.)
When I listed the guests for Saturday's feast, it initially seemed like a long and random list. Then I thought about all the people that I celebrated Jewish holidays with when I grew up; the 11 people I will dine with tomorrow is an intimate party in comparison. In addition to my parents, both sets of grandparents, my sister, my mom's sister, and whoever my mom's sister happened to be dating/married to at the time, there were the Holocaust survivors that my grandparents befriended either when they lived in Displaced Persons camps (i.e. - refugee camps) or when they arrived in the United States in 1950 to start new lives.
One of their closest family friends moved to Canada after the war. The daughter in the family is my dad's age. She sent me a nice email message wishing me shana tova (happy New Year), and I happened to be in the middle of researching Displaced Persons camps for a story I am writing, so I followed up with some questions. She was kind enough to outline the histories between our families for me:
Once I stopped bawling, I realized that a lot of history may have been lost, but it is not really too late. We are still here. We are still telling our stories as best we can. We will not be quiet.
No matter where you are or what your religion is (as long as you are not trying to force me into it), I wish everyone a safe, healthy, and happy Jewish New Year.
*My bubbe
**My dad
When I listed the guests for Saturday's feast, it initially seemed like a long and random list. Then I thought about all the people that I celebrated Jewish holidays with when I grew up; the 11 people I will dine with tomorrow is an intimate party in comparison. In addition to my parents, both sets of grandparents, my sister, my mom's sister, and whoever my mom's sister happened to be dating/married to at the time, there were the Holocaust survivors that my grandparents befriended either when they lived in Displaced Persons camps (i.e. - refugee camps) or when they arrived in the United States in 1950 to start new lives.
One of their closest family friends moved to Canada after the war. The daughter in the family is my dad's age. She sent me a nice email message wishing me shana tova (happy New Year), and I happened to be in the middle of researching Displaced Persons camps for a story I am writing, so I followed up with some questions. She was kind enough to outline the histories between our families for me:
From 1949 to Feb.23,1950 looks like they were in IRO CAMP 231 in STEYR, AUSTRIA.
From 1950 to Feb.1951 ...IRO CAMP EBELSBERG,LINZ ,AUSTRIA.
Feb.27,1951 were in CAMP ASTEN, AUSTRIA.
These places were written on ID CARD ...INTERNATIONAL REFUGEE ORGANIZATION,AUSTRIA
We arrived in Canada in Dec.1951...but I think your grandparents arrived in US earlier. My sister was born in Feb.1951 & Marusha* had sent a package gift for the baby...from U.S....I think. Probably Steyr & Ebelsberg were camps where families met & kept in touch for almost 50 years.
I remember Herman** was our friend in the camp....then visiting us in Montreal in the early 1950's. I was a penpal during schooldays & so we've been close friends forever....actually more like family!
I'm sorry that I never wrote anything down when my parents told their stories...now it's too late.
Once I stopped bawling, I realized that a lot of history may have been lost, but it is not really too late. We are still here. We are still telling our stories as best we can. We will not be quiet.
No matter where you are or what your religion is (as long as you are not trying to force me into it), I wish everyone a safe, healthy, and happy Jewish New Year.
*My bubbe
**My dad
The Lazarus Project
My book club elected to read The Lazarus Projet by Aleksandar Hemon. It's one of those meta books, in which the narrator, an accidental Bosnian immigrant to Chicago in 1992, has the same back story as the author. The narrator becomes obsessed with the case of Lazarus Averbuch, a young Jewish immigrant who survived a pogrom in Europe and comes to the US, only to be killed by the chief of police, who decides that he is an anarchist. This is also a true story, although like the narrator/author intermingling, some facts have been changed. Everything about the book is fantastic.
I spent some time this afternoon reading, but in the morning I did some internet research for the story I am writing about my family's tragic history with anti-Semitic violence. Not that the Lazarus story is the same as mine (I think all of Eastern European Jewish immigration stories share certain characteristics), but it one only amplifies how interconnected things are. The American Jewish Historical Society wrote that Lazarus's sister Olga never recovered from the murder of her brother, returned to Europe, "and was almost certainly killed in the Holocaust." Thinking about that just hurts.
I spent some time this afternoon reading, but in the morning I did some internet research for the story I am writing about my family's tragic history with anti-Semitic violence. Not that the Lazarus story is the same as mine (I think all of Eastern European Jewish immigration stories share certain characteristics), but it one only amplifies how interconnected things are. The American Jewish Historical Society wrote that Lazarus's sister Olga never recovered from the murder of her brother, returned to Europe, "and was almost certainly killed in the Holocaust." Thinking about that just hurts.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Squirrelly and the Acorn
It's been a bad morning. I overslept, then while eating breakfast, read several depressing stories in the New York Times. The one that upset me most was about a "sting" operation enacted by two ultraconservatives who decided that they would bring about the right-wing wet dream of destroying the community organizing group Acorn.
Acorn is not perfect. It has had a series of scandals involving its officers over the last few years. But it also has done legitimate work to empower and engage disenfranchised, low income Americans in politics and economic growth. In New York City, Acorn has helped families frozen out of the housing market obtain places to live through shrewd credit counseling, homeownership classes, and technical assistance. People who participated in Acorn's programs here are not losing their homes to foreclosure.
Conservatives hate nothing more than when low income people ask for their fair (or I should say, fare) share of the heaping American apple pie. Actually, forget the "fair share" - they loathe when people who have been locked out of the mainstream systems that benefit white, middle- and upper-classes as for even a crumb or two of what they deserve. These groups and people, many of which have engaged in questionable activities themselves (remember Rush Limbaugh's illegal prescription addition and how he blamed his maid?), thus must bring down organizations like Acorn that are successful.
Today's New York Times article explains that two squirelly right-wingers dressed up as a prostitute and pimp, then went to Acorn offices and asked for help acquiring a home that they could use a brothel for under-age El Salvadorean girls. Two Acorn workers didn't blink an eye, explaining not only how to obtain the property, but also how to hide their illegal activity from the government.
There is nothing excusable or OK about what these Acorn employees did, and they have been fired. As a result of disgusting actions, Acorn is losing federal housing funds. But here's the problem with these incidents: they were isolated. And we don't find that out until deep in the article. See, the Times notes that the filmmakers "spent months visiting numerous Acorn offices, including those in San Diego, Los Angeles, Miami and Philadelphia, before getting the responses they were looking for."
Why is no one demanding the rest of the tape? The evidence where almost everyone they came into contact to at Acorn did the right thing? It's like shutting down an entire hospital because of one awful doctor and a shitty nurse. Investigative journalism is NOT when you go out and do undercover investigations, find one thing that confirms wrongdoing, and then portray it as rampant corruption. YouTube may have made this video popular, but it certainly did not help tell the truth.
Between these squirrelly, unethical "truth seekers" and the fucking lunatics who protested in DC on Sept. 12, I really give up. Americans are not, as far as I can tell, interested in truth or justice. The sad part is this is what the real American way might be.
Acorn is not perfect. It has had a series of scandals involving its officers over the last few years. But it also has done legitimate work to empower and engage disenfranchised, low income Americans in politics and economic growth. In New York City, Acorn has helped families frozen out of the housing market obtain places to live through shrewd credit counseling, homeownership classes, and technical assistance. People who participated in Acorn's programs here are not losing their homes to foreclosure.
Conservatives hate nothing more than when low income people ask for their fair (or I should say, fare) share of the heaping American apple pie. Actually, forget the "fair share" - they loathe when people who have been locked out of the mainstream systems that benefit white, middle- and upper-classes as for even a crumb or two of what they deserve. These groups and people, many of which have engaged in questionable activities themselves (remember Rush Limbaugh's illegal prescription addition and how he blamed his maid?), thus must bring down organizations like Acorn that are successful.
Today's New York Times article explains that two squirelly right-wingers dressed up as a prostitute and pimp, then went to Acorn offices and asked for help acquiring a home that they could use a brothel for under-age El Salvadorean girls. Two Acorn workers didn't blink an eye, explaining not only how to obtain the property, but also how to hide their illegal activity from the government.
There is nothing excusable or OK about what these Acorn employees did, and they have been fired. As a result of disgusting actions, Acorn is losing federal housing funds. But here's the problem with these incidents: they were isolated. And we don't find that out until deep in the article. See, the Times notes that the filmmakers "spent months visiting numerous Acorn offices, including those in San Diego, Los Angeles, Miami and Philadelphia, before getting the responses they were looking for."
Why is no one demanding the rest of the tape? The evidence where almost everyone they came into contact to at Acorn did the right thing? It's like shutting down an entire hospital because of one awful doctor and a shitty nurse. Investigative journalism is NOT when you go out and do undercover investigations, find one thing that confirms wrongdoing, and then portray it as rampant corruption. YouTube may have made this video popular, but it certainly did not help tell the truth.
Between these squirrelly, unethical "truth seekers" and the fucking lunatics who protested in DC on Sept. 12, I really give up. Americans are not, as far as I can tell, interested in truth or justice. The sad part is this is what the real American way might be.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Remembering the Nutjobs on Election Day
The Democratic primary is today in New York. I am relieved. There's not one candidate that I am actually interested in supporting, but at least the junk mail will stop. For the last six weeks, my mailbox filled with campaign flyers. Between Husband and me, we received 12 to 15 pieces of candidate crap every day.
Then again, at least these candidates are not insane. When I received my voter's guide from the New York City Campaign Finance Board (my second employer after college!), one of the mayoral hopefuls submitted the following answers to the Q&A:
Rent is too damn high for most New Yorkers, but maybe this is not someone who really should be in charge of anything. He's not the first "single-issue" candidate to run for mayor in New York City, either. In the 1997, I sat through a debate in which one of the mayoral candidates proposed clearing out the South Bronx and building a new Disney World location. He felt that it was critical to do so to increase tourism. Uh huh.
I'm off to the polls. As Husband likes to say at moments like this, vaya con pollos.
Then again, at least these candidates are not insane. When I received my voter's guide from the New York City Campaign Finance Board (my second employer after college!), one of the mayoral hopefuls submitted the following answers to the Q&A:
1. WHAT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT ISSUE IN THE CITY YOU WOULD ADDRESS IF ELECTED? RENT Is Too Damn High there is nothing else to talk about. All poor people are being ran out of New York.
2. WHAT OTHER IMPORTANT ISSUES WOULD YOU ADDRESS IF ELECTED? RENT is Too Damn High there is nothing else to talk about.
3. WHAT MAKES YOU THE BEST CANDIDATE FOR THIS OFFICE? I am a Rent Activist with real solutions to the High Rent Crisis that is driving out of this City. That is what makes me the best candidate for this job.
Rent is too damn high for most New Yorkers, but maybe this is not someone who really should be in charge of anything. He's not the first "single-issue" candidate to run for mayor in New York City, either. In the 1997, I sat through a debate in which one of the mayoral candidates proposed clearing out the South Bronx and building a new Disney World location. He felt that it was critical to do so to increase tourism. Uh huh.
I'm off to the polls. As Husband likes to say at moments like this, vaya con pollos.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Insomnia Cure!
The train ride back from Long Island last night took an hour and forty minutes. I figured that I could use the time to get some reading done for my lit class. I am a fool.
The problem is that the book, Safe Conduct by Boris Pasternak, is insanely boring. Maybe boring is not the right word - pretentiously literary probably describes it better. Here is an illustrative passage:
Certainly, this is brilliant writing. I just can't read it. Every time I try to read this autobiography, I fall asleep. I read about 20 pages on the train before I passed out. This is not good for my class discussion possibilities. However, I am glad that I now have a cure for the insomnia that plagues me.
The problem is that the book, Safe Conduct by Boris Pasternak, is insanely boring. Maybe boring is not the right word - pretentiously literary probably describes it better. Here is an illustrative passage:
We take people as our symbols so as to overcast them with weather, set them in their natural surroundings. And we take weather, or what is one and the same, nature - so that we may overcast it with our passion. We drag everyday things into prose for the sake of poetry. We entice prose into poetry for the sake of music. This, then, in the widest sense of the word, I called art, set by the clock of the living race which strikes with the generations.
Certainly, this is brilliant writing. I just can't read it. Every time I try to read this autobiography, I fall asleep. I read about 20 pages on the train before I passed out. This is not good for my class discussion possibilities. However, I am glad that I now have a cure for the insomnia that plagues me.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
People I Love
I trekked out to Queens this morning and had brunch with my friends Dr. P and Dr. R. From there, Dr. P and I drove out to Long Island and hit an outlet mall and Home Depot. I spent too much money, but damn did I get a cute dress.
While eating frozen yogurt at the mall, I got an email from my sister with a picture of my nephew. I have not seen him in person since the4th end* of July, and she hasn't sent me any new pictures in a month. He's so big now! Of course, I think he is totally adorable:
It was such a nice day. I just wish I could spend more time with all the people I love and don't get to see enough because they live far away.
*Thanks Mar. Clearly, Maurice was overtired and not running fast enough on his wheel.
While eating frozen yogurt at the mall, I got an email from my sister with a picture of my nephew. I have not seen him in person since the
It was such a nice day. I just wish I could spend more time with all the people I love and don't get to see enough because they live far away.
*Thanks Mar. Clearly, Maurice was overtired and not running fast enough on his wheel.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
I'm Quiet and Unassuming, Too
An article in today's New York Times about a guy killed while protesting abortion outside a high school* (um, because high schools are places where abortions run rampant, I guess? WTF?) gave me pause. The author referred to the protester as "anti-abortion." When it quoted people who oppose legal abortion, it used the phrase "pro-life" (after all, it was a quote), but it did not use that language when reporting. This is a HUGE step in the right direction.
I'm sorry the dude is dead, as no one deserves to be shot in a drive-by, but I admit that I laughed when I read the following description of him, as provided by an anti-choice nutter:
People who stand outside high schools, Planned Parenthood offices, and abortion clinics with ginormous, misleading photos of bloody "fetuses" are neither quiet nor unassuming, unless my understanding of those words is wrong. Let's see... Merriam-Webster defines quiet as:
I suppose he could have been sitting with his loud, disruptive signs amongst a throngs of students and school staff without moving. That would qualify as quiet, then.
How about unassuming? Merriam-Webster defines that as: "not assuming : modest." If imposing one's moral values and beliefs on others is not assuming or modest, then I guess that is an accurate description of the protester, too. Otherwise, not so much.
*Incidentally, there is no evidence that the protester was killed for his opposition to abortion. The killer also shot another person who has nothing to do with abortion, and planned to murder a third but was caught first. I just want to make it clear that there is still no killing on record, ever, of an anti-choice person for his or her views. I wish I could say the same for how the supposedly "pro-life" side treats us. In 2008, over 230 physical acts of violence have been committed by individuals espousing to love and respect life.
I'm sorry the dude is dead, as no one deserves to be shot in a drive-by, but I admit that I laughed when I read the following description of him, as provided by an anti-choice nutter:
He was just a quiet, unassuming, very committed pro-life activist...
People who stand outside high schools, Planned Parenthood offices, and abortion clinics with ginormous, misleading photos of bloody "fetuses" are neither quiet nor unassuming, unless my understanding of those words is wrong. Let's see... Merriam-Webster defines quiet as:
1 a : marked by little or no motion or activity : calm (a quiet sea) b : gentle, easygoing (a quiet temperament) c : not interfered with (quiet reading) d : enjoyed in peace and relaxation (a quiet cup of tea)
2 a : free from noise or uproar : still b : unobtrusive, conservative (quiet clothes)
3 : secluded (a quiet nook)
I suppose he could have been sitting with his loud, disruptive signs amongst a throngs of students and school staff without moving. That would qualify as quiet, then.
How about unassuming? Merriam-Webster defines that as: "not assuming : modest." If imposing one's moral values and beliefs on others is not assuming or modest, then I guess that is an accurate description of the protester, too. Otherwise, not so much.
*Incidentally, there is no evidence that the protester was killed for his opposition to abortion. The killer also shot another person who has nothing to do with abortion, and planned to murder a third but was caught first. I just want to make it clear that there is still no killing on record, ever, of an anti-choice person for his or her views. I wish I could say the same for how the supposedly "pro-life" side treats us. In 2008, over 230 physical acts of violence have been committed by individuals espousing to love and respect life.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Survey on Grooming Habits
I found the following message in my in-box:
Normally, I wouldn't bother responding to a focus group that pays less than $100, but the free video camera made up for the low pay. OK, that's a lie. I really, really, really, really wanted to talk about shaving. Honestly, I couldn't wait to fill the market researchers' ears with my insane rants about the tyranny of the blade. Plus the opportunity to film myself shaving struck me as hilarious. I might have done a focus group like this for free.
I took the qualification online survey. The last question was, "How often do you shave your legs?" Options were (I'm paraphrasing here, except for options a, d, and e):
a) six or more times per week
b) something less than six but more than once
c) once a week
d) once a month
e) less than once a month
f) I never shave my legs
I debated how to answer. If I average my shaving over the course of a year, it probably comes to about once a month, so that's what I chose. I sort of wanted to pick a, though. The next screen said sorry, but I did not qualify. What a lost opportunity!
Schlesinger Associates is currently looking for females to participate in a paid online discussion on the topic of Razors from September 23-27. For this study we'll ship you a Creative Vado Pocket Video Camera (yours to keep upon completion) to record and post your responses to a secure website. It'll only take you 20-30 minutes each day for a total of about 90 minutes of your time, all from the comfort of your home! At the completion of the study, you'll receive $65 in compensation, in addition to the video camera.
Normally, I wouldn't bother responding to a focus group that pays less than $100, but the free video camera made up for the low pay. OK, that's a lie. I really, really, really, really wanted to talk about shaving. Honestly, I couldn't wait to fill the market researchers' ears with my insane rants about the tyranny of the blade. Plus the opportunity to film myself shaving struck me as hilarious. I might have done a focus group like this for free.
I took the qualification online survey. The last question was, "How often do you shave your legs?" Options were (I'm paraphrasing here, except for options a, d, and e):
a) six or more times per week
b) something less than six but more than once
c) once a week
d) once a month
e) less than once a month
f) I never shave my legs
I debated how to answer. If I average my shaving over the course of a year, it probably comes to about once a month, so that's what I chose. I sort of wanted to pick a, though. The next screen said sorry, but I did not qualify. What a lost opportunity!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Street Furniture
As I walked home from the library this afternoon, I passed a trash heap at the curb. This is a common sight in Manhattan, where we don't have alleys. The afternoon/evening before garbage pickup is scheduled, all of the buildings heave out ginormous black bags of trash, containing the waste of hundreds of denizens. It's smelly, but oddly fascinating, now that I'm thinking about it.
Anyway, on the trash heap was a beautiful entertainment center. It was a blond wood, and solid. None of the Ikea shit that's usually chucked aside with gaping holes punched through the cardboard "wood." The cabinet had a glass door and three shelves. The TV space was small, but the overall height of the unit was not so tall that a person couldn't just plop her husband's stupid flat panel TV on top and it would require straining one's neck to view, like sitting in the first row at a movie theater. It also had a functional drawer. I loved it.
As I checked the piece for defects (i.e. - bugs), a woman approached the trash. She scavenged a wood tray, then hovered. "You gonna take that?" she finally asked me.
"Yeah, I think so. I just need to call my husband to help me because it is way too heavy to carry alone."
"It's a nice piece," she marveled. "You got lucky. If you don't take it, I'll come back later and fetch it. I live in this building."
I waited 30 minutes with my new furniture, debating the entire time whether or not I was insane. I just spent thousands of dollars renovating my apartment, and here I was giddy about a used piece of furniture that someone threw out. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Husband finally called me back. He had already returned the car to his parking garage, and had to be in our apartment for a conference call in 15 minutes. There was no way he'd make it, even if he ran down to inspect the piece and we stuffed it in an SUV cab. I wanted to cry. I seriously considered standing in the street with it until his call was over, but the digital clock on the bank down the street showed that the temperature was dropped a degree every five minutes, and I was already cold. Plus, it looked like it might rain. I reluctantly went home.
Farewell, my beautiful free street furniture. I hope you find a good home tonight.
Anyway, on the trash heap was a beautiful entertainment center. It was a blond wood, and solid. None of the Ikea shit that's usually chucked aside with gaping holes punched through the cardboard "wood." The cabinet had a glass door and three shelves. The TV space was small, but the overall height of the unit was not so tall that a person couldn't just plop her husband's stupid flat panel TV on top and it would require straining one's neck to view, like sitting in the first row at a movie theater. It also had a functional drawer. I loved it.
As I checked the piece for defects (i.e. - bugs), a woman approached the trash. She scavenged a wood tray, then hovered. "You gonna take that?" she finally asked me.
"Yeah, I think so. I just need to call my husband to help me because it is way too heavy to carry alone."
"It's a nice piece," she marveled. "You got lucky. If you don't take it, I'll come back later and fetch it. I live in this building."
I waited 30 minutes with my new furniture, debating the entire time whether or not I was insane. I just spent thousands of dollars renovating my apartment, and here I was giddy about a used piece of furniture that someone threw out. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Husband finally called me back. He had already returned the car to his parking garage, and had to be in our apartment for a conference call in 15 minutes. There was no way he'd make it, even if he ran down to inspect the piece and we stuffed it in an SUV cab. I wanted to cry. I seriously considered standing in the street with it until his call was over, but the digital clock on the bank down the street showed that the temperature was dropped a degree every five minutes, and I was already cold. Plus, it looked like it might rain. I reluctantly went home.
Farewell, my beautiful free street furniture. I hope you find a good home tonight.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
A Revelation on this Historic Date, 09/09/09
Just as on 08/08/08, 07/07/07, 06/06/06, and so forth, I expect nothing epic to happen today. However, I did pass a fruit and veggie vendor on the street who sold figs for the rock bottom price of $2.50 per box. The grocery store a few blocks away is $3.99 a box, at best. I bought two.
As I inhaled the unwashed fruit while walking home, I realized that the perfect meal is figs that are overripe, almost to the point of rotting, and blue cheese. I could eat that every day. Unfortunately, figs do not start with the letter "c." A few years ago while bored, I calculated that if I could only eat foods that begin with one letter, "c" was the best option. It includes chocolate, cake, cookies, cheese, and a host of other things that I enjoy. (I think "s" was a close runner-up.)
My 09/09/09 revelation about figs throws everything into question. My only hope is cheating, as Calimyrna figs start with "c," but really, my love is Black Mission figs. So it goes. At least I can eat the Calimyrna figs with cheese.
As I inhaled the unwashed fruit while walking home, I realized that the perfect meal is figs that are overripe, almost to the point of rotting, and blue cheese. I could eat that every day. Unfortunately, figs do not start with the letter "c." A few years ago while bored, I calculated that if I could only eat foods that begin with one letter, "c" was the best option. It includes chocolate, cake, cookies, cheese, and a host of other things that I enjoy. (I think "s" was a close runner-up.)
My 09/09/09 revelation about figs throws everything into question. My only hope is cheating, as Calimyrna figs start with "c," but really, my love is Black Mission figs. So it goes. At least I can eat the Calimyrna figs with cheese.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Burned
For the second time in three weeks, I felt the sun bore down on the back of neck and forgot that I had sunscreen in my backpack. My fried neck was a small price to pay for such a gorgeous wedding, though:
I know I am biased, but I love (liberal) Jewish weddings. The chupa (wedding canopy) is so beautiful, and since I've never been to Orthodox wedding in which strict gender segregation is practiced, I always am extra-touched by the equality demonstrated in the ceremonies. Other than the sunburn, the only downside of the wedding was the number of bees flitting about the lush landscape. Bees scare me shitless. Another guest assured me that these bees were friendly, though, and I will say that it was certainly friendlier than the one that chased me around the parking lot of an ice cream shack at a beach town in New Jersey. (I offered that bee my ice cream and wallet to make it go away.)
Other things that I saw on my trip that uplifted my spirit, were these murals in the Mission District of San Francisco:
OK, so the birthing mural freaks me out a little (but I overall think it is cool) and the sidewalk graffiti is not technically a mural, but whatever. It reminded me that I like humanity. However, discussions that I had with friends and Bob Herbert's column in today's NY Times brought me back to reality.
I am burning with indignation at the lunatics who live in this nation. Protesting Obama's speech to school kids about studying hard and respecting teachers as socialist brainwashing? Calling him a Nazi? What the fuck is wrong with people? Of course, these are the same assholes who insisted that I had no right to dislike Bush since he was our president and as president, I needed to respect him. Gah!!!!! I give up.
I know I am biased, but I love (liberal) Jewish weddings. The chupa (wedding canopy) is so beautiful, and since I've never been to Orthodox wedding in which strict gender segregation is practiced, I always am extra-touched by the equality demonstrated in the ceremonies. Other than the sunburn, the only downside of the wedding was the number of bees flitting about the lush landscape. Bees scare me shitless. Another guest assured me that these bees were friendly, though, and I will say that it was certainly friendlier than the one that chased me around the parking lot of an ice cream shack at a beach town in New Jersey. (I offered that bee my ice cream and wallet to make it go away.)
Other things that I saw on my trip that uplifted my spirit, were these murals in the Mission District of San Francisco:
OK, so the birthing mural freaks me out a little (but I overall think it is cool) and the sidewalk graffiti is not technically a mural, but whatever. It reminded me that I like humanity. However, discussions that I had with friends and Bob Herbert's column in today's NY Times brought me back to reality.
I am burning with indignation at the lunatics who live in this nation. Protesting Obama's speech to school kids about studying hard and respecting teachers as socialist brainwashing? Calling him a Nazi? What the fuck is wrong with people? Of course, these are the same assholes who insisted that I had no right to dislike Bush since he was our president and as president, I needed to respect him. Gah!!!!! I give up.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Greetings from the Friendly Skies*
While waiting for my flight to San Francisco last week, a slick promotions guy gave me a coupon to use the new in-flight internet service gogo. I shoved the card in my pocket, and used my captive time to finish reading a book for school. My plan was also to do work on my way back, but odd events prompted me to blog instead.
Everything seemed normal. We pushed back from the gate. A flight attendant announced that our flying time would be five hours and ten minutes. This was 35 minutes less than scheduled, so I was pleased. We taxied. The plane stopped.
"We'll be returning to the gate to discharge a sick passenger," a flight attendant informed us.
I looked around. No one in front of me looked ill. I thought that planes did not let people off once they were boarded unless they were sick enough to need an ambulance, or rowdy enough to require police removal. I tried to be compassionate, but I was pissed about the delay.
We pulled into the gate. A man three rows ahead of me stood up and got off. I expected him to take a bag down from the overhead. He walked off unencumbered by a carry on. Fuck. Now we'd have to wait for his luggage to be rooted out from the checked bags.
My friend, who is a very nervous flyer, said, "They better damn well take off any bags he had with him. How will we know? He didn't take a bag off the plane."
"He had a brief case," the guy across the aisle cut in.
"Someone is going to fly across the country with just a brief case? That seems suspicious." Sara's eyes filled with tears.
I suggested that she ask the flight attendant about the baggage situation. When he walked by, she stopped him. He said that they knew he didn't check any bags. Sara pointed out that he didn't remove any from the plane, either. He flight attendant frowned.
"I'm sure he took all his bags."
Sara asked him to check the overhead bin just in case. A black carry-on was stowed. All the nearby passengers were asked if it was theirs. No one claimed it. The flight attendant paled. He pulled the suitcase out a bit and loudly asked whose it was. Finally, some guy looked up. "Oh, that's mine." Crisis resolved.
The woman sitting on my other side commented, "I expected them to cart out someone if he's so sick he can't fly. This is strange."
It occurred to me that once the "sick" guy was on the plane with or without his bag, whether or not they let him off, if he brought a bag it was already on the plane and there was nothing we could do. He could have stashed it in an overhead bin not near his seat. I resolved to just enjoy the flight.
*This post is inadvertently sponsored by gogo, although the company will probably regret it.
Everything seemed normal. We pushed back from the gate. A flight attendant announced that our flying time would be five hours and ten minutes. This was 35 minutes less than scheduled, so I was pleased. We taxied. The plane stopped.
"We'll be returning to the gate to discharge a sick passenger," a flight attendant informed us.
I looked around. No one in front of me looked ill. I thought that planes did not let people off once they were boarded unless they were sick enough to need an ambulance, or rowdy enough to require police removal. I tried to be compassionate, but I was pissed about the delay.
We pulled into the gate. A man three rows ahead of me stood up and got off. I expected him to take a bag down from the overhead. He walked off unencumbered by a carry on. Fuck. Now we'd have to wait for his luggage to be rooted out from the checked bags.
My friend, who is a very nervous flyer, said, "They better damn well take off any bags he had with him. How will we know? He didn't take a bag off the plane."
"He had a brief case," the guy across the aisle cut in.
"Someone is going to fly across the country with just a brief case? That seems suspicious." Sara's eyes filled with tears.
I suggested that she ask the flight attendant about the baggage situation. When he walked by, she stopped him. He said that they knew he didn't check any bags. Sara pointed out that he didn't remove any from the plane, either. He flight attendant frowned.
"I'm sure he took all his bags."
Sara asked him to check the overhead bin just in case. A black carry-on was stowed. All the nearby passengers were asked if it was theirs. No one claimed it. The flight attendant paled. He pulled the suitcase out a bit and loudly asked whose it was. Finally, some guy looked up. "Oh, that's mine." Crisis resolved.
The woman sitting on my other side commented, "I expected them to cart out someone if he's so sick he can't fly. This is strange."
It occurred to me that once the "sick" guy was on the plane with or without his bag, whether or not they let him off, if he brought a bag it was already on the plane and there was nothing we could do. He could have stashed it in an overhead bin not near his seat. I resolved to just enjoy the flight.
*This post is inadvertently sponsored by gogo, although the company will probably regret it.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Still Out Here, on the Left (Coast)
I love San Francisco. If I couldn't live in New York, San Francisco
would do nicely. I'm a little too high strung for San Francisco, but
otherwise, it's great.
would do nicely. I'm a little too high strung for San Francisco, but
otherwise, it's great.
Today I'm in Palo Alto for my friend's wedding. It is gorgeous here.
If I was forced to live in a suburban setting, I'd choose Palo Alto.
While watching tv this morning, a commercial for a women's razor came
on. I think it was called Embrace. In the ad, a woman and her man
are sitting at a cafe or something like that (wherever they are, it's
in public), and the guy runs his hand up her leg, continuing under the
hem of her skirt. Her legs are so smooth he can't help himself. It
seems that if I use this razor, my legs will cause horndogs to grope
me in public. What the fuck? Why is this considered a draw for the
product?
Bah. I may be in the chill Bay area, but I'm as rankled as ever.
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Thursday, September 3, 2009
It Ain't Roses
The shampoo, conditioner, and soap at my hotel in San Francisco smell
like fresh flowers. The water in the shower is appropriately hot, and
the bathroom quickly filled with steam. My tired body relaxed.
like fresh flowers. The water in the shower is appropriately hot, and
the bathroom quickly filled with steam. My tired body relaxed.
I'd been awake and on the go since 4:40 yesterday morning, when I got
up to go to the airport. In SF, my friend and I spent the day
exploring the Ferry Building, the Beat Museum and North Beach, a
fortune cookie factory and Chinatown, and Ghiradelli Square. I
consumed lots of cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery, some garlic fries,
a Coke Zero float, fortune cookies, and a dark chocolate mint
milkshake. Then I ate a mostly healthy fish/seafood dinner with some
other friends.
By the time I hit the shower, my stomach was angry. As I inhaled the
scented steam, my ass exhaled a toxic cloud. And that was the end of
my aroma therapy.
--
Sent from my mobile device
Blog: www.cussandotherrants.com
Book: www.offthebeatensubwaytrack.com
Invisible Stigmata*
During class last night, I spaced out a bit while the very intellectual professor recited a history of first person narratives from Roman times to today. What made me think about St. Catherine of Sienna is beyond me. The mind works in mysterious ways.
Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.
Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.
*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.
Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.
Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.
*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
A Conversation with My Father*
I called my dad. "Did you get the paper yet?"
"Yes! There's a color picture of you on the fr-"
"I know!!!! It's horrible! I can't believe how bad it is!"
He sighed. "I think you are too hard on yourself."
"That's true, but seriously, this is a bad picture. My friend Suebob said that I look as if I had a terrible accident involving my neck." I cackled. "But now no one is going to want to hire me because they'll think I have a disability that they'll have to accommodate! I'm screwed."
"Well, I'll always love you."
"Thanks, Dad."
And that is the last I will say about this awful picture. It is almost ironic that I am obsessed with how I look in a picture attached to an article about how terrible it is that young girls have to struggle with body image.
*Big nod to Grace Paley, whose essay of the same title we read in lit class last year. My lit prof thought it didn't work, but I adore anything Paley wrote. If she wrote a limerick on the back of a cocktail napkin, I'd find it brilliant.
"Yes! There's a color picture of you on the fr-"
"I know!!!! It's horrible! I can't believe how bad it is!"
He sighed. "I think you are too hard on yourself."
"That's true, but seriously, this is a bad picture. My friend Suebob said that I look as if I had a terrible accident involving my neck." I cackled. "But now no one is going to want to hire me because they'll think I have a disability that they'll have to accommodate! I'm screwed."
"Well, I'll always love you."
"Thanks, Dad."
And that is the last I will say about this awful picture. It is almost ironic that I am obsessed with how I look in a picture attached to an article about how terrible it is that young girls have to struggle with body image.
*Big nod to Grace Paley, whose essay of the same title we read in lit class last year. My lit prof thought it didn't work, but I adore anything Paley wrote. If she wrote a limerick on the back of a cocktail napkin, I'd find it brilliant.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
When Then is Better Than Now
When I first posted the link to the WSJ article, the photos had yet to be posted. I may have been an enormous nerd in 4th grade, but now I am a woman who needs a better hairstyle and more sleep. Damn. And my friend Sara checked my make-up and everything before I met the photog. ("You look sort of like Rachel Maddow," my other Sara friend said, trying to be positive. Dude, Rachel Maddow may be awesome, but I do not want to look like her.)
The good news is that the new story links to the 1986 original. Yep, those were the days.
The good news is that the new story links to the 1986 original. Yep, those were the days.
23 Years Later, I'm Back in the WSJ
My, how things change and remain the same in 23 years. When Jeffrey Zaslow came to interview girls in my school in 1986, who knew he would go on to co-author the zillion copy seller The Last Lecture and then The Girls from Ames? Who knew that I'd go on to, uh, blogging and authoring non-best selling books about unusual things to see and do in New York City? (Hell, who knew that there'd be blogging?) Who knew that the pressure on girls to look thin would go from bad to worse?
A few weeks ago, I re-read the 1986 article about girls and dieting while I was working my thesis.* I thought, damn, everyone in the story is on Facebook. It would be so interesting to follow up on it. On a whim, I emailed Zaslow and suggested it. He agreed.
The follow up article is up at Wall Street Journal. (Although the article does not mention it, I cackled after I made my comment about models.) The online edition doesn't have pictures, so I'll be curious if the print version does.
*To be scanned and posted on CUSS.
A few weeks ago, I re-read the 1986 article about girls and dieting while I was working my thesis.* I thought, damn, everyone in the story is on Facebook. It would be so interesting to follow up on it. On a whim, I emailed Zaslow and suggested it. He agreed.
The follow up article is up at Wall Street Journal. (Although the article does not mention it, I cackled after I made my comment about models.) The online edition doesn't have pictures, so I'll be curious if the print version does.
*To be scanned and posted on CUSS.
Home Unimprovement
The renovations are officially done. With the exception of the washer-dryer, which is maybe the greatest thing ever introduced to my living quarters, I would not consider the work done to be a home improvement. Sure, things look nicer (except for our furniture, which looks worse than ever due to the move to storage and back). Rather than improving my life, however, the renovation created enormous new messes for me to clean.
Anyone needing a laugh should check out my friend's new blog, Awkward Ice Cream Social. It's "Satire with hot fudge and extra sprinkles." Yum.
For the rest of the day, I shall mentally curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth. Tomorrow hopefully will be an exciting day. Jeffrey Zaslow's Wall Street Journal article following up on my classmates and I and our attitudes about body image and dieting will be out. A photographer came yesterday to take my picture. (I asked him not to use any that made me look like a douche. None of his other WSJ subjects have ever made such a request.) The paper is running then and now shots, so my nerdy 4th grade visage will be run next to my nerdy current image. The whole thing almost makes me giddy enough to forget all the white paint flakes that are trailing from the bathroom into the rest of the apartment.
Anyone needing a laugh should check out my friend's new blog, Awkward Ice Cream Social. It's "Satire with hot fudge and extra sprinkles." Yum.
For the rest of the day, I shall mentally curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth. Tomorrow hopefully will be an exciting day. Jeffrey Zaslow's Wall Street Journal article following up on my classmates and I and our attitudes about body image and dieting will be out. A photographer came yesterday to take my picture. (I asked him not to use any that made me look like a douche. None of his other WSJ subjects have ever made such a request.) The paper is running then and now shots, so my nerdy 4th grade visage will be run next to my nerdy current image. The whole thing almost makes me giddy enough to forget all the white paint flakes that are trailing from the bathroom into the rest of the apartment.
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