Thank you for following along with me on this roller coaster of a mish-moshy blog. Today, I have reached the end of my countdown. Yes, that’s right. It’s my birthday! And all is well. I’m having a wonderful day.
What I am a bit misty over is the fact that this blogging journey has come to an end. At least in this capacity. This year this blog has been a saving grace. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but the blog was so much a part of the process — the aging, reflection, creative, destructive, manic, depressive whirlwind that is my life process — that turning 30 was for me. I’m going to miss it.
The party, in brief
At the party last night, which was fabulous (lots of people, all the people I had really wanted to come, realistically speaking, came — we had bbq chicken and sausages, quinoa salad, guac, hummus, tahini, salads galore, funky organic chips, four French cheeses and grapes and crackers, soooo much wine it was coming out of everyone’s ears, add sangria to that and add vodka-fresh watermelon punch to that, and then a gorgeous hazelnut chocolate mousse cake at midnight with champagne popping…ahhh…it was perfect), a few people came up to me and said that after turning 30 they realized how much of a relief it was. A real load off. The anxiety gone. Another perfect decade to have fun and create and build and enjoy and grow and transform in. It’s cliche, but yes, life is indeed beginning at 30 these days.
And today? Oh, today.
Morning
I awoke and immediately opened my presents. A modest yet touching collection of trinkets. Lots of books and interesting design-y elements. Then my sister and 2 friends and I went to have brunch at the most wonderful restaurant called Manta Ray, right on the beach in southern Tel Aviv, very close to the border with Jaffa. I had a “Mr Crunchy” – a very croque monsieur-esque cooked sandwich with an Israeli touch — grilled eggplant — to go along with the crunchy ham and the heavenly melted cheese on eggy sweet challah bread, all topped with Rocket salad and cherry tomatoes. My sister had the pancakes, a rarity here in Israel, cooked American-style, with lovely sweet peach slices on top and a dollop of creme fraiche. My friends had salads (very Israeli), and scrambled eggs, and we all shared some trout ceviche and freshly baked breads and bagels with a seletion of jams, compotes, cheeses, olives, and whipped butter. Ah, heaven.
Afternoon…
…was spent shopping at only one store, and thank goodness for that. I had wanted to wander Tel Aviv, but I hadn’t anticipated the fatigue from last night (we went to bed after 4 am), and the slight hangover (I’m seriously surprised it wasn’t infinitely worse, quite frankly), along with the unbearable mid-day heat. So we went to the one place I love to shop: Liligrace. It’s small boutique with just gorgeous, unique, special clothes at very reasonable prices. A very mini-H&M, homestyle, run by the two sweetest ladies. See, my sister and I discovered this shop on her birthday, almost 6 months ago to the day. AND it just happened to be only the 2nd day that this store was in business. We were some of their very first customers. So, we kept coming back. The prices and the styles are just too good to be true. AND every time I went back, I brought new friends. It’s a loyalty thing. I feel special regarding our little coincidence with the birthdays and the store opening and them being so nice and all, you know. So, of course, of course, this was the only place I would consider going to, if I could only pick one store to shop at on my birthday. Period. AND I came out with some excellent loot, at a kind discount as well, for being the birthday girl. Two dresses, one of them quite dressy and very funky indeed (Japanese meets European), and two very unique shirts. I feel like a princess when I come out of Liligrace. I really do. Visit, if you’re ever in Tel Aviv. On Dizingof between Ben Gurion and Arlozorov on the eastern side of the street.
Evening…
That’s broaching on right now. We’ve been napping for a couple hours. Thank goodness. We’ll probably have some leftovers for dinner… I can’t believe how much food is left. Maybe we’ll even bbq again. Afterward, the plan is to meet up with my family for the “family birthday event.” You know, obligatory time with grandma, potentially awkward moments with teenage cousins, the works. I’ve decided to minimize the potential weirdness by opting out of a typical dinner…and just doing dessert and drinks…at a fabulous cafe, 10 Idelson. I’m expecting world-class cake. And no more than an hour with my crazy grandma. And I’m bringing a friend as well which should act as a buffer against potential explosions. Yes, it should be great. Tonight? No idea. Tel Aviv has crazy parties and night clubs and the like, but I’m so not into that. I’d rather take in a movie at home. Hang out. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Yes I think so.
The future
You will still find me editing my novel (will be sent to agents and publishers by the end of summer, I declare!), job hunting (or working at a new job very soon I hope…touch wood), pondering the meaning of life and breathing through countless existential dilemmas, enjoying Tel Aviv, debating living in Israel, analysing oddities, watching Star Trek, traveling the world, writing, thinking, examining, dreaming, breathing, being, and of course cooking a ton and drinking a lot of wine.
I will be starting a new blog very soon. I have captured some good domain names, and I’ll let you know here how to find me.
Thank you so much for coming along on this ride. I will miss it. And I will miss you.
All is well on the rooftop! Barbecue! Friends! Food! And way, way, way too much alcohol. I like being a grownup very much. Can you tell I’ve been drinking? Well, I intend to be pleasantly tipsy although not wasted come midnight. Not all the friends are here, but that’s to be expected I think. I hope. Or we’ll have far too many leftovers to deal with tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day…gorgeous fresh Arab-made hummus, organic tahini, my sister’s sassy guacamole, my watermelon cocktail, my sangria, Gewurztraminer, Cabs, the works… I love parties that are under my control. Served with much imagination, warmth, and garlic. Always the garlic. Lord knows, I need it tonight.
So fine, in fact, that I don’t care if everything gets done right, or if it gets done at all! For the party tonight, that is…
I’m really OK. My sister and I cooked quite a bit last night. The house isn’t clean clean, but it’s not a disaster. There’s food. And plenty of booze. Some of the wine is actually expensive and tasty stuff…
And I’m getting a facial in an hour.
ANd I’ve realized (and must continue to realize) that being in your 30’s means knowing you’re in control of your destiny. If you feel like it, you can rent a car and drive off into the sunset. Or buy a ticket to Provence. Or Tuscany. Or Goa. Or Russia in winter. Or sleep all day. Or jump off a cliff.
So, as I finish off being in my 20’s… I’ve got to say it’s been an incredible decade.
I began it in Dublin, Ireland, for a year. Spent a lot of time in London, Moscow, Bangkok, Chicago, the Negev desert, and Tel Aviv. I’ve vacationed in France and Italy and India and Ireland. I’ve eaten lobsters in Maine. I’ve hiked mountains on my own. I’ve set foot in more than 35 countries. I earned two degrees and one professional certification. I’ve worked in something like 5 different careers or more. I’ve made and lost (mostly made and kept) some incredible friends and lovers. I’ve baked dozens of cakes. I’ve fashioned hundreds of beautiful meals. I’ve written some decent prose and even a book. Directed some avant-garde plays. Made some attempts at art. Created some radio stories. Met some of the best living artists of our time. Made some money and spent basically all of it. I’ve found a way to own a great iMac, a fantastic KitchenAid, and I have always found room in the budget for Chanel Allure Sensuelle.
A good decade? Why not. Yes. Yes it has been. There’s no need to look at what you don’t yet have, and what you didn’t yet do. This is enough.
I have had the energy of a toddler (or the endurance and strength of superwoman, take your pick) this past week or so. I’ve done the near-impossible. Moved house with my bare hands on my own with the help of borrowed cars, my sister’s and a friend’s muscle power, and a ride from my uncle. We’re talking hundreds of books here. A closet that really needs to be sorted through. Professional kitchen equipment. A desktop computer. Everything but furniture. All taken up by hand to the new fourth floor apartment that I’m sharing with sis.
AND I’ve had several appointments, therapeutic and business alike.
AND I’ve bought furniture, brought it home in a taxi, walked it up the stairs, and put it together.
AND I’ve applied to some jobs (albeit without as much zest as before the move…energy does have its limits), interviewed for one, and gathered references (I dare not jinx myself, but I am really hoping for this one).
AND we’re having a party tomorrow for which we’ve been shopping for food and drinks and now have to unpack and clean the house to within an inch of its life.
AND I may have made some good professional connections in the wine industry…(!!!)
No rest for the weary, huh.
But who’s weary?
I’m now pretty damned excited about turning 30. This is great. Everything is possible. The world is my oyster, n’est-ce pas? AND since I’ve figured out just about what I’ll be doing on the day of my birthday (brunch at one of the best gourmet fish/brunch restaurants that just happens to be right smack dab on the beach, followed by a leisurely walk through Tel Aviv — it’s the city-wide art-market day — perhaps a bit of shopping, an ice coffee and pie at my favorite cafe, siesta and dinner at home, followed by cake and coffee and wine at the very best authentic French-style patisserie/restaurant in town), all I have to do now is stick with the plan. Unpack, clean, buy meat for the BBQ. AND pick up the newly framed artwork. AND deal with the handyman who’s coming tonight. AND get to my facial appointment on time tomorrow before the party (haven’t told my sister about that one)…
God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world. Yup, yup.
I’m getting my hair cut in about an hour and a half. Good to do before a birthday. New look. Lose some weight. And, I know why I’m going, in general terms. I’m again suffocating under heavy curls, although my bob is considered fairly short. Thing is, I always get a bit freaked out about my “look.” When curls are cut well, hair really rocks out. When not, you’re a frizzy nightmare. So much of everyday confidence comes from looking decent. I really like my hairdresser, but I’m often at a loss of what to tell her…”um, uh, please make me feel like a goddess every morning when I wake up and run my fingers through my hair…”? Right.
Let me take you through a little gallery of cuts I’ve had and mostly enjoyed. I love the internet. This was so not possible a few years ago.
An approximate look of a cut that I sported, off and on, from age 25-27. Edgy, chic, very “I’m young and artistic and work in PR”:
This is what I tend to look like today, on a very very good day. A bit fluffier and full on the cheeks:
Now, I’d love to go for something like this…and you’re probably saying that this looks just like the others and pretty standard, but to us curly heads, it’s different enough. Then again, I’ll let you in on a secret: this style would never work on a daily basis. Why? First, the obvious, I’m not a luscious blond. Second, her hair does not look naturally all that curly, and I see evidence of a curling iron…oh well. Here’s to hoping:
Lastly, I think this is what I want. I loved this cut. I can certainly pull it off. I think. Perfect layers. I think I may be ready to get rid of the “much shorter in back, much longer in front” thing, and go for something a little more cohesive. If there was a celebrity whose hair was similar to mine, it might very well be Sarah Jessica Parker. Even though I’m a brunette. She’s got thick hair, messy curls that are sometimes more wavy, depending on length.
Now, here’s hoping my stylist has internet at her salon…
Just made luscious pasta. So scrummy. We eat far too much pasta, I think, but if there are enough veggies and flavor, it should be OK. The secret? Butter. Butter is always the secret. Why? Nobody wants to know it’s there. But if your food tastes extra-amazing at a restaurant…it’s because of the butter piled on as a finisher. You can count on it. It’s my secret, too.
Pasta is my sisterly tradition. I have two sisters. When we’re together, one of us very often hops into the kitchen and whips up some pasta. When one of them does it, it’s pretty plain. A can of tomato pasta sauce, maybe some extra garlic, salt, and pepper. When I do it, I usually make my own sauce. Veg, of course onion, tons of garlic, tomato, olive oil, sometimes zucchini, bell peppers, greens, ginger, mushrooms, and so much more. I like my pasta spicy. I throw in a ton of chili. Cayenne. Hot paprika. I’m fond of Vietnamese fish sauce instead of salt (don’t tell my sisters!), and sometimes, I throw in butter at the end. Oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme, cilantro.
Then we sit, each with a deep Asian soup-cereal type bowl, and watch sappy cable TV. Sometimes it’s America’s Next Top Model. Sometimes it’s a a wildlife documentary like Big Cat Diary, which my youngest sister, Indiana Jones Jr, loves so damned much. And my personal favorite — British Murder Mysteries – Dalziel and Pascoe, Inspector Linley, Miss Marple, Midsommer Murders. These days if we’re lucky there are some great Gordon Ramsey shows. It’s fab that he has so many damned ventures, because he’s on in some capacity all the time…and usually fantastic entertainment. I dream of being on Hell’s Kitchen these days. I have the skills and training. Wouldn’t it be cool to be screamed down by that blond monster?
But these days, our middle sister is stateside. We miss her. Jones Jr and I are boiling and sweating in our skins, watching Finding Neverland, after a slew of boring modeling, wedding, and other ridiculous reality TV shows didn’t make the grade.
Pasta. Spaghetti. Al dente. Cooking in water as salty as the sea. Tonight served with zucchini. And butter. Always finished with butter. It’s best that way. Warmed with memories.
I’ve now heard variations of it three times in the last day. Moving house is potentially the greatest source of stress and anxiety, second only to death in the family. I’m doing OK, but with my possessions littered all over Tel Aviv and a party in three days, I’m trying my damndest to stay calm.
But I’m not doing too much. All I’ve done today is put this together:
The smallest computer desk in creation...only 60 cm wide!
Seems simple, right? Wrong. Took two hours. Oh well. It’s done. I’m not entirely inept. Not entirely.
I had planned to go back to my old place today and pack up all what’s left and clean a bit in preparation for tomorrow night when I’m again borrowing a car and perhaps some friends to help me lift things. But I cannot be bothered. Do you know just how hot it is in Tel Aviv?
And speaking of asking for help… Gretchen Rubin again has a great article on HuffPo on the topic. I’ve not been closely following her happiness project, but every time I’ve visited the “living” section, her insights are always wonderful and often helpful. This article raises a really interesting point: if you want to become closer with someone, give them the opportunity to help you. And I’m really not good at that. Asking for help. Accepting a lot of it. I feel beholden. I feel bad. Then again, I love helping others. If I help and help and help, without allowing others to return the favor, perhaps it’s been a major flaw in my character these past 12 years of my adulthood, or so.
Asking for help is a sign of trust. In helping others, I prove to be trustworthy. But in not asking for help, I only prove to myself that I am wary of trusting others.
That said, if you know me, if you’re coming to my party, I will try to delegate the tasks necessary to prepare. I seriously want an easy birthday, so it should be easy to ask for help, right? Let’s hope.
Now… to prove I’ve not entirely wasted my day, I’m going to finish unpacking the last suitcase I have here (more to come tomorrow, might as well make the house as unpacked and clean as possible beforehand), go back to the hardware store (the desk lamp I purchased does not work), and maybe even go to the grocery store to buy food and supplies for the party…so I don’t have to have a heart attack about it on Wednesday and Thursday. Right? Right. Onward and upward! Yeah!
Blogging. Love it. Really do. But I’m tired. Really tired. See, I moved house, and am still moving house. And I’ve got this birthday party on Thursday night. And I have to unpack and get the house ready and keep applying to jobs and take care of myself. So, yeah. I’m pretty dead tired. And sick of it all. And can’t be motivated to do this.
So, apologies for not being overtly silly or witty or excited or petrified about this birthday week. My therapist has said that moving house is one of the most difficult things for a person to go through. And I thought it would be easy. Just a few boxes. Just my clothes. Just my books. Right.
And now I get back to assembling my Ace Hardware desk that looked so easy and simple to construct when I saw it in the store…and now, I’m clueless. I went to college. And grad school. I have to get this done. At least I’ve got some Dominoes Pizza and Goldstar beer on this intolerably hot night.
It’s officially the last week of my 20’s. Wow. You know, I think I’m ready. Well, you have to be. But it’s OK. Really. It’s getting a bit easier to have a good time. Really.
Today — I started out with another wine tasting — this time at a big theatre in Tel Aviv for an event, an awards ceremony for PR professionals, of all things (my former profession, one of them, stateside). I served 400 people the Gamla Sangiovese 2006. A very decent cup a joy.
Then I joined friends for an impromptu late-weekend-breakfast at a city center bistro.
Then I went home for the flash of an eye…before going to a friend of a friend’s beachside birthday party…which turned out to be more like…hanging out with some way-too-mellow beach bums, doing close to nothing. Ya. But I warmed to the idea. Finally. Because it was so incredibly beautiful. Just before sunset. On what for Israel is an exceptionally empty beach. It could have been Goa. Seriously. Wide expansive beach with small dunes. Tents and tarps set up here and there with straw mats and mattresses and tables laden with comfort food and bottles of beer and arak. I didn’t have a swim suit (silly me wore a dress and jewelry thinking it’s a Friday night birthday party…), but I was convinced by the crowd and borrowed a spare pair of swimming bottoms from the bday girl, and I went in my bra… And the water was warm and calm and soothing… And absolutely NO jellyfish, usually a complete bummer for Israeli beach summers which makes it close to impossible to go into the water. It was liberating. I have always wanted to go swimming and prancing about in my underwear. It’s really different than with a bathing suit. Something about it not supposed to be seen usually. And I felt pretty. Really pretty.
Age is pretty irrelevent. Life goes on. Always goes on. And despite it not being “productive” I had a pretty full and pleasant day. And I discovered a pocket of Israel that looks just like Goa. Where you can relax. And simply be.
Funny how the symbol for infinity is an eight turned on its side. Or maybe I should ask why an eight is an infinity symbol standing on end. In any case, it’s almost a week until my 30th, and it might as well be an eternity away for how much a have to accomplish by that date…
Being an avid book lover and having to move apartments to a fourth floor walkup without any cash or much help is a nightmare. Having to do this in the middle of summer in Tel Aviv with a twenty year-old borrowed car (without AC) on its very last leg made this hell on earth.
But I survived. Every muscle shaking. So wet from sweat, it was like I’d jumped in the sea with all my clothes on.
And here I sit. In the gorgeous new place. No idea how I will be paying for it. Not at all unpacked. And with a couple more loads of stuff to bring over from my old place.
I did have a short interview today. For what could be the answer to my prayers. A work from home job that could pay exceptionally well to basically be a long-distance secretary. But the chances are low, and the interview process long. Which means the resumes still keep going out.
And I’m going to turn in. I can actually get about 8 hours sleep tonight…a far cry from the 3-4 hours I’ve been getting because of the move. Tomorrow is another wine tasting. My feet hurt. And a word to the wise:
I took a good look at myself naked today in a large wall-sized full length mirror, standing perhaps ten or more feet back. And you know what? I liked what I saw. Sure there were flaws. Stretch marks. Thunder thighs. But overall, it was refreshing. Even invigorating. It was exciting to see myself from so far away, and so completely. Usually when we look, if we even dare to look, it’s rather close up…I mean, who owns such a large full length in perhaps their largest room, so they can have the most far-off perspective? And here I was. Nowhere near perfect. But really beautiful. Someone, who if I didn’t know it was me, that I would consider quite attractive.
Being so close to the big 3-0, it was surprising how little if anything this had to do with age. I’m finally OK with my body. Sure, I know I can and should improve it. But I don’t give a flying F- about criticizing my body so much so that I hate myself. Looking at this body, almost as if it were someone else’s, I thought, “wouldn’t it be wonderful to give this body the gift of some yoga once in a while…” I giggle just thinking about it. It’s such a ticklish fanciful thing to be able to walk around in the nude and be really really OK with that. More than OK. To enjoy it. To actually start to understand why someone might even want to go to a nudist retreat. It’s a real pleasure to like living in your body. Who knows, it might even lead to positive sexual experiences. Which is another huge can of worms in and of itself. And I’m not sure I want to go there now.
I’ll end by saying this – I was just kissed. Kissed by a man I can imagine making love to but know I probably shouldn’t. Kissed by a man I am somewhat attracted to but am also extremely perplexed by. Kissed by a man who may be able to turn me off as much as he turns me on. Weird, I know. It was a perplexing “is this a date or not” kind of evening. This man propositioned me without saying a word. Thought he was taking me home, thanked him, and he said, “oh, I was taking you to my home…” But a kiss is worth more than a thousand words. I was looking forward to it, despite not knowing whether to be shocked or tittilated by his more than somewhat forward (or rude) behavior. And this kiss…was wet!!!! Sloppy, wet, and set off absolutely no sparks. Not even a mild fizzle. So wet, it’s been over a half hour and I can still smell that “other person’s saliva” smell on my face! I got my answer, wouldn’t you say?
I’m exhausted. Didn’t edit today. I did, however, apply to six jobs. Six jobs I will probably not hear back from because as I become more and more aware of, it’s all about who you know in Israel, not how qualified you are, because I am overqualified for everything I’ve submitted to and I’m tired of it. And that is exhausting. Add to this that I started out the day pretty damned exhausted…and will continue to be for the next few days…I’m a bit out of it and emotional. See, I get to go back home (!!!) to my new apartment tomorrow morning. BUT I have to be there at 6:20 am to pick up the keys from the lady evacuating the place who’s headed to the airport. Oh well. Figuring out how to actually move all of my possessions and two cats to a fourth floor walk up in the middle of July heat without a car is going to be fun. C’est la vie. Gotta figure out how to make lemonade, folks.
So…giving myself a break this week as my therapist suggested? Ya, great idea. But not so easy. I’m trying, though, I’m trying. I’m eating well (scrummy hummus and pita and veg), I’m thinking about a glass of Scotch (a treat and a tasty one at that), and watching some sci fi. Eureka is back on…a show I adore but I don’t actually think is very good…and I haven’t the tiniest inkling why the episodes started back up in July after months in the dark…
Friends on facebook were very kind to me in their response to my mini status-rant: “headache. sick of applying to jobs. want to sleep. and finally move into my apartment. which will only happen at 6:25 am tomorrow. pooh. perhaps a glass of scotch will make the situation seem more humorous.” And suggested I read this wonderful article about the health benefits of Bourbon and aspirin intake.
And I highly recommend watching this interesting video clip. Can’t understand most of it, but that’s completely OK.
And the real highlight of my day has been perusing McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, a literary website unlike any other, and of which I am extremely fond. Go on, give yourself a thrill – read some juicy tidbits and chuckle for a while. It’s such a tonic.
Signing off…giving myself as much of a break as I’m able.
Today was a good day. Productive enough, but not stellar. Scheduled some things, raised my sister’s spirits, edited a bit, and saw the new Harry Potter. But beyond these normal things, it was still really really good. Why? A great conversation. A conversation about important things, trivial trifles, the past, the future, culture, current events, family, art, life…in short, a long long chummy chat about everything and nothing at all. And at the end, I got a tarot reading!
A friend long ago remarked to me that he could measure the quality of his day by the quality of the conversations had in it. Following this line, life could be judged by the content of our communication more than by, say, achievements. And it makes sense, doesn’t it? Our lives are a collection of moments and what we choose to fill them with. Who we choose to share rooms with. It’s incredible to think about the power a conversation has. In basic terms, it’s just communication of facts, opinions, emotions, and responding in kind. Most conversations are a matter of mundane necessity. So why, when everything goes right, can they be so damned fulfilling? So…essential, so thrilling, so nurturing it feels almost like it’s feeding some deep part of you that didn’t know it was hungry? Well, it seems to me that it’s exactly the conversations we don’t need to have that we really do need to have. An excellent conversation is our unique elegant refined human ability to achieve perhaps the highest level of intimacy. Albeit different than the physical, a conversation has the potential to connect people and create bonds between people, if only momentarily, in stronger ways.
I used to consider myself a “gourmet conversationalist” and even used that phrase (yes, haughtily so) in some online dating ads. And in the last couple years, I haven’t had too many. Until now. An old friend who recently appeared in my life has proven on every occasion an absolute elixir of delightfully deliciously complex ideas and thoughts. And a new friend has provided some simply delightful afternoons full of musings on contemporary dance, art, Israel. With both of these people, I have had several hours-long talks that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, leaving me feeling on cloud 9. And I think the feeling was mutual. It leaves me wondering what I was doing all this time…how did I exist without conversations like these before? This must be what having a really strong community feels like.
Is it by chance that we find these mutually-fulfilling gourmet conversationalists? Is this real friendship? If you don’t have these essential talks with the friends you have, does it mean they’re not the very best of friends? Or only that you’ve been so busy, depressed, distracted by the sadness and chaos that often consumes us in life? Does every friend have to be able to have these soul rocking sessions? I don’t think so. But it would be preferable. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have one juicy idea-packed gab-session every day? Wouldn’t we all be the happier and probably the healthier for it? Yes. Yes, indeed, indeed, and of course.
When I have one of these excited lingering talks, about god knows what — wine, art, makeup, aging, Chekhov, etiquette, Arabic, emotions, sex, books, movies, madness, and more — I know, I know, I know in my heart of hearts that life is good, that life is special, and in whatever sense, be it religious, spiritual, scientific, agnostic, or merely optimistically atheistic, an undeniable blessing. A great conversation is our humanity in action.
May you all communicate deliciously as often as you can!
Funny how I no longer have to think about how many days until my birthday. It’s incredibly close.
A free pass…
My therapist recommended I give myself a free pass these coming two weeks. This blog has in many ways helped quell my anxiety over turning 30 (which is really about the larger issues confronting the fear I encounter daily, confronting the expectations I have for myself compared to what I have actually accomplished, etc). I fully expect to feel either a complete “let down” at this build up, or on the other hand, feel exhilarated and liberated over turning 30. I don’t expect to feel sad or especially depressed on the day of my birthday or the day after. I know I will be fine. On the other hand, I have artificially built up this day. Counting down to something highlights it in a way that it would not have been before. And a 30th birthday highlight enough in anyone’s life. So…I’m to give myself a break…I may feel worthless, depressed, anxious, scared, and who knows…maybe even some overinflated good things…in the 12 days I have left. And that’s OK. Wow, 12 days “I have left.” Dead man walking, indeed.
Community – the clincher
Whether it be Ross, Rachel, Chandler, and Monica at the Central Perk, the office mates by the coffee machine, your college sorority, your band camp buddies, or (gasp) even your tiny dysfunctional nuclear family – community is everything. Everything. And I know I’ve lacked it in a substantial way since moving to Israel. However, what I didn’t know is how strong an effect this has had on the fabric of my life. When we don’t have a routine (work = the same people depending on you doing a task every day; family = washing dishes and laundry and helping each other with essential basics; friends: comfort and support from ordinary things like a weekly cup a joe) it’s very difficult, and for me nearly impossible, to get anything done. I am terrible at self discipline, as you would know if you’ve read any of my past posts here. This is a sort of catch 22 situation, as this is almost impossible to achieve without help…but I can’t get the everyday help of a support system without working at it… All in all, the longer you are alone, the harder it is to find and “fit into” a group. And the longer you are alone, the more difficult everything is in life.
Being seen
What is that crucial element of being in an integral group? It doesn’t matter if it’s work or friends or family or a social niche of some sort. What all of these things have in common is that each member is required to notice the others and be noticed in exchange. It lends itself to caring for others, and in turn being cared for. It’s why the word network is so appropriate. A web, with one strand connected to many others, supporting many others, while being supported by many others. The fewer strands, the weaker the web. The more strands, the stronger everyone is.
Being alone means that on a regular basis there are many fewer people noticing me, caring about me, depending on me, than ever before. When I had an interesting and fairly important job, I was needed on many levels and many people needed me. The more friends I had, the more natural it became to see them regularly, to depend on them regularly, and for them to depend on me.
And the fact that I am now aware that I am not being thought about, that I am not being seen, kind of really hurts. It’s another perspective to the shape of my life. It makes me want to create community, and create one in a hurry. Applying to a doctoral program sounds pretty darned great. Not necessarily for the career or interest motivations. But for there being a lot of the kind of people I tend to gravitate towards, around me a lot. I don’t know if this is a good answer. But seeing my situation in this light…feels funny. I know I have friends all over the world. Some of them great friends. Really great friends. But the fact that we have no common routine, no common rituals, means that we do not spend much of any time thinking about each other with any regularity. And that sucks.
It means I need to make a huge effort, perhaps a very difficult and un-fruitful effort at first, to surround myself, and to find a way to regularly include friends. Calling people every other week, getting together once or twice a month, is not going to cut it. Because I’m drowning here. I’m having trouble finding work, finishing my editing, even identifying who it is that I am anymore, with my being alone so much of the time. And I don’t want my 31st birthday to be spent wondering if anyone is going to show up at my party. I want to know it’s going to be great, whatever happens. I want to be such a good and dependable friend to others that I will have that support in turn.
Now if only I didn’t “like and enjoy” being alone so damned much…
I watched the entire 7th season of the West Wing today. That’s it. Did some laundry (miracles do happen). Bought some sushi to take home to my sister.
All this Saturday amazingness when I should be editing, applying for work, becoming entrepreneurial, packing for my move next week, seeing friends, planning my birthday party, and a dozen other more important meaningful things.
It begs the question of life’s meaning again. Not meaning. Maybe purpose is a better word. If a person gets up and works a mundane job, but goes home, enjoys their dinner, loves their sit-coms, occasionally goes on vacation, and lives their life without much of any regret, that must be perfectly OK. Most people are like this, I think. Why am I different? Because I was raised to think I could do something significant to change the world and leave my mark on it? Why am I miserable? Because I don’t have the balls or the skills or the self esteem or the training (maybe) to fulfill my potential or dreams or whatever?
Whatever. But I have got to come to terms that I make my own bed, and I do indeed sleep in it. If I don’t like where I am, I’m the only one to blame. And if my book is moving slowly, it’s me that’s the slow mover. And if I spend a Saturday watching the West Wing, that’s what I did. And it’s OK. It’s OK because I allowed it, and I told myself that I would not feel badly about it. Usually, I would (or I should) feel horrible about zoning out and twiddling my thumbs and not forwarding my goals.
A day of fine wine, exceptionally hot heat, a stubborn sick cat, and of course, exhaustion.
Wine in the summer?
The tasting I led to today was at a very nice wine shop in a very posh neighborhood right next to where my cousins live. Unfortunately, the store was pretty small, and they asked me to set up shop, (wine buckets, ice, crystal glasses, wine menus, the works) outside. I wasn’t happy, but there didn’t seem to be another option. I could have left early. I could have called my manager. I could have been a bitch. But I was good. I may have heat stroke, but I’m good. And again, wrong shoe choice! I never want to stand up again!
My cat who I thought was on the mend is most decidedly not. Folks, if your vet asks you for a stool sample, provide him with one, tout de suite! The bad bowels stopped. So I thought he was fine. Then my sister and I noticed he wasn’t quite himself, took to sleeping in the bathtub, not eating as much. Then, I took in the sample. Turns out, he might have had a fever all week. Two kinds of bacteria or parasites or something icky like that! I feel like a bad pet owner. And the antibiotic pills are a nightmare. He hates them more than you can hate anything, I think. We’re talking scratches all over the arms all week long. We deserve it though.
Blog Monetizing
So, I’ve been giving some thought to creating a new blog, a good blog, a professional blog, all for the new year, my new age, my new decade…and monetize it. My views regarding sales have always been rather negative. I don’t want to sell things to people who have no interest in them. No way, no how. Online though, everything is so passive. Many sites have ads, and we never notice them. I mean, you buy a newspaper, and there are ads there. Doesn’t mean you don’t read the news, enjoy the funnies, and dive into the crossword. Sometimes ads are helpful. And if I can choose the ads. If I believe in the product. Then, why not?
My Strengths
It’s really hard to make money in Israel. Ha! It’s hard to make money anywhere these days. And I am trying, as always, to get a good sense of my strengths, realistically speaking. Sure, I was a good pianist, sang wonderfully in choir, and I can write a great press release. But what do I realistically devote time to? Writing about myself, my views, things that interest me. And that kind of journalism/novel writing doesn’t exist on a real “bankable” plane. My novel is largely autobiographical. The journalism I have done was all human interest. The few essays, short stories, etc, that I have completed, and completed well, were spin offs of what I knew.
You write who you are
Is it wrong? No. I think it makes sense. All writers write best when they write what they know. And the person we know best is ourselves. It explains common themes and characters in the works of the same author. It explains a journalistic subdivision (a finance writer doesn’t stop and occasionally write theatre reviews). We write who we are.
And I love to blog.
So, if you have any advice out there, please bring it on. I’ve found a ton of articles on how to monetize and tips and blogs on blogging, etc. But a helping hand to weed out the crud would be wonderful.
Great weekend folks! Wish me luck with editing the book…or rather…battling the demons…as I now understand this task to be.
Tonight La Scala’s full orchestra, chorus, soloists, and conductor performed Verdi’s Requiem in Tel Aviv’s main park. The masses turned out in droves. Daniel Barenboim, il maestro, is our hometown boy. And it was a glorious performance. This was no Ravinia or Tanglewood or Millennium Park experience. It was packed, to the teeth, and the crowd was being sold hot dogs and pizzas. Like a rock concert or better yet, a baseball game. And bigger than when Paul McCartney was in town. Well, this was free, so that might have had something to do with it. Of course, the Israeli audience was rude right and left until the very second it began, spoke over the mayor’s excellent speech, shouted for the people in the front and the latecomers to “sit the f- down and shut up already,” and botched the applause for the soloists. But for the most part, the crowd was hushed and calm for the show. Midway through a steady stream of older people and folks with kids and the run of the mill ignoramuses trickled out — but it was so packed, it was hard, for them to find a hint of a trail leading toward an exit and for us trying to watch and listen. At one point I had to laugh. The chorus and soloists were pummeling out a very intense, “lead us out from death and into eternal life,” and right before me, silhouetted because of the glorious light from the stage, was a decrepit elderly woman being supported on both sides, being led out very very slowly, with a gaggle of frustrated stragglers behind her. It was very clear that a few people around me were thinking the same thought because that lyric did not change for a long time, and here was this poor creature, looking like she was on death’s door…and to add insult to injury, the conga line leaving party following her really looked something like the hand-holding plague-ridden group at the end of Bergman’s Seventh Seal. No sooner was the concert over, Tel Aviv of course had to blow it, big time. We barely recognized the piece was over because we messed up and applauded at the wrong points every other time (typical “boy who cried wolf” classical music mishap), and then, probably because of a lack of momentum coupled with people elbowing their way out desperately, we could barely pull off two (and an attempt at a 3rd) curtain call for the soloists. Then, oh then, and I can’t help but cringe…a fireworks display explodes at the two ends of the stage, a big display, being accompanied by some way-cheesy 1970’s song celebrating Tel Aviv…I mean, the orchestra was starting to exit the stage, and a lot of people looked startled. We just heard Verdi for the love of Pete! Less than a minute before! Yup. Typical. The concert was fantastic, though. I was very impressed with the soloists. I haven’t heard quality like that in a very long time. Especially liked the alto. And the moments I thought she was going to split the front of her dress. Oh me. I must be turning into a true Tel Avivian. As if.
My birthday is fast approaching, and I only now, just now, like 5 minutes ago sent out an invitation online to my party. What am I thinking? I wanted paper invitations, a carefully planned event, something elegant, something I could really enjoy because it was so well planned, it had to go right. Right? Well, a bit over two weeks should still be enough to have a nice party. But still.
I still don’t know whether to care or not to care. It’s silly. It’s a stupid non-issue here. Of course I care…and of course, I don’t. Duh…
Like CARING so much it hurts…
So…there are moments during my day when it’s like, “holy shit, I’m going to be thirty…at my age my mother was 8 months pregnant with me…I have no life, no love life, no career, no routine, no schedule, I’m scared, I’m lost…shit, shit, shit…I’m going to be this 30 year old loser and nobody will come to my party!”
Like NOT CARING at all…(or much)
Hey, it’s another day on the calendar. You will be the same exact person. Your goals are the same. If anything, let it motivate you. Try harder. If you’re feeling self-conscious, you don’t have to tell anyone your age. Thank God for your common sense with SPF face creams daily from age 19 and thank God for Israelis (and much of the rest of the world) NOT being smart and allowing themselves to sizzle…so the glorious result is that many Israelis peg you at 25. It’s awesome. Sex and the City was all about women in their 30s and up, and they all got laid a lot. Right? They were still sexy cover girl-y awesome things with exciting careers and lives. There is hope. This could be the best thing that ever happened to you. People will finally take you seriously just because of your age. Hell, maybe you’ll ever start to take yourself seriously! Right? Right.
So…what?
According to Gretchen Rubin and her happiness project, one of the keys to happiness is…not to care. An interesting article and a technique I have been aware of for some time. I was the one who received her own copy of “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff…and it’s all small stuff” when I was about 16 years old.
But it’s much easier said than done. I can easily tell myself, “don’t care, it’s just a birthday.” And seriously, folks, it’s not like I’m having a coronary here. I’m sure it will all be fine. I’ll wake up the day after my birthday, and I will have survived. I know that. Oh shit, maybe I shouldn’t jinx myself here…you never know with the state the world is in…I should probably wake up, hopefully wake up, touch wood. But really not caring…that takes some time and determination and perhaps a really good ability to ignore stuff, brush stuff off, etc. And I’ve never been one of those people. I hoped this blog would help. And it has. I’ve never had such a well-documented year. It’s pretty awesome. Still…
Letting the wish list be the motivator
Yup. There it is. I think a lot of people get a bit nervous or emotional at big birthdays. It’s the insecurity coming through. I look at other friends of mine and think, “it must have been so much easier for them…” thinking…this one is married and that one has kids and this one has a great career and that one is well placed financially…and so on and so on. But everyone has the chinks in their armor. Everyone. Maybe there’s someone out there wishing they’d gone to India like me. Or quit a job they hated, like I did.
And the things that I lack that bother me most? What are they?
Career versus loving what I do complicated by making money
A home of my own
A solid group of friends
A beautiful relationship
I know these things. I really do. And if I’m aware of them, I can work on them and make some headway into eliminating the issues. This blog helped me do just that. The work isn’t over.
What can you do?
Ask me how I’m doing on my novel (the badgering helps). Keep your eyes open for interesting journalism/writing/editing/wine/catering jobs. And come to my party (if you know me apart from this anonymous blog). Please come to my party…I promise I will try to make it fun!
Today I devote myself to my novel which takes place in Paris. I’ve had some breakthroughs this week, and I know how to tie together the structure, finally! I just need to do it.
So, folks, French or not, Francophile or not, remember this great day. Le quatorze juillet commemorates not only the uprising of the modern French nation, but is the symbol of the cusp of many trends in history, in politics and economics. Nothing was the same after the French Revolution. For all of us. And that is indeed something to celebrate.
Enjoy this amazing video fromCasablanca! I always want to cry when I hear the Marseillaise, but I wept openly in this Tel Aviv cafe when I watched this gem. I marvel that it was a film made in 1942, a war film meant to bolster the nation, when the world had no idea what the outcome of the war would be. No idea if France would be free again. If anyone would be safe again.
Yes, it’s my third post in a 24-hour period. Wow. Might help to know about the three cups of coffee I’ve consumed today.
So…here’s the scoop:
Was on the phone with a charming new acquaintance who asked to put me on hold…and it turns out the other caller…was a charged felon making a rare prison call. Helps to know my friend is a criminal defense attorney. But weird to know that the caller on the same line as you is calling from jail. And talking to the same person you are talking to.
My “Ideal Human Diet” article has been getting lots of clicks. I followed some of the ping backs and discovered something interesting. And bizarre. There is a group of pro- raw milk folks who are set on trashing Louis Pasteur. Not sure how I feel about that. I always marveled at the fact that he cured rabies. They make him out to be an opportunist and a bit of a thief of other people’s ideas…always following the money, making lots of useless vaccines and the like. And that Pasteurization doesn’t kill all bacteria while it does harm the milk. Now, I’m all for raw milk. But it’s caveat emptor here. I think it’s healthier. And if you can get it right from the source, and the conditions are very safe and sanitary. Fantastic. But getting milk to the masses is a dangerous business. And we’re not in a world where people have their own pet cow in the back yard. Additionally, I’ve just been introduced to a new theory: Pleomorphic Microorganisms, where the website claims, “A virus can become a bacterium which can mutate into a yeast or fungus.” Apparently pharmaceutical companies don’t want us to know about this phenomenon because they would stop making the big bucks on tons of illness-specific meds. Read a bit more about this term here and here.
Just found out that Chastity Bono (the only daughter of Cher and Sonny Bono) is now Chaz Bono (the only son of Cher and Sonny Bono). Going through a gender transformation. Yes. I was in shock. But I have no right to be. I don’t know her. This is a difficult transition for anyone, and I daresay, this is the first celebrity gender change I have ever heard of. I guess it hit home more because she was an important figure in my life when I was a teenager. I identified as a lesbian back then. Now, it’s somewhat more complicated, but I’ve lived a much more hetero lifestyle for about ten years (perhaps I’ll delve in more in a coming post). But this is beside the point. She was a media darling, coming out of the closet the way she did. I looked up to her. And I support what s/he is doing now. It’s just a shock. And I don’t entirely know why. In theory I understand transgender people, their feeling trapped in their bodies, their wanting to change to their physical gender. I support them. I suppose it goes to show how much gender figures in the identity of a person. I’ve only known one or two people personally (but not closely) to have undergone this experience, and I wasn’t in touch afterward. I can’t help but feel like the person they were before no longer exists. It’s easy to say that s/he is the same person as ever, truer now than ever before. But I still have trouble referring to my former friend as “he” instead of “she” because when we were friends he was a she. I know that in order to reconcile this I need to become more informed, meet more people in the transgender community, etc. Part of me wonders about the role of all the technology that makes this possible. Fifty years ago or even more recently, sure, you could have said, “I’m a man, I’m a man, I’m a man, I just happened to be born in this female body!” More likely, because the technology wasn’t available, this sentiment might not even been expressed, or a person might not know how to express it. How would this person have chosen to live their life before hormones and surgery? Probably just as a lesbian. Period. Maybe dressing in a masculine way. Was Chastity Bono never a lesbian at all, rather a heterosexual man trapped in a woman’s body? Will cutting off breasts, adding a penis, growing a beard make life different? Well, of course. I don’t know where I’m going with this. But there are so many prominent lesbians I wonder about, you know. If given the chance, would someone likeGertrude Stein, for instance, choose to change her gender? Or do the times, the technological possibilities, societal norms (as well as subcultures) dictate everything? Could Stein have been nothing but a lesbian back then, when in 2009 she might have been undergoing surgery? I don’t know. Part of me feels like even the thought of the possibility of this is saddening. Like, the “lesbian” in me is proud because she was a lesbian. Bono’s life, body, decision, everything, is her/his own. But what s/he meant to me back then…it changes something. Like she was never a lesbian at all. Even though I’m just talking a bunch of BS right now. And I have no right to pass judgement here. Oh the perils of celebrity. I wish Chaz immense luck on his journey.
I’m so happy right at this very moment! Sitting at one of my favorite cafes after a grueling walk in the heat and bad shoes (once again) to get here, Mr. Jones by Counting Crows came on the air. I love this song. I just adore this song. I feel happy and good and connect and I’m reminded of high school when this came out and sticking up for myself, and I just want to smile and cry and I never want this song to end.
I’m gonna be a big star…
And with that. It’s over.
But if this lets me embed…we can all enjoy it a little while longer.
Cross a good therapy session, a two-week bout of “white collar” homelessness, and a sappy made-for-tv movie, and what do you get? The twelve year-old in me, the girl who dreamt big and believed it all possible, emerges. And why not? The bigger question here is, where has she been? And why doesn’t she stick around for very long?
Answer one: I’ve been living in jaded-ville off and on for ten years.
Answer two: I’ve been trying to stay in the neutral category, just edging out of negative, that the unthinkable (the positive) was just that.
What the hell am I talking about? See, it’s as if I’ve created a triptych out of my perception of the world:
A) world as it should be
B) world as it is
C) world as it could be
What’s the subtle difference here?
Option A: the world as it should be
There is a template to this world, and we’ve got it all wrong. We get sadness, pessimism, cynicism, and hopelessness here. We have failed in some moral, ethical way. When we think of the world as a series of mishaps, of what was meant to be, and didn’t happen, it’s a major bummer. We’ve polluted the air, the water, killed off half the animals and plant species, people are still dying of hunger, horrible diseases are ravaging the world, and on, and on. The world should not have been this way! How can we ever get out of it?! How can we get back on track to how the world should be? It should have been cleaner, we should have been smarter, nicer, more generous…bla, bla, bla. “Should be” in the very best possible sense focuses only on fixing problems, keeping in mind some illusory “perfect world of should be” as a goal. It’s a constant reminder of a failure. And something we owe it to ourselves, or more so, owe it to the world, to work toward. It’s a struggle here.
Option B: the world as it is
There is no blueprint for how we as a species or the earth as a planet are meant to evolve. On my best days, these days, this is where I live. No shoulda coulda woulda. No right and wrong. No fault. No blame. No emotional entanglement. Sure, lots of things have been killed off. Sure, we’re choking ourselves to a slow hot death. So what. The universe will not weep for us. We conquered the planet as a species, so if we did what it what we have done, consequences will ensue. So what. Is it wrong? Is it fair? What’s fair? We were stupid, we killed off elements fundamental to our own survival…so we deserve to die. Right? Right. No, not “deserve.” There is no blame here. We were stupid. We will die. Or maybe we won’t. If we’re smart and we fix stuff and save our skins. When I’m in this mode of being, which I often am these days, I marvel at human history. Industrialization, politics and power, economics and wealth distribution, rights and responsibilities. All, all, all superficial constructs. Why does anyone have a right to live? It’s laughable! One is born if one is born, without consent or permission. If a baby died in childbirth, it died in childbirth. If one person is born to a rich family, and one to a poor family, so what? Are they equal? Of course not. What on earth do rights have to do with it? This is a world of that which is, simply is. It’s a world of power, of laissez faire, of sit back and watch what happens. It’s all so amusing to watch people up in arms over issues when nothing actually matters!
Option C: The world as it could be
We’re making up the blueprint as we go along, always adapting, learning, changing. I wish I could live here. It takes effort these days. Perhaps it just makes me sad to think of the girl I once was, so excited about the future, so excited to be alive and have the chance to participate in something so beautiful and important. The world as it could be, the world as it could be. It’s an optimist’s haven. It’s the world of sci-fi, of Star Trek, of admitting, “sure, it’s really bad…but there’s a bright side, and we’re working hard to get there.” The world as it could be throws out the idea that there was a definite way the world should be working. It takes the best of the honesty from Option B (OK, this is where we are), admits to a little bit of option A (OMG! it’s bad, it’s really bad, and we did it), but gets on with it, takes a deep breath, thinks big and way outside the box, and then makes a realistic plan of attack. This is the world of Disney, Ford, NASA, the biosphere, Apollo missions, the pyramids of Egypt, hovering bullet trains, Asimov, Gregor Mendel, the Pantheon, Da Vinci and Galileo and Matisse and Picasso and Kandinsky and Rothko. It’s the best. It’s hope meeting action. It’s admitting we can’t have a solid picture of where we “should be headed,” but it doesn’t mean that we, “see the world for what it is and stand still.” It’s keeping your chin up. And working hard. With a goal in mind.
My goals have gotten small lately. I’m so used to being disappointed with myself, I don’t expect to succeed. And I forget that I used to be so successful, it was embarrassing. Like a success junkie. Maybe that’s what makes this adult reality so much the more difficult. My self esteem is in the gutter quite often. But no excuses. Not anymore.
I care about so many things. So many. Sure, it’s a little late to become a NASA scientist or a Greenpeace sailor or a Cousteau researcher. But I’m only 29 years, 11 months, and 12 days old. That’s kind of young enough to take on a project. Or take adopt a new purpose to your life. Enough with getting by. I need to reach goals. Big ones. Because it is possible. Helping Israel develop its recycling system (which is embarrassingly behind the rest of the world) is attainable. Getting a complete amount of organic produce here could be done. Ending childhood poverty in a country as small as this, can be done. It can be. Writing about issues that I find important, and get paid to do it, is possible. It is.
I just need to figure out how to stay here. Because I still need a day job for the moment. I still struggle with depression, big time. Perhaps Lifetime TV and the Hallmark Channel just became my new best friends…
A topic that really, really interests me. It should interest everyone, really. What we eat is who we are. The food and drink we imbibe becomes the fabric of our cells. And given the spiral of ill-health around the world, the raging debate (at least in some circles you’ll find me visiting) around vegan-ism being the true natural diet for humans, my oft-hesitant carnivorous tendencies following nearly a decade of vegetarianism, and of course, the fact that I adore cooking, food history, etc, etc, it was serendipitous that I came across this article today.
The Healthiest Foods On Earth!
According to this article by Jonny Bowden, published in Forbes, it’s not necessarily what you eat, but how processed what you eat actually is. There’s a lot of debate as to what the “original” Paleolithic human diet was. Quite varied, probably. Depending on where we originated (rather where our ancestors migrated to and settled into many, many, many thousands of years ago), our predecessors may have thrived upon a high fat, high protein diet (hunting seals and the like in Greenland), or low protein, high carbs (in southern Africa), milk and fatty-cream (Switzerland…and from a documentary I recently saw…Mongolian nomads today thriving mainly on horse milk and yogurt), or even blood. Crazy, right!?
Wrong. The issue I have with vegans is this specifically. Human beings were never vegetarians. Maybe we were when we were apes. But there’s a reason we’re not still apes. Our ancestors were resourceful and depending on where they wound up, may have gotten up to 65% or more of their intake from animals. You know, it’s probably the reverse…we ended up where we did because we learned to hunt and gather in this way. We learned to survive. We are learners and adapters. We are human.
Anyway, back to the article. Which made a lot of sense to me. It’s not what you eat, entirely, but how processed it is. The more natural the food, the more whole, the better it is for you. Even meat. Even meat. Sure, the best animal for you to be munching on would be grass fed in an open prairie-type environment that was never ever injected with any hormones or antibiotics. And then there’s milk and eggs. Perfect nutrition. So really, if we stop eating food with preservatives, if we stop eating fast food, fried food, food that doesn’t in a million years resemble food, we’ll be OK. It makes sense to eat organic. To cook simple foods at home. To eat lots of fresh fruits and veg. Nuts, berries, eggs, broccoli and its family, wild fish, raw milk, beans, grass-fed beef. Sounds good right? Better than a big mac? In a heartbeat.
My Message to Vegans
Keep at it. Love what you eat. Fight the man. It’s a good fight. But lay off me. Your logic usually sucks. I agree that most animals we eat are practically (or actually) tortured. That hormones and antibiotics are terrible things to be injecting in them and for us to be absorbing in turn. These policies are huge, most people don’t know about them, and something needs to be done. But eating animals the right way, drinking milk the right way, eating eggs the right way…I can’t see why that isn’t OK. Perhaps it disgusts you to be thinking that you’re taking part in murder or that it’s revolting to be eating an animal. OK. Good for you.
But chew on this – we (yes, including you, fellow vegans) would not be here, living this life, having created this society in this world (whether you like it or not), would it not have been for our ancestors learning how to hunt and kill and eat and eventually cook other animals. We would not have progressed. We would not have our intelligence. We would not have migrated across the entirety of this globe. Because I learned one really interesting (and almost bizarre) fact today, after having done some fancy (ordinary) internet research: the overall health and life expectancy of humans dramatically declined with the advent of agriculture. That’s right. Early farmers, the ones who enabled us to stop moving and develop cities and writing and technology, were shorter, sicklier, had far more infant mortality, died earlier, and were plagued with a myriad number of diseases.
Seems like we should all be pulling together for all of us to go back to a real Paleolithic diet, a la Fred Flintstone.
As for me, I’ll be looking for organic meat and eggs and milk in Israel. Anyone any ideas? Especially in the meat department?
Coming off of my meds (most recently Cymbalta) and being completely clean of any antidepressants or mood stabilizers or panic meds for the first time in a year was easy. I was on such a low dosage (25 mg every other day), that even the side effects and the “coming down” was almost unnoticeable. The first symptoms came a few days after, when I felt I didn’t have control over my emotional reactions. Then again, this was in regard to my mother who is the source of much of this and who bothers me and will probably always bother me immensely even while practically sedated.
And then there was today.
A decent day. Hot as hell. Hot as balls. So hot I couldn’t mop the sweat off me fast enough and there would already be another layer. I went to the cinema. Saw Bruno. Was entertained enough, but more glad of the AC and the darkness and the company, anonymous though it may be, for a while.
My little cousin is going to be drafted in two weeks, and 18 year-old’s rite of passage here in Israel. It’s traditional here to have a congratulatory party, a kind of graduation party crossed with a goodbye party. Family and friends. Salads and quiches and hummus. A very delectable semifreddo my aunt made. A cheap bottle of wine that wasn’t finished despite eight people drinking. A few speeches, actually. Exactly what I expected.
And it could have been the sweet sentimental proud words coming from grandmothers and parents. It could have been the company that almost never comes together in such form anymore (my aunt and uncle have separated, so we’re rarely in the old house, and we almost never see the other side of the family). It could have been that both those things triggered something very raw and sensitive for me. The fact that I don’t come from a speech-giving family. That it’s been a long time since I’ve felt accomplished or appreciated or loved openly. That my parents weren’t there, missing amongst the “adults.” That if we were back home in the US, we don’t have such a tight-knit family for such occasions. And I could go on and on.
But I don’t think it was as conscious as all that. A sudden melancholy just blanketed me. Right in the middle of a teary-eyed speech. It’s familiar to me. Quite familiar. But I haven’t felt it in months, and I don’t have a chemical weapon to fall back upon. Of course, this is by choice, but still. It’s like sadness but emptier. And it’s that empty void that is almost comforting. Because things become very sharply focused. Sad that I’m not a part of things, but understanding why. Understanding that it’s actually much easier than I think. This thing called life. But that I’ll perhaps never make it. Focused detachment. A sea of nothingness. And I was surrounded by people, my little cousin being praised and embraced, glasses clinking. I wanted to go away. Maybe read a book. Be alone in another room. It felt silly to be there. It had little meaning or interest anymore.
The one important thing. It did occur to me that this sudden melancholy happened all of a sudden because I wasn’t on any medication anymore. It made it slightly humorous, actually. I liked the “meta-ness” of it. Because all of a sudden I was aware of this fact, that because I wasn’t drugged, this state of being that used to be so normal had just set in again, I felt like I actually might have a modicum of control. And that’s a damned fine thing to believe, I’m telling you. Because I do thrive on melancholy. But it also destroys me. And I cannot afford to “allow myself” to fall into a pit. I have to be strong like I know I can be.
Video of Bach’s Sonata for Piano and Violin in B flat major. I saw an acquaintance perform this last night in Tel Aviv (not this video, but the music, you get the point):
The concert started late, had far too long an intermission (wasn’t sure it even needed one), and was only so-so. I mean, I’m very glad I went. It was charming, and I enjoyed the music. The performers were lovely and enthusiastic. It did get me thinking about the “ease of performance,” though. It was semi-professional (basically, adults who didn’t pursue professionally but probably studied until college, and then decided they still wanted to be active and perform here and there). Although it was a treat to hear live Bach and Mozart and Pergolesi and Handel and such, it wasn’t a real pleasure.
What’s a real pleasure?
I’m reminded of a graduate course I audited at the UofC many years ago vaguely about “poetry in the court of the Renaissance.” Something about the real skill and performance of an expert artist (or huntsman or poet or dancer, etc). Although the task this artist performs is obviously (or necessarily) quite difficult, it is the fact that he performs it with ease, with pleasure, almost with mirth, that makes a good performance. If it looks like the artist is having a difficult time, despite a positive outcome, it is painful for the audience to have to experience this.
Do not confuse this with demonstrative emotions. If an actor doesn’t cry (or scream or somehow react) at an appropriate moment in a tragedy, it doesn’t work, for instance. Or if a musician is so moved and swept up in the performance you can see it in her face and movements. What I’m talking about is this: when a magician slips up and a trick almost fails, or when a skilled musician makes a slight mistake and acknowledges it, even slightly. It takes us away from our reverie, from our suspension of disbelief. We are suddenly concerned for the artist. For his success, for his safety, for his honor and self-respect. It is then that a performance is lost.
The difference between amateur and professional is hardly a question of the monetary exchange for services rendered. It is one of our expectations being fulfilled, as an audience. Being taken away from where we are. Being able to enjoy, laugh, cry, clap, without any sort of self-checking, self-awareness.
It kind of explains why Susan Boyle, our Scottish starlet of 15-minute fame-dom, was so moving to us. We expected a “middle school” performance at best. Something we needed to tolerate, not expect to enjoy, and then perhaps pity when it went all sour. As we all expected. But no. Susan sang with ease. After she opened her mouth, we weren’t concerned about potential embarrassment for her. We were instantly swept away. It made the “sweeping away” even more moving, full, and grand because we were expecting to have to be embarrassed for and have to pity her.
It’s also why last night was a bit of a mixed bag. The music was good enough, sure. I was glad to be out. Glad to be supporting a friend. Happy at the variety of the concert, the quality of the concert hall, the grand piano, etc. But seeing the faces, the cracks, the effort. Well, it wasn’t a night out at the CSO or the RSC or the ROH. Did it need to be? No. Ach. But the effort, the effort.
That’s it, the effort. The effort ruins it as a major contender for enjoyment. It’s all about ease. It’s about jumping through flames and coming out unscathed ALL WHILE being able to do it without flinching, without running out of breath, without breaking a sweat, all with a shiny toothy-white smile, broad as daylight!
Ah, such thoughts. I miss Renaissance poetry classes and the philosophy behind experiencing such visceral things as pleasure. Art. Such delectable food for thought!
Yesterday’s job interview was not a job interview but a bizarre, “maybe you can kind of sell our services on a casual basis…”
Today I had a wine tasting in Petah Tikvah, a kind of farther off suburb, which in Tel Aviv terms is really really really far. It took me over an hour to get there, the wine shop tells me I’m an hour and a half early, proceed to tell me to take a walk and come back. For the love of pete! And here it is:
I walked around this crumbly old town for over 20 minutes without finding one single coffee shop. Not one. Not even a restaurant that makes coffee. Nada. A few kiosks. Lottery ticket booths. A couple of hummus and falafel joints. Nothing that resembled civilization. No place for a quiet cup a joe. And this is Israel. A cafe society. You can’t walk around Tel Aviv without finding one!
The tasting ended up being a complete dud, too. No takers. The worst tasting ever. It was a Russian-run store, and everyone who walked in bought cheap vodka, cheaper beer, or cigarettes…many people buying a couple of loose cigarettes.
So now I know. You enter a random town. Seems like a decent place. Good veg market. Nice residential areas. But there are no cafes. It ain’t a place you wanna spend any time.
gump·tion (gmpshn)
n. Informal
1. Boldness of enterprise; initiative or aggressiveness.
2. Guts; spunk.
3. Common sense.
I have a job interview of sorts today. It came about casually. Met “the boss” at a BNI (business networking) meeting last week, and he kind of loved me, wrote notes to me during the meeting, told me he could probably help me out, that sort of thing. It’s an insurance company for travelers, both in Israel and abroad, mainly specializing in health care. And it’s a big company. A good one. I’ve bought from them before. Last week, in fact. Renters’ Insurance. So…why do I feel nervous? I tried to confirm the interview by emailing him politely. Never responded. Yes, it’s Israel. I saw him write the appointment in his diary when I was with him, so, like, I should just show up, right? And who knows if there is an actual job for me…it could be an informational thing…or a nicety. He made it seem like he doesn’t like some person who is working for him now is some position, and wouldn’t I like to take her place….whatever.
I’m going to shower. I’m going to dress well. I’m going to get there early. I’m going to eat something for breakfast.
And then it will happen.
And afterward, I go for Chinese medicine and acupuncture! Hoorah! I love those days. I only wish my income was more stable because every time I do something like this…acupuncture, see my therapist, it’s hard for me to really enjoy it because I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to afford it, or whether or not I’m already going into debt over it. These are currenly quite necessary expenses for me…so maybe I’ll just really go for that job today. Who knows? It could be the best thing to ever happen to me.
Until I get the book published, that is. Time to grow some balls, darlin’!
Enjoy this video that never ever fails to make me smile (it may not let me embed, but go to the link!)…Good day to you all!
Yes! I had a good day. It was the day and it was done! I made lots of phone calls and ran errands and went all over town and applied for jobs and even, yes, even worked on editing my manuscript! Glory Hallelujah!
And guess what. Tomorrow will be the day again. All over again. But better. Hooray!
But now onto some hilarious news and stuff I’ve dug up from the web.
The security of the new head of MI6, Sir John Sawers, has been compromised. How? His wife posted all sorts of family photos, vacation photos, and pics of their friends, revealed the location of their home, their kids’ whereabouts, etc, etc, etc…on Facebook! With no privacy settings in place! Hardy, har, har. Way embarrassing. Read on…
My male cat, the one who somehow “fell out” of a 4th floor window, got checked out at the vet’s today. He seems normal, maybe a little bit more fussy than usual except…he’s got anal leakage. Yeah. Nasty. You don’t need the long story…he’s gonna be fine, for sure. But I learned today what his real weight is. And it’s scary. I thought, sure, he’s over 5 kilos, maybe close to 6… My big fat cat weights 7.6 kilos. On an empty stomach in the morning. That’s 16.72 lbs!!! As soon as he’s healthy, he’s going on a strict vet-prescribed diet. Period. No diabetic cats will be created under my roof, no sirree bob!
I’m always interested in the bizarre ways people find my odd anonymous personal blog. One of the big search triggers is “Pompeii,” seeing as I wrote a decent post with lots of raunchy photos from my visit there. Often people search for sex in Pompeii or Pompeii brothels. Well, today, I found something so hilarious, it’s almost touching. Real graffiti from Pompeii. Not kidding. People never change. Seriously. A couple thousand years, and it’s all the same. A few choice samples:
Restitutus says: “Restituta, take off your tunic, please, and show us your hairy privates”
Amplicatus, I know that Icarus is buggering you. Salvius wrote this
The one who buggers a fire burns his penis
Lesbianus, you defecate and you write, ‘Hello, everyone!’
Floronius, privileged soldier of the 7th legion, was here. The women did not know of his presence. Only six women came to know, too few for such a stallion.
Theophilus, don’t perform oral sex on girls against the city wall like a dog
Defecator, may everything turn out okay so that you can leave this place
I have buggered men
It took 640 paces to walk back and forth between here and there ten times
I don’t want to sell my husband, not for all the gold in the world
So…do go read all of them, will you? I’m not pulling your leg. They’re all real. Archaeologically documented and everything. Dirty macho bragging graffiti as science, art, and a piece of history. Fits, doesn’t it? The best place an archaeologist can find info on a long-gone society is in its trash heap.
Today’s the day I am being productive. Not “will be” and not “hope to be.” I saw my therapist yesterday, and we discussed daily goals, being accountable, etc. I have tasks for the week. And I will achieve them.
However, I did procrastinate…doing something fabulous for my parents… See, it’s their anniversary today. 31 years. Believe me, it’s been a rollercoaster. I’ve been around for almost 30 of these 31 years. I should know. You know how you look at some people’s relationship and think, “why don’t they just split up…they’d be happier…” Well, that’s kind of what I have been thinking about my parents, for say, 25 years. I guess they’re kind of addicted to their own drama.
It took me 2-3 hours to build. I’m still not quite sure why I did it. But the idea took hold (was doing some research on giving them a fun e-card…and nothing struck me as any good…and so I wanted to make my own e-card…and this is what came out).
For the rest of the week, I’ll be writing daily at a cafe for a couple hours. And I’ll keep doing the networking, the job stuff, and calling friends.
Piece of cake, right? Let’s hope so. No, I know so. Piece of cake.
Sarah Palin resigned as governor giving no reasons why.
Michael Jackson is dead.
The (maybe) revolution in Iran has fallen off the front pages.
And I can do nothing but twiddle my thumbs, not care a feather or a fig, and take a personality test that should show me the real direction I should be going toward in my dating exploits.
Uh huh. Yeah.
It’s July 4th, and I’m not at a parade eating a brat, watching grown men in fezzes driving tiny cars and covering my ears at the live cannons toted by the Civil War reenactors. Instead, I’m burning up in a bathing suit in a far too sunny Tel Aviv flat, alternating between reading a bad book, watching BBC tv, and drinking herbal tea. And I kinda really wish I were at the parade or the local fair or a friendly barbecue. Ah, the life of an expat. Always between worlds. It’s my yearly painful push pull struggle with patriotism coming to a head. But I won’t let it bother me too much. I think I can handle it. Who doesn’t love a nice cold bottle of white wine, the “Antiques Roadshow,” and Dan Brown’s petty prose? A decent way to spend the holy sabbath, right?
So…as a brief update on my last post, about being consistent, doing things every day…I’ve not been entirely successful. Of course. And I have no excuse, and I don’t know why. I must try harder. Period. What I have done is apply to tons of jobs. And network. And I may have a job very soon. Which is great. Really great. Not a dream job, but a job that pays more than minimum wage, a job in an office, with air conditioning, that will help me get back on my feet financially after going through my savings these last 8-9 months. I have also been sleeping much better, although I’ve not made my midnight nighty-night deadline. I have been calling friends. AND I have been making a decent effort to work earlier in the day…as in before noon, although I’ve tried for before 10 am. Not bad. Except for the major thing, the first thing on the list: working on my book.
Avoiding the book is not new. I could have had it done in much better shape a year ago or even more. I am so scared, so afraid of it failing…or you could say the flip…I’m so afraid of it succeeding wildly…that I prefer to default and not try at all. But that would be cowardly. I do occasionally triumph over my cowardice, hence, the phase when I did nothing but finish the book to the end…the stroke of brilliant courage that had me enlist and hire a critic/teacher. Now, I need to see it to a close. It’s just so much easier to use the current situation (financial panic/instability), that I’m blinded. Quite blind. I need to get over it. Do small things. Ease into it. Not be frightened to open the documents. Do some reading, some research. And then it should work like clockwork again. It’s not easy, but the task is virtually impossible if I don’t even begin.
Maybe it has to do with my personality type. So, I was randomly surfing HuffPo and came across this article, all about how everyone has a type. The article leads to an article and quiz on Chemistry.com. And I’m always up for a pseudo-scientific quiz. And I found out, according to the quiz, that I am a Negotiator (primary personality type) / Director (secondary personality type). And, it says that I’m attracted to the sort of opposite combination (Director/Negotiator). Weird thing is, I think I’m even, not primary/secondary. I might even be more of a director than a negotiator. Here are my results. Or maybe the results were right…I need to stop “negotiating” with myself and be more “direct” and force myself to drop everything and WORK ON THAT BOOK! Yes. In any case, the article and quiz were quite convincing, so I do recommend it to those singletons who are interested in honing their dating skills. There are apparently only four types: directors, explorers, negotiators, and builders…and if we can identify what we are, and what is the best match for us…we can more easily identify it…right? Let’s hope.
As for me…this is as close as I’ll get to my favorite Shriners this year…have a great Independence Day, all! Eat a brat for me!
Discipline. Rather, self-discipline. AND consistency. Two very big issues of mine. When I work for other people, or when I’m in a structured situation like in a university, I meet my deadlines. I don’t let other people or myself down. It’s hard. I wait until the last minute a lot. But I do it. And I succeed. Perhaps it’s why I have thrived in very deadline driven places and occupations. I’m an excellent student and an excellent publicist.
On my own, however, I’m so crappy at self-discipline, I feel like I regularly fail myself. Is it because I have nobody to “please,” nobody looking over my shoulder and judging me? Am I incapable of function without external criticism and expectation?
What am I getting to here? I don’t know the answers to why I am this way. It relates to a lot of what I talk about with my therapist, of course. What I do know is that this pattern of scary inactivity and shame has to stop. Must. I’m an adult. I have so much going for me. If I don’t want to tread water, I don’t have to. I just have to make a decision, create a plan, and stick to it. Even if nobody is watching.
So, what to do? Where to start? I think a good thing to begin with is to establish a routine. Make sure there are things that I do every day. Not once or twice per week. Every day. Why? Because you’re more likely to be successful if there’s no way to get out of it (i.e. oh, it’s my weekly task, but I’m so busy, I’ll do it tomorrow). Sure, I’ve got some weekly things (primarily my therapist and some other semi-regular doctors’ appointments). They help to keep me “human” and get me out of the house. It’s a good start. But it’s nowhere near enough. Nowhere near enough. This is an article from HuffPo on the topic. It got me thinking, and I even bookmarked this specific page on my toolbar. I look at it daily.
And now, I’ve got to implement some of this. Now. I want to be able to look back at this month and know that I work hard and achieved some results. I want to be proud of myself on this big birthday.
To Do Every Day for 29 Days (and maybe much more…)
Write/edit my book for at least one hour, and preferable two or three.
Apply to three jobs/send three resumes to employment agencies.
Call at least two friends.
Get at least six hours of sleep every night and attempt to go to sleep before midnight.
Begin the above “work” in the morning hours (i.e. before 10 am).
I think these things are do-able. It’s a short list. Which is good. Because it still looks daunting to me. Imagine – the fact that going to bed at midnight and forcing myself to sleep six straight hours being “scary” to me. However, everything on this list is easy as apple pie. I am very capable. I finished writing this book. I did. Yes, editing is hard. Harder. But I think I’ve reached a mountain peak in this process. It’s hard to go down, sometimes harder than going up, sure. But this time, I can clearly see where I’m going, right? And the resume thing? It has to be done. I should perhaps add door-knocking or follow-up calling, etc, to the list, but I don’t think it’s realistic to do daily. If I do three a day, that’s 15 per week. And truth be told, once you apply to one or two jobs online, it’s just as easy to apply to five or ten. It’s just time consuming. Not “difficult.” So if I can stick to my guns here, I’ll inevitably be applying to more than three per day.
Good plan. Yes, good plan. At the end of the month, I should have a far more solid draft of my book, ready to go out to agents and publishers. And I may have a part time, full time, or contract kind of job. And these are things I need. I need them. I want to be able to hold my head high come July 31. I want to round off this decade in style. With some dignity.
Decadence (noun) The act or process of falling into an inferior condition or state; deterioration; decay: Some historians hold that the fall of Rome can be attributed to internal decadence.
Roman Decadence - something to aspire to?
Admittedly, I try to spice up my blog headlines. Alliteration, fun words, things with a ring to them. You know the deal. You clicked through. Decadent Decade sounded nice. Decadent, with the meaning of “unrestrained or excessive self-indulgence,” a sub-definition. Like, “I’d had a really, really good time these past few years.” Yeah right. The main definition fits, though. Decay. As we age, we decay. But have I fallen into an inferior condition? I’m not sure. I’d like to think I’ve improved. That’s not always the case, but I’m certain I’ve had an exceptionally interesting life. That can’t be bad.
Here I am — the last month of my 20’s. You have to stop and wonder where it went. So, let’s have it. The bizarre, anxious, international adventures of me. Birthdays from 1999-2009. Where did the time go?
20th birthday (1999): popular upscale Italian restaurant with two college friends and my parents after spending a quiet day at home in Skokie and roaming Evanston — I remember taking at least 30-60 minutes with my friends just watching the dogs playing at the dog beach by Northwestern University. I’d had a birthday party a couple days before at my summer sublet apartment in Hyde Park. It was so hot, I told people not to bring gifts, just to bring electric fans…three to five friends, no more, sat around in the dark on the wood floor drinking cold beer, eating hors d’oeuvres and salads, with several fans rotating around us. I wasn’t too happy about it. But it was kind of an adventure.
21st birthday (2000): one of the worst. Israel, after having backpacked for a month or more across Europe starting in Ireland to get there without taking to the air…last leg was taking a ferry from Greece into Haifa. My birthday fell on last day or two of bad food poisoning got in Jerusalem from bad meat, and I was still on a liquid diet. A good friend was visiting from Ireland, and she was flying out at 4 am or so. At midnight, we ate a gelatin-mold “cake” with a matchstick as a candle. She left for the airport. I spent the day wandering Tel Aviv in the sweltering heat, miserable that I was alone, that I couldn’t eat, that this was supposed to be the one, real adulthood, the drop dead best party. And I was staring at feral cats in a dodgy area while getting sunstroke on a park bench. The queen of self-pity. The one good thing: my “adoptive family” in Ireland had given me a gift, something in a small square jewelry box from Brown Thomas, tres chic and special, tied with two long satin ribbons, with the instructions that I was to open it only on my birthday. I carried that box with me through more than ten countries. It was really a moment when I got to open it. A fine elegant silver bracelet. I’ll remember it always. And now that I think of it, I was ever so glad not to have been alone at midnight. She was a very kind soul.
22nd birthday (2001): I was in a training week in rural Michigan to be a summer camp counselor and drama specialist. The kids hadn’t arrived yet, and we, the 21-25 year old instructors had bonded a lot. They sang for me, gave me a cake, novelty gifts, and we probably drove out to the country road and the nearest gas station for a cold beer. I felt really safe and loved. I was wary before of being with strangers, but it turned out to be one of the best birthdays, ever.
23rd birthday (2002): Rural Delaware, after a year of living a bizarre half-life amongst people twice to three times my age, picking myself up after being dreadfully lost following graduation the year before. And I knew I was leaving less than a month later for London. Had just created and run a drama camp and was in the midst of a radio producing/editing storm. There was an elegant dinner that I cooked, and all of my 50 year old friends were there. I remember wearing a cornflower-blue Provencal-style flowing dress and sitting at the head of the table in a grand dining room in my cousin’s Victorian house where I lived. Everyone there gave me a bit of advice. I don’t remember much of any of it. But it was a good day. And then I left for London.
24th birthday (2003): London. A semi-dodgy East-End neighborhood called Leyton. Was a cook and barmaid in the City all summer. Subleased a room that turned out to be a caravan – yes, a caravan, like a tiny motor home – in the garden of a standard semi-detached row-house. Because it was a corner lot, the garden was in a “L” shape, and there was ample room for the caravan, which was covered in ivy and colorful sweet smelling flowers and had a nice wooden deck built out from it on one side onto a small stream or creek. The house was full of travelers: Aussies, Kiwis, S.Africans, Canadians – and for the summer, I was one of them. It was a great time. I decided on having as real a garden party as I could create in the late afternoon and through the night. I baked real scones and pies and cakes and probably some other savory things. All my “flatmates” were there, and several people from my MFA course came as well. Someone brought out a spliff at the end of the evening. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it now, but I’d hooked up with a guy at a friend’s party the night before, and he had come as well. It was awkward, like “who is he,” but also kind of nice to have someone to flirt with. Good fun.
25th birthday (2004): Skokie. Party in the garden. Lots of pretty cakes that I’d baked, salads, casseroles, barbecue. Old friends. My parents. My best from from Delaware flew in. Friends of my parents, too. A sunny evening. I had just been hired at a big art museum, my first big real job after graduating from London, after searching for more than three months for work. I wore my red embroidered tunic from Bangkok, the one I thought was so elegant yet comfortable. It was a decent day. There’s some video of me introducing each of the cakes I made in great excited detail.
26th birthday (2005): Chicago, a local bar close to my apartment. I “held court” and friends came by for several hours. My sister was there visiting and stayed with me the whole time. I paid for platters of appetizers. People got their own drinks. It wasn’t great. Not too many people came. It was awkward. But I had my sister. The next day was my real birthday, and my family met us at the Chicago Diner, a vegetarian restaurant with great brunch. We sat in the back patio area, had seitan scrambles, wheat grass and beet shakes, and they showered me with presents. The biggie was a briefcase from my dad. My mother had gotten me tons of trinkets from her recent trip to Korea and China. My sister and I then went to a Korean public bath and I paid for us both to enjoy the sauna, steam room, whirlpools, and body scrubs – a tiny old Korean woman wearing lacy undies and bra scraping us with incredible gusto with something like steel wool and regular green soap, gray clumps of skin falling off everywhere. It hurt. But it was fabulous. Then my parents took the two of us out to a very fancy Italian restaurant in Evanston. It was a fun few days. Good memories.
27th birthday (2006): Chicago, a friend’s huge gorgeous brownstone house and garden in the amazing Old Town neighborhood. Because I was living at my parents’ place (I knew I wanted to move to Israel – gave up my apartment), she had volunteered her house to use. My middle sister was again visiting, and she and I cooked all day long. And then almost nobody showed up. It was a nightmare. The hostess got moody in the middle of the party and holed up on her own. She and some of my friends did not get along. At the end of it all we were all kind of pissed off and being passive aggressive and it wasn’t a nice scenario in the kitchen cleaning up afterward. I felt horrible that I had cooked so much, went to so much trouble, and so few people showed. And I was even more on edge and sad and embarrassed that this had happened not at my own place, and that I had troubled someone else over the whole thing. On top of it all, I remember feeling anxiety that I was officially in my “late 20s.” Scared that I was old and unaccomplished. Despite the job. Despite the theatre I had done in the last two years. I missed my sisters in Tel Aviv. I wanted to live authentically. Do something just for me. And do it with courage. It was just a disappointing stressful evening that was out of my control.
28th birthday (2007): back in Chicago. I had just come back from 6 months in Israel where I’d written the bulk of my novel. I was working a temp job in Evanston at a corporate beauty school of all places. Saving up to go back to Israel in the fall after a good friend’s wedding. I decided I did NOT want to cook for my own birthday and specifically did not want to bake my own cake for yet another year. My parents, rather my dad, did me the honor of smoking a few gorgeous slabs of ribs and making a cake. The cake kind of fell apart on him, and I did end up “fixing” it so it could be eaten. But that’s OK. Many of my friends came, almost all were couples (a first..being the only singleton at your own party), and two brought cakes, and we had a glorious dinner. The day of my birthday, my parents took me back to that super fancy Italian restaurant in Evanston. They gave me men’s socks and movie vouchers. That part really sucked. I had asked for and expected an ipod. I was really upset. I shouldn’t have been, but I was. It was the only thing I wanted. I asked for the cheapest one, a shuffle. I could have bought it myself. And they took me out for this mega-expensive meal, several hundred dollars worth…and they gave me socks and movie tickets. Good lord.
29th birthday (2008): Tel Aviv. Took half a day off work from my internet startup job. Bought a dress. Got a massage. Bought some nice face products. Went to the beach. Ate a whole plate of fries and drank a beer. Waited for friends. A few came. Then we walked together to an Ethiopian restaurant. More friends met us there. Had the whole place to ourselves and sat in their outdoor section. Shared a bottle of wine. Laughed. Someone pulled out a joint. Even though we were in “public” it was so secluded…kind of fun. After dinner it was late…we walked up to the incredible art studio of a friend’s friend. Hung out. Then the guy I was dating took me home. We messed about. And we broke it off the next day. Sad. But only bittersweet. We stayed friends. An OK birthday. I planned well for the “disappointment fact” by doing things I enjoyed…a massage, the beach.
So there we have it. A decade of birthdays. Three countries. Lots of cake. Lots of barbecue. Lots of Italian food for some reason. Good friends. It’s funny. I end up feeling so disappointed – not enough people came, things didn’t go according to plan, my parents were assholes – and the like. But the memory doesn’t last long term. Even my crappy 21st birthday. I can laugh about it now. Like I’m consoling my younger former self.
Trends and stuff that I can learn from: garden parties/barbecues predominate. Well, it’s summer, why not. The best birthday of the lot may have been with semi-strangers/new friends in rural Michigan. I had low expectations, so I suppose that when it turned out to be great fun, it was more than fun for me. It was miraculously good. The worst birthdays were when I was alone, had high expectations, and/or was disappointed by parents or myself. So what can I learn from all this? Outdoor parties work, try not to expect much – maybe with the goal being to have a laid back fun time myself, and make sure a definite number of people can and will be there to help out (and so I’m not perceiving myself to be “alone”). Taking care of “me time” is also a good idea. A massage goes a long way. Right? Right. I think I’m on the right track for this coming birthday. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…
Queen of Sheba Cake - one of my faves to make and to eat
But in all seriousness. I’m more busy and less busy than expected. Very excited and brushing lethargy. Is it where I expected to be this week? More or less. I accept the paradox that is my life. I’m stressing, job hunting, being lazy, watching too much The Office, and not editing my book…but also spending quality time with my sister, networking, cooking, and not freaking out too terribly…that’s more than OK, right? Right.
Potential Major Complication – I learned that my (secular calendar) birthday this year basically brushes the Jewish calendar’s Tisha B’Av. It’s the “saddest day in Jewish history.” This sucks big time. For Jews, of course, but practically speaking, for me and my party plans. It’s a fast day. And it doesn’t matter that I’ve planned to have a party on July 30th – the day before my actual birthday and a Thursday (so my religious friends can attend – they wouldn’t be able to on a Friday night). They’ll be breaking a fast now. And most likely wouldn’t be able to come to a party even if they did want to. Part of me thinks I should be glad. My birthday this year falls immediately after Tisha B’Av — so it’s a good thing, right? We can rejoice and be happy and be grateful for all we have instead of mournful for all we’ve lost. But I’m prone to be childish about this, wanting to stomp my feet, pout, and curse the heavens for this dastardly coincidence.
Then again, then again…there’s the mystique of it all. It is said that the Messiah, the real deal Messiah, would be born on Tisha B’Av (which means the 9th day of the month of Av). I missed it by a mere two days. I was born on Zayin B’Av, or the 7th of Av. Still a pretty bad day historically. It’s the day the walls of the city of Jerusalem were breached leading to the destruction of the temple two days later. But not the worst of the worst of Jewish mourning. There’s a stigma around it. People do NOT want their kids born on this day.
Birthday Party Plans
I am probably going to throw a pretty standard party: invite everyone I know to my apartment on July 30th for a rooftop barbecue from the early evening until the wee hours. With the exception of a handful of religious friends, I think this will still work. Due to my current finances, I’m thinking of doing this BYOB or having a donation box for whatever alcohol I do have. To make it run more smoothly, I’m considering getting friends to take turns being bartender in a clearly designated area. I was also thinking of recruiting someone to DJ or at the very last assist with sound, something basic, like hooking up speakers that are better than the ones on my computer and connecting an ipod with a good mix to it. I was also thinking of having this catered. Now, I don’t think I can afford this really. But I’m putting my foot down – I don’t want to cook on my own birthday, but I want the food to be good. I have to be able to enjoy this party, not be running to the door to greet folks every few minutes, not feel obligated to refill glasses, run around like a madwoman in the kitchen, etc.
Week of B-day Fun to Counter the Anticlimax
I think I’m not alone in being a bit sensitive about birthdays. Even though I plan so hard to prepare myself for anything, I usually end up a bit disappointed. I can’t get it out of my head that amazing things are supposed to happen. That on a birthday the truly miraculous can and should happen – a real prince charming to whisk me away, a dream job opportunity, winning the lottery, or just a really perfect day happening without feeling even slightly let down.
Does this make me a prima donna? I don’t know. I just don’t. I guess it stems from the fact that I find life to be pretty hard. Beautiful, often, but hard. I don’t expect the miraculous every day. If I can get out of bed and be even slightly productive, it’s a good day. If I can get together with friends, it’s a a super day. If I allow myself to be normal and try to have fun, try to date, try to dance, it’s an exceptional day. So on my birthday, on my birthday, on that random anniversary that should just be any old day, I just always kind of believed that I should get some help. That at least on one day of the year, I could and should have a perfect day. I should look great, do fun things, have a great party, be surrounded by kind people, beautiful food, and have it be effortless. That’s it. The effortlessness of it. Because life is anything but.
So to dull the perhaps inevitable disappointment or at least the anticlimax of the countdown to midnight, I was thinking of having a “week of fun and interesting events.” With or without friends. It’s more than healthy to do at least one thing that makes you happy every day. But perhaps with the week leading up to my birthday, this big birthday, I’ll do extraordinary things that make me happy. Go to the opera. Go to a really fine restaurant or drink a really good bottle of wine. Take a fun class or art workshop. Spend a full day doing nothing but reading trashy books (or Harry Potter) on the beach, eating fries and drinking beer. Go hiking and swimming in one of Israel’s many many national parks. Go camping. Do a lot of yoga. Have a facial and a really good wax job. Stuff like that.
Boobies on Parade!
Which leads me to something I really want to make happen on or around my birthday. A very dear friend of mine is a conceptual artist who is building an ongoing installation which incorporates dozens and dozens (or hundreds or much more) of plaster-caster breasts. That’s right. She lubes up women’s breasts and places papier macher/plaster of paris type stuff over them…and ends up with perfect molds which she then uses for her work. She’s done mine. And it was a liberating experience. Imagine a dozen or more ladies, real ladies, your friends, topless, waiting to have their boobies plastered for posterity. And because I’m moving into an apartment with a private rooftop terrace, perfect at night for our sweltering Tel Aviv weather, I’ve asked her if we can do a plaster-caster session as part of my birthday festivities. And I really want to make it happen. But because of Tisha B’Av she can’t come on my birthday, and we’d have to do it a few days before or after. Which might work well for my “b-day week of fun”. I would absolutely die to have as many of my female friends as possible topless, drinking sangria, laughing, taking turns being molded and sculpted. How much fun, how empowering, how sexy, how much I miss being around a lot of people I love doing something creative and silly and effortless. You know?
Now what is that header supposed to mean? Who knows? Who cares? It’s hot as balls (a new expression of my sister’s…e.g. “I’m sweating balls”) here in Tel Aviv, and although there are breezes coming through the huge open windows, I’m still sticky and uncomfortable…and risking flying cockroaches because of said open windows.
And I’ve got decisions to make. Again. As always. Why isn’t life simple? Well, I suppose if you believe it’s complex, well, it will be. If I believed in a simple solution, I think I could find it. Simply. Where am I going?
I was offered a job. To sell art. Fine art. Aboard a cruise ship. And I was excited as hell for the opportunity. Until I did the research. And found out many past employees have felt swindled, betrayed, lied to, taken advantage of, underpaid, and much worse. Past customers have discovered their works were grossly overpriced upon returning home, and sometimes even finding that some of the paintings are suspected forgeries. There are class action law suits. There are whole websites devoted to how bad this is. And this is where I want to work?
Back to why it sounds good on paper: 6-12% commission. Free travel. Free room and board. Fine art. Picasso. Chagall. Miro. Dali. Yup. There you have it. The “love boat,” the finest art the world has ever known, and the chance to make six figures.
But those tales of woe are scary. And I’ve just come back from two months of roaming in a year when I spent more than 3 months out of 7 outside of the country. The thought of just being able to amass a huge chunk of change. Being able to make a down payment on a mortgage. Being able to write and not worry for another year or more. And getting this wad of cash doing something interesting and sexy like traveling on a luxurious cruise liner. Wow.
I’ll tell you a secret: almost anyone reading this blog can qualify for this job. Honest. Just go to Monster. It’s there. Always.
And I’ve come off my meds. Experiment. I was so inspired by my Chinese medicine doc. So inspired by having felt good for a few days. Let’s get off of everything. Let’s take herbs. Let’s have talk therapy. Let’s work a decent honest job. Pay rent. Just live for a while. Just live. And it will all be OK.
That was yesterday.
And the existential dilemma crept back in again. My old friend. Meaninglessness. Ambiguity. Hopelessness. The fact that life really really really really sucks. It’s dreadful. People are hungry. Starving. We are killing all the plants. We are suffocating ourselves. We are stupid, and we don’t care. And yet. And yet. Life is so beautiful it’s nearly impossible to contain the joy I sometimes feel at being able to smell a strong-scented flower while walking down the street or at seeing children playing in a garden or thinking about a favorite book or poem or television series. We are stupid, stupid geniuses. That’s what. And it’s both. It’s the paradoxicality of us. Yes, I think I just made up a word. Spell checker hates it. And here I go again:
will I ever be able to love, does it matter, of course it does, no it doesn’t, it’s only important that i can recognize the importance of love, experiencing it directly is a privilege that may not ever be afforded to me, but that’s ok, right? right. wrong. or maybe if I feel love for my sister or for a book, or for life itself, or for my fellow human beings, that’s enough, that’s love. no. what the hell is love anyway? fondness? no. too easy. will I ever have kids? do I even want them anymore? they say it’s real true love. you know it then. shall I selfishly have kids so that I can know love? is that how it works? is having children ALWAYS innately a selfish act? reproducing one’s face? one’s abilities? one’s talents? one’s blue eyes? it reminds me of the speech from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, yes, of course, when Viola (disguised as Cesario) is sent to woo Olivia on behalf of Orsino, and she says, “you will leave no copy”…that one could be so beautiful, it would be a sin not to leave a genetic copy on earth to live on after you are gone…is it narcisim? does it matter….no, no, no, no…nothing matters. because nothing matters. we live. we die. we are always dying just as we are always living. nothing alive is alive forever, just as everything dead must have had the privilege of life. it’s the same thing, right? right. no. no. no. I need to sleep. yes, i need to sleep. i am forcing insomnia upon myself. i am doing it to myself. stop.
Have a mentioned that I’ve a new addiction? For “The Office”. The genius television series. That’s right. I’m in it for Jim and Pam. I have to see them. How they get together. Because those actors got it. They are astounding. It’s so real. And I can feel the love between them so palpably. Did I mention I’ve started from the beginning? From series one? Yes. I have. I know they’re together and engaged and the season 5 finale was awesome for them. But I have to know, I just have to know how they got there. Which is why I haven’t been sleeping. It’s been suggested I should read Angels and Demons or some other good book. But I think I’ll finish the series.
Thanks for reading. If you have. And if you’re reading this. You have. So, thanks.
38 days…this last stretch is really here. And I’m doing OK. Really I am. I’m getting really excited to turn 30. I’ve had a premonition since I was a kid that life would be good at 30. Sure, I thought I’d be a scientist or published great or something and people would finally “take me seriously” because of my age. Still. There are a ridiculous amount of good things ahead.
First – the news:
My cat survived the 4th floor fall. Without a scratch. Without batting an eyelash. I had to do some research and discovered cats turn into parachutes when they are falling, and they tend to survive 9 times out of 10. Gives some statistical credence to cats having nine lives, doesn’t it. Read more here.
My father turned the corner and is doing much better. I’ve not blogged for a couple days partially because of this. We’ve been worried sick. Trying to figure out if and how to get home to Chicago immediately. Two days of an “ice blanket” and finding an antibiotic that finally worked. And last night he ordered a generous dinner from the hospital menu. Thank God.
Gay Jewish weddings on the beach in Tel Aviv - a great article in Ha’aretz newspaper summarizing this pivotal event. Domestic policy, especially stuff like gay rights, abortion, racism, has never been huge on a daily basis in the Israeli radar. Why? Well, it’s obvious. When you live amidst terrorism, when you’re surrounded by enemies, and you have major water shortage issues, stuff like abortion and gay rights is small potatoes. It would be a luxury to be able to focus on them. For people on both sides of the arguments. I’m a die hard liberal. In the US, you would have no problem guessing who I vote for, who I contribute money to, etc. In Israel, it’s bizarre and lopsided. Because if you want to vote for the communists, seeing economical and social common ground, you’re actually voting for the same ticket as a lot of Palestinian hard-liners…and that might be against your foreign agenda. Anyway, anyway. Enough about that. The point I’m trying to make is this - we have a lot of really liberal gay rights achievements here in Israel. It’s just difficult to see them. And we’re moving in a good direction, I hope…
And for your surpreme entertainment – check out this wonderful short film written and directed by, and starring Matthew Modine (no embedding possible – but do watch it):
So…long hot nights…yup. It’s hot here. Really hot. And July and August are worse. Or better. Whatever your perspective. Like any extreme weather situation, it’s love-hate. Because it’s fun when it’s sunny. There’s the beach and ice cream and beautiful sleeveless dresses and flip flops and icy beers and cocktails to cool off with. On the downside, it’s thighs-sticking-to-your-seat weather, so humid your hair frizzes beyond recognition, you’re always sporting a sweat mustache, and don’t think about going out between 10 am and 3 pm if you don’t want to get heat stroke/burn your shoulders to a crisp/faint in the street kinda weather. And I’ve got to get moving on this book. And I’m becoming an insomniac. The nights are the shortest in the year. But they seem way too long to me. And I have to figure out how to be productive. At least I’ve got some wine-tasting gigs this week.
There you have it. Good stuff. And I’ll have more news tomorrow…because I interviewed for a job yesterday that may change my life…if I get it…
My cat may or may not have plummeted four storeys last night and cannot be found, my father is very ill in hospital with a freak infection, I was eaten alive by mosquitos last night, I’m quite nauseated and sore in the mouth from having my teeth cleaned and flourided an hour ago, and it’s already something like 35 degrees (100 F) at 9:30 am.
How is it I am surprisingly calm? Have I somehow acheived a Zen-like state of being able to open and close and compartmentalize emotions like a pro? Not a chance. Exhaustion? Perhaps. I’ve either not entirely gotten over jet-lag or I require so little sleep I’ll soon become a superhero or I’m just a nocturnal semi-insomniac. I suspect it’s a combination of the three. And in addition, I’m taking Cymbalta. I’m afraid this may be the real culprit. Some genuine panic wouldn’t hurt around now. But somehow, all I want is a nap before starting the day’s tasks…seeing as I got 3 hours sleep or less having had to wake early for an 8:00 am dental cleaning.
The day’s tasks you ask? Appling for jobs. Editing my novel. Preparing for an interview I have tomorrow (on Skype, that’s a first). Seeing my therapist (praying I’ll be able to keep seeing/paying her). And going out for drinks with an acquaintance that I hope will become a good friend. A good day’s work, no? I think so. If I’m able to perform even some of it, it will be a miracle. My mother is still in Israel, the cat(s) are living downtown at “her” new place into which I’ll be moving into and paying dearly for next month, there’s my father about whom I may be on the phone all day (they think he’s got e. coli from a simple biopsy procedure, antibiotics are not working, and they’re calling the CDC…and all of his immediate family are hundreds if not thousands of miles away), I may need to place “lost cat” posters around the neighborhood, and who knows…I have no problem finding any number of stupid things to worry about.
So ya wanna hear about the jobs I’m going to apply for…do ya, do ya, do ha? I know you do! Here’s a quick rundown: several content writing jobs (in plain English – getting paid well above average salaries for writing stuff on websites in excellent English grammar…as well as “blogging” and forum hosting and other silly easy stuff like that); a very part time job (like every other weekend) at an art gallery; some freelance writing (fake journalism at its very worst); potentially some secretarial, etc. Dull as dogsh*t. Luckily I am still leading wine tastings with my lovely precious wonderful winery a few times a week. I’m hoping I can piece-meal this all together. I need another very regular decently paying part-time job or a a full-time job that doesn’t bore me or bother me too much ethically. Or a couple of part-time gigs that together make life interesting enough and allow me to eat. It will be OK. It will be. I hope.
So, since I’ve been back, I’ve not been too productive. I have located some jobs but haven’t applied yet. I really need to start editing the book for several hours a day, starting now, but have been too busy (aka I haven’t made the time because lord knows, I have found the time to watch The Office until 4 am on a couple occasions). And my dear, dear mother is driving me up the wall. And I need to make nice. She leaves Thursday. I need to find a way to make some peace. Even if I don’t entirely mean it. Because I love her. I just really dislike her a lot of the time. And I hate that I do. But I cannot change the fact that I cringe around her. That I often find myself wanting to scream or in fact screaming at her in her presence. That looking at her makes my blood boil. Only sometimes. Only sometimes. Like last night when we were on the phone to the hospital and she showed no emotion, not much concern, chatted to her friends (who were at my father’s bedside instead of her) about the party she just had, how changing her travel plans will be difficult and that she wanted to wait to see what the verdict was. And I’m sitting there about to cry. If it were my husband, I’d be on the next plane. Bitch.
OK. I’ll stop. Because I’ve just been informed that I need to make “lost cat” posters. Damn. I wish I had an emotional response to this. Perhaps this is my mother’s normal state. But he is just a cat. Oh dear. Poor kitty. He was such a character. Was? Goodness I’m morbid. Poor kitty. Now I’m feeling it. How could my sister leave the windows open on a fourth storey apartment with cats in it all night long?
Wish me luck. Poor kitty.
My kitties when they were babies...the missing one is the male, the one on the right
Got into Warsaw yesterday afternoon, and by the grace of whatever, actually got to my hostel in under 2 hours. Had me a solid 4-5 hours of sunny evening walks and sightseeing and dinner. Came back exhausted and collapsed shortly after 10 pm, while trying to watch a movie on my laptop (I got a private room in this nice hostel — woo hoo for a private shower, private kitche, sunny room with double bed!)…and proceeded to wake up at 2:30 am (it being 7 pm in Chicago or something like that)…and I couldn’t fall back asleep. 4 am rolls around, I make a cup of tea and turn the movie back on…and after an hour, I’m sleeping again. Of course. Sun is already streaming into the room (even before at 4 am!), I wake at 8am, then 9 am, then 10 am, when I drag myself up (breakfast ends at 11, checkout at noon). And now I have 40 minutes to get out of the bedroom and out onto the streets. See, one day of sightseeing is all well and good on paper. Gorgeous short romantic layover in Eastern European capital city…fab…until the jet lag and general fatigue from over two months’ travel bog you down.
Sure, I’ve got a few things to go back and see — the palace of science and culture, which looks more like a primitive sky scraper out of a marvel comic book — perfect to hang Kind Kong off of…the Warsaw Uprising Museum (I really don’t want to spend the day inside stuffy museums, though…), Jewish stuff, which as a Jew I really should do (hey, that rhymes!)…but the ghetto is almost entirely gone, and I don’t fancy walking all over creation to find some half crumbled wall…and did I mention my feeet are hurting. Yet again, the great traveller has packed the wrong shoes, developed blisters and scraped the skin off the top of her toes…and did I mention they are heeled shoes, too? And off I go.
At least it’s super pretty here. Geraniums everywhere. Beautiful geraniums, in long rows, red as blood. And the reconstructed old city and new city (which is almost as old)…maybe I’ll just go back there and hang out in cafes and eat ice cream all day…sounds a lot nicer than war monuments, even more Holocaust education, and getting even more blisters trying to find all these places.
Before I get depressing here, enjoy this fantastic video:
It’s my last day in the USA. I’m really sad and trying not to acknowledge it. It’s not been long enough for me. Or too long, who knows. I will miss our old family house. I will miss Skokie. I will miss the convenience of malls, driving, Barnes and Nobles, Victoria’s Secrets, Pinkberry (which I discovered in LA), super dooper pharmacies that are bigger than grocery stores (I think I bought out the local CVS yesterday…stuff you can’t find abroad…), Starbucks and their non-chain counterparts, and much much more. I will have to have my last Starbucks today, my last look at Skokie, my last sit down in my comfy armchair with a book, a remote control, and a laptop. Back to life. Back to reality. And of course, I’ll miss the library most.
I spent yesterday going through 27 boxes (I’m not kidding) of my books and knick knacks in my parents’ crawl space. And I chose here and there what to take/ship back to Israel with me. It’s heartbreaking. Part of me wants to just decide on a home. Just pick a place, get an apartment that I can afford and that I like well enough, and just get all of my books in one place. One place. Bookshelves as far as the eye can see. Because I feel like I am what I’ve read. And I love to have these books around me. They feel like friends. Physical manifestation of memories. I know lots of people use their parents’ homes as storage for a few years (or decades) or maybe they just forget about that stuff. But I have sooooo many books. Over a thousand. Maybe if I can figure out how to surround myself with my books, I will finally be happy. Fat chance. I know. Sounds a lot more like a buffer, a mask, a wall guarding me from reality and the outside world. But books are so beautiful. So very beautiful. Because they open minds and worlds, and they’re life changing and exciting. Ah! I often wish there were no such thing as success, ambition, careers, jobs, groceries, responsibilities, and that I could just stay in bed or a comfortable chair and read all day and night long. Oh, to live in a library!
And my behavior patterns have returned to the exceptionally unhealthy ones of the worst phases of mine in Israel. Not going to sleep, even though I show many symptoms of extreme exhaustion. Instead I stay awake watching corny sympathetic old movies, over and over again. And don’t brush my teeth and face before I plop under the covers. And all I want to do is curl up and sleep. Read a book. And not go out. Even though it’s New York City!!!! What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m going back to Israel, that’s what. I’m close to broke, that’s what. And reality and genuine decisions loom. My ornery scary grandmother will be at my door, screaming at me and scolding me about not having paid some bill or other or not being nice to some relative or other, or any such other thing that is none of her business. My mother who I’ve not been speaking to often will be there again for another week or two…wanting to repair our relationship…wanting me to tell her why I’m angry…wanting to dump all her responsibilities on me…wanting me to cook the entire spread for her going away party/housewarming party next week.
So…have I enjoyed myself? Has it been a good trip? Yes. I think it has. I miss a lot here. If I were to come back Stateside, it might be good for me. I miss intellectuals. I miss kindness. Whether it be genuine or not, even the illusion of kindness soothes me. I found myself elbowing my way througha line yesterday on the subway…the only one…people let me through without question…so bad, so bad, so miserably bad. Then again, I need to repair me for a bit longer. I need to work on writing and make money and be in one place for a while. And I can do that anywhere without picking up and changing my life drastically. I think I will come back home. America is home, I’ve realized. But not just yet. Not just yet.
What will I do when I’m back?
Edit book until it is done
Get a job – wine tasting is there but not very profitable…consider bookstore, teaching English privately, teaching English with a company, applying for anything temp or part time that looks white color enough and easy, and maybe just maybe consider food service…but give every establishment a good once over before starting.
Send out book to close friends/good readers (they must be both) and then some agents and publishing houses
See friends
That’s it. Book, money, friends. How hard can it be? Right?
Before I leave the US, I have to go through my old books and knick knacks and see what I want to take or send to Israel. Boxes and boxes in my parents’ crawl space. Oh well. And then there’s two days in Warsaw. Yup. Maybe it’ll be really good for me. Real transition time I need. Not American. Not Israeli. Confusing. And Perfect. Shake one off. Prep for another. All while eating blini and perogies and potatoes and vodka. Right? Right.
Today has seen me wake up at 5 am (to see my sister the surgeon off to work), then 7 am (the intended wake up hour), then oversleep until 10 am in my sister’s apartment in Queens.
Yes, I made it to New York. Somehow. A two+ hour drive from Sussex County, Delaware into Philadelphia; followed by a 1.5 hour train ride to Penn Station via Trenton and Newark; then two ultra confusing subway rides into Queens. Flushing, Queens. The only way I can remember my sister’s neighborhood is by thinking of a toilet. I am such a child. It’s a completely Chinese neighborhood with a smattering of South Asian Indians. I had bubble tea and a pork bun on our walk from the station to her apartment.
And today I saw a dear old friend from college for lunch in a place called Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It’s pretty Polish and is only serviced by the G line subway, the only one not to cross into Manhattan. Then I went from there to Fort Washington in upper Harlem somewhere to find the Cloisters (which happened to be closed). Then I went to the World Trade Center (whose museum was closing 29 minutes after I arrived, and hence they wouldn’t let me enter, as it takes 30 minutes to see it). In a couple hours I’ll need to travel somewhere on the West Side to meet another friend coming in from Jersey to see me. Therefore, I spent (and will continue to spend) most of my day on the subway shuttling around between Queens, Brooklyn, and the uppermost and lowermost points in Manhattan. And everywhere in between. I’ve been through Times Square several times already and I’ve yet to venture above ground to see it. Ha!
It’s a great city. But it’s not mine. And I’ve been here several times before. So, I’m taking care. Taking care to have a nice time and not overwhelm myself.
Should I mention I’m sitting in a Burger King at the World Trade Center now? It features drinks, a bathroom, and free internet, and my patience and bladder just about signaled to me that it was time to stop as I rounded the corner in front of the greasy monstrosity. Silly, silly, I know, in a city full of quaint, funky cafes and eateries and wi-fi enabled parks. But I’m all about caring for myself. And even though it feels like I didn’t do much today, I know that I did. Seeing friends is more important than seeing a museum. And it was a good visit with a friend I’ve not seen in a long time. I enjoyed these subway rides immensely. I’ve plugged in the ipod, flipped on some comforting tunes (Joan Baez, Billy Joel, Elton John, Paul Simon, Beatles, indie rock, folksy depression-era ditties, and more), and I follow the stops on a laminated city map my sister lent me.
I’m now trying to decide on what to do with the hour or two I have left to me. I’m considering the Staten Island Ferry or a walk across Brooklyn Bridge. Both sound appealing. And picturesque. And kind of fun. I suppose whichever I choose, it’ll be interesting.
Question to readers (and I do encourage responses): how did you spend your 30th birthday? I’m getting ready for the grand final countdown here, and I have to figure out what I’ll do. Both realistically and virtually. I’m short on funds, but I don’t want that to limit my ideas. Ideally, I’d like to go to Paris on my own for a weekend. Or with my closest friends in world. But it’s not likely. I’ll probably end up throwing a small-ish party. I’d like to avoid making a big to-do, but I also don’t want something lame…with half the people not showing…with me running around like a madwoman, doing the cooking, the shopping, washing up, etc. I want to enjoy this. I don’t want to feel awkward. I want to be Queen of the Moment. So…please shower me with ideas. I’ll keep mentioning this for the next couple weeks. Feel free to email me at countdowntothirty [at] gmail [dot] com, or leave a comment.
It is possible to miss people even more when you are with them than when you are not. When without them, rich deliciousness colors your memories. Reality is far more boring. And often more tragic. Why it is so difficult to relish that which is today, baffles me so. Because so often, when today has turned to yesterday, it is far sweeter (or at the very least, less bitter) and far more easy to digest. Today remains unpalatable. Yesterday is a recycled leftover, doctored up with herbs and spices and bits and pieces of makebelieve. Tomorrow, a dreamed up recipe about to be tried.
I’m in Delaware. I’ve been welcomed heartily, offended, alienated, ignored, tolerated, bored and warmly hosted, all in a period of about eighteen hours. This place was never a dream of a past for me. I’m not sure what I expected. But as I’m an adult now, I know I have choices. I relish my choices. And it’s nice to know that when I suffer or tolerate a situation, I do have the power to change it. I just choose not to more often than not.
Almost eight years ago I moved down here. And I proceeded to live here for one year. It was life changing. It was important. And it sucked big time, too. It was joyous and hopeless and interesting and painful and comfortable. And then I got the hell out. And the people I loved who stayed around here…well…they’ve changed and stayed the same. Of course. There’s a well-intentioned but highly silly Horseshoe Crab Festival. A bankrupt community theatre in a historic cinema building. Fields as far as the eye can see full of soybean and God knows what. Ponds. Streams. Trout. Squirrels. Possums. And too much new development. And maybe it’s good, too. Oh, yes, did I mention lesbians as far as the eye can see? Yes. I found myself surrounded by a good hundred of them last night, all over the age of 45, all with jeans pulled up to their breasts, short poofy hair, or short shaved hair, or short mullet hair (you get the picture), and men’s polo shirts or loose fitting clothes out of the Golden Girls. It was such a fashion nightmare, any designer or fashionista would faint (I would bet money) on sighting this phenomenon. I love lesbians. I kind of used to be one. And I often loathe their society. What can you do.
And that’s Delaware. I don’t belong. Perhaps because I belong nowhere unless I decide I do. I don’t enjoy being merely tolerated and sometimes grudgingly so when given the impression that I am wanted. But I’m an adult. And I can let it fall away. I can pick up a book and sit by the pond and write and eat ice cream and take care of my damned self thank you very much. And I will. And I’ll bake a liquor soaked powdered sugar pound cake. So there.
Happy D-Day folks. Let’s remember that bit of bravery from 65 years ago and have some pride that we were once a species with a noble spirit.
I love Improv Everywhere. They cause “scenes of chaos and joy in public places.” Their missions are hysterically funny and often heartwarming and surprisingly touching. Check out their latest mission. It’s my good thought for the night. As I should be sleeping, terribly exhausted and need to head to the airport in 6 hours, at least I’m grinning from cheek to cheek. Enjoy!
Life is so short. But sometimes it seems to endlessly long and impossible to maneuver. But I’m in a good mood. And I want to revel in beautiful things. I’m thinking of starting a blog devoted to more positive things, a poem a day, a picture a day, a video a day on a happy nice funny friendly beautiful thing. That way I will force myself to think of goodness, of beauty every single day. Especially when it’s difficult for me. Too seek it instead of waiting for it to be revealed to me. After all, “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
So, here we go. Some beautiful things that have brought me some joy in recent days:
Black Heels to Tractor Wheels – the online real-life story of the “Pioneer Woman,” Ree Drummond. It’s incredible. Like a romance novel. Only real. Which makes it all the better.
Cows in Goa - I took this photo. I was there. It's real. And they are that content.
Absolutely Beautiful Things – a design blog from Australia with lots of pretty pictures. A world I would love to live in sometimes.
Prosecco and Pizza in Positano - a meal my sister and I thorougly enjoyed and will remember for years and years to come
Prayer
by Carol Ann Duffy, Britain’s new poet laureate
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.
We take them for granted, the places we are from, the places that made us. They say it takes a village to raise a child. And it’s true. In my case, literally, true. I’m going to tell you, as briefly as I can, about the wondrous place where I grew up. The Village of Skokie – the biggest village in America (and probably the world).
I feel compelled to share my knowledge about this place now because I am here now, and I’m a bit overwhelmed with emotion. And because I finally realize what a unique place this is. And how much it shaped me. I would not be who I am having grown up somewhere else. And it’s made me think about (OMG) perhaps coming back.
Coming home to visit every time after I left almost twelve years ago was a polarizing experience. On the one hand, comfort, familiarity, the peaceful safety of the family house and community. On the other, I was embarrassed that I came from such a typical suburb, and an ugly one at that. If you grew up in suburban Chicago, you’d kind of like to say you grew up in funky historic Evanston, or picturesque upscale Wilmette. Not little middle-middle class Skokie, not worthy of a picture postcard or an award for hipness. Now, I’m not so sure I believe that. In fact, I know it to be a snobby youthful “grass is greener elsewhere” reaction, an almost compulsive drive to be ashamed of little cookie-cutter houses, straight grid streets, and strip malls as far as the eye can see.
On the beautiful side of Skokie...a typical Chicago bungalow
Much less pretty and much more common Skokie Ranch
A few facts about Skokie. It’s super middle class, 65% white, 20% Asian, 5% African American, 5% Hispanic, and 5% other. Or thereabouts. Thing is – it’s much more than these numbers. Skokie is a haven for new and old immigrants alike. It was historically known as a haven for Holocaust survivors, and it’s still a thriving Jewish mecca. More than 100 languages are spoken in the households of Skokie. And people here are pretty damn nice. My best friends growing up were Israeli (most obviously), Korean (it took me about five phone calls and hang-ups before I realized my friend’s grandma saying “yaw bo seh yo” was actually hello…and not a wrong number), and Indian (many Skokie homes will always have a strong curry fragrance, years after the offenders move out).
Skokie Public Library
I have studied at some great universities, and I’ve been around the world, many times over. And yet, my favorite library is the Skokie Public Library. And the US government thinks it’s the best, too. It won the 2008 National Medal for Museum and Library Service. See, I’ve gone home many times. Gone home, as in, crashing at Mom and Dad’s for a few weeks to a few months while prepping for other plans. And the library has been a saving grace. A huge selection of books. In many languages. DVD’s. Media center. Friendly people. Bright, clean, welcoming. I love to go there. It’s perhaps my favorite place in all of Skokie. It’s the perfect example of the crowning glory of human civilization. It’s the storehouse of all our knowledge, all that has passed, all that we’ve learned and accomplished. And rightly enough, it is so friendly, interactive, a living and breathing facility, it does its job better than most. I spent many a weeknight on the multicolored rug in the children’s section reading and being read to by my mother. The Skokie Public Library makes reading fun, a normal, vital experience. And I am who I am today for it. I visited yesterday, checked out a John Le Carre (of course, I’m on a binge) and a Robert Heinlein. It was as comforting being there as being in my parents’ home. Such a cornerstone of Skokie’s functioning, the local congresswoman’s people conduct weekly meetings there. Just to meet with local people who might have questions. When my father was unemployed, it was the center of command to find new jobs, using their free resources, Internet, classes. I’ll stop now. But I did have the thought that it would be worth it to move to Skokie, just to be able to take advantage of that glorious library. Seriously.
Other Skokie stuff — the schools are amazing. They win that presidential excellence in academics award every year. Furthermore, while the rest of the country has its arts funding cut year after year, the Niles Township Schoolsarts programs were recognized in 2007 as having the #1 program in the nation by the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Amazing, huh. I was active in the band, the choir (and the marching band, and the vocal jazz choir), and the theatre program (as an actress, technician, and director). Talk about an amazing school!
Old Orchard Shopping Center
And then there’s Old Orchard Shopping Center, what many would consider the cherry on the Skokie sundae. One of the most beautiful malls (God, I can’t believe I just said “beautiful mall”…but it’s true). It’s outdoor, with fountains, gardens, sculptures, music. It rivals the stunning shopping experiences I encountered in Ojai, California, and that be mega-rich-people territory. I virtually lived in the Barnes and Noble bookstore at Old Orchard, sucking down Starbucks while studying for AP’s and leafing through magazines and all the books I wished I could buy.
What else can I say? I’ve been writing for too long. And I could go on and on. The mayor is the nicest guy. He was my little league baseball coach. There’s a huge sculpture garden. There’s a huge statue of Gandhi. There’s a festival of cultures. There’s always new condos being built (I don’t know how I feel about that…). But all in all, it’s a pretty fantastic place. For a suburb. No, no, no. It’s a pretty fantastic place, period. Suburban living is just different than city life. Sure, it’s not full of gorgeous architecture. Doesn’t have five star restaurants. Doesn’t have cafes (or laundr-o-mats or nail parlours or florists) on every corner. You need a car. Big time. But I think my parents made a marvelous choice in picking Skokie. It’s down to earth. It’s not the least bit pretentious. And the schools and library are better than the city’s and better than the richer suburbs. It’s a gem. A real gem. So what that it’s full of dull ranch houses? It’s the people in them that makes this a great place, right?
Should I move back? Who knows. But it’s always worth considering.
Update: poor Susan did not win. She lost to Stavros Flatley, a great father-son duo. You know what? Her career is set. She’s going to be more than fine. Lloyd Weber will offer her a part, she’ll get a record contract, and she’ll live a proud accomplished life. Second place is often better than first. And hey, let the queen get entertained by the chubby topless Greeks. They were indeed hilarious!
Just posted: Britain’s Got Talent Finale
If the video doesn’t work, visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BvBkTmDWBA
I am so tired, and it really doesn’t seem like I have much reason to be. I slept nearly ten hours last night. Well…except that I have been on six (looong) flights over the course of the last three weeks, have endeavored to see many friends (requiring long freeway drives and/or train rides), and have carried around copious amounts of luggage (I have yet to really master the art of packing, although I’ve gotten close…I just don’t really give a crap this time).
And I’m making all of these stupid justifications why? I don’t know. I just feel lazy if I’m not doing everything. I mean, that’s why I’m here! Vacation, see friends, see family. No big deal. My father invited me to go to the theatre last night…an amazing production of Twelfth Night. I turned him down. We went to the movies last night instead. Pixar’s new film, Up. And as I sat in the audience, I was asking myself why oh why was I there, and could I stay awake through an animated film, even though it was only 9:15 pm. And I have so many friends left to see, excellent, good, lovely old friends, as well as some new delightful ones. And I cannot, I just cannot get myself to get in the car and drive the hour and a bit and search for overly expensive parking every single day to see them. I can’t. I’m too tired. And I feel like a shit for it. I just don’t want to drive anywhere. And in America, cars are the name of the game. Where is my cafe down the street? The market around the corner?
Maybe it’s the new meds. A new friend told me she was on Cymbalta, too, and she couldn’t get over the side effect of fatigue, more than two years on. Maybe it wasn’t good for me to learn that. I don’t think I considered a medical reason for my tiredness before then.
The good fun stuff? Yes, despite the clouds, there is always a silver lining. I’ve watched all of John Le Carre’sTinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and I’m making headway into the last part of the trilogy, Smiley’s People. Thank God for Netflix. And for British television. And Alec Guinness. And the fact that I can do this at home on a sofa, swaddled in woolen blankets, sipping herbal tea and eating roasted almonds. Espionage is always best when watched from the safety of home with a hot beverage.
Patrick Steward as Karla and Alec Guinness as Smiley
And aside from being overwhelmed by American TV, the news, Judge Sotomayor, John and Kate plus eight (do I care? no), a minor Huffington Post addiction, and anxiety about whether or not I’ll be able to see all of my friends for five seconds before I yet again leave town in about five days…I’m doing OK. A potential solution: invite people over to me. Yes. A get together, a barbecue, a hoedown, a potluck, a chance to chew the cud quietly in that nice homey safe suburban atmosphere… Yes. Let them find me. I’m just too tired. And I’m not sure why.
I have to blog. I just have to. I just spent a fortune to connect to the internet, and twelve minutes in, I get disconnected. It then takes me the better part of a half hour to reconnect. And now I have to board the plane. ARGH!
LAX isn’t a swanky modern airport. I waited a half an hour to get through security. That said, I LOVED the online check in United provided that got me through the baggage check and whisked away into the security line in about 30 seconds.
So, just for fun, here are some things I’ve been reading:
A feral girl was discovered in Siberia. Yup, she was raised like a cat or a dog. Poor thing. Five years old and completely neglected by her parents and grandparents.
Tips on overcoming writers block. Good stuff. I know a writer who has a sign over her desk, “Write Stoned, Edit Sober.” Another bit of good advice right there.
And now I really really really have to board the plane. I’m sitting on the floor by the only outlet plug I could find. Good grief! At least I have Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy to watch on the plane…as long as my miniscule battery supply will last.
Three days in LA. A nice time was had. And except for the fact that I will be missing my good good old friend here, I’m OK to be leaving. LA has not redeemed itself. It has it’s moments. Some gorgeous buildings. A beautiful beach. Healthy food. Decent weather. But on the down side, it is one giant strip mall that you have to traverse in freeways for the majority of your existence. No amount of palm trees can really make up for that. The smog really sucks. And the foggy smoggy icky grey mornings are no fun, either. There’s no hip happenin’ single downtown area. You always need a designated driver or be willing to pay a huge bundle for taxis.
But the highlights I’m taking with me were very worth the visit. And I’ll visit again. While here, I:
Learned to Samba dance — it was not easy, but it was very fun and eye opening.
Made some new friends/acquaintances
Met up with some very interesting people (amongst them, filmmakers, a rocket scientist, an actress, a choral conductor, a french horn player, and an award winning journalist), old friends and acquaintances, and it made my heart so happy to have quality conversations with them
Had a real barbecue with real English sausages (aka bangers), pure pork, no seasoning, nothing else…except for maybe salt and some water…so very very tasty
Ate excellent and cheap sushi
Walked Venice beach on a perfect sunny day, dipped my feet on the Pacific Ocean, and watched a sea lion dive in an out of the waves just off shore
So…so long, LA, I hardly know you, and that’s OK. I wanted to see the Getty and for some reason, the La Brea tar pits…but they will wait for another occasion. Unless a strong quake hits and they all fall into the sea. But then we’ll have bigger problems, won’t we.
I missed 69. Oh well. The 69th day was pure bliss. So it was worth living and not rushing to describing. I had such a nice day. So calm. So friendly. So, so…good. A good day in a picturesque place. Sometimes that’s the best you can expect in a day.
My housemates arrived well past 11:30 pm two nights ago. It was my responsibility, as first person to have arrived at this very difficult-to-find little house on the prairie, to give directions to them and/or lead them here. I met them at the bottom of the drive, and they followed me the rest of the confusing twisty-turny way down bumpy graveled private back-roads to the house. And they are charming! Couldn’t have asked for nicer housemates.
The four of us had breakfast at Cafe Emporium, the Ojai brunch-centrale, and then one of the girls, the one I’m rooming with, and I went and had manicures done. They took much longer than expected, and by the time we got home, we had less than 45 minutes to shower, dress, and all that jazz to get ready for the wedding! It was done! Two frantically made-up women, one with wet-ish hair, the other slapping on mascara while looking in the rear view mirror…arrived at the most beautiful wedding that ever was.
The ceremony was conducted in a wooded area under a lovely little trelis covered in lilies and greenery. The view was just that. A priest, the couple, flowers, and majestic forest with large swooping trees as far as the eye can see. The bride and groom were so happy. Glowing. Floating. More than I have seen at any other wedding. The happiness was palpable. And I think it affected all of the guests and the tone of the entire event. We were calm, friendly, chatting. Mellow. It was elegant to the extreme, nicer decor, catering, location, there could not have been. And yet, I felt comfortable. Comfortable in my outfit, in my skin, with the people I was speaking with, with the dancing, with everything. How such a formal event could be so laid back was a miraculous blessing. We all felt it. It was good. Dancing to the big band, old time jazz, swanky classics, smelling the herbs that decorated the tables instead of flowers, watching the sun setting over the dance floor behind the valley and mountains in the distance. The richest butter cream, chocolate mousse layered wedding cake that has ever been… What a night.
The perfect day ended with an after party at some friends’ guesthouse. They had a hot tub. And perhaps twenty of us showed up, drank prosecco, red wine, smoked, and soaked in perfect bliss. The darkness here is profound. So many stars. The sky can hardly be called black. It is peppered generously with the glowing remnants of the gods of old.
I will remember this weekend for the new friends, for the sunlight, for the fresh picked oranges, for the earthy smells, and the exceptional love and generosity of my friends, the bride and groom. A happier couple there never was.
I am in paradise. I’m not kidding. It’s hard to believe.
Ojai is a town about 90 miles north and a bit west of LA. It’s about 30 miles from Santa Barbara and 13 north of Ventura, if that gives you an idea. I’m not one for California geography. This is perhaps the fourth or fifth time I’ve ever been in the state, and the only time not in a big city. Ojai is not on the coast. It’s a beautiful sun-dappled valley full of lush orange groves and vineyards and ranches surrounded by mountains. They filmed a movie about Shangri-la here. It’s that beautiful. I’m pinching myself.
I’m in Ojai for the wedding of a dear friend, and I’m so incredibly tickled that I am here. I love weddings. In this crazy chaotic war-stricken stressful world, the thought of celebrating love, just for the sake of it, makes the tears well up in my eyes. And it’s Ojai. So beautiful, I don’t know what I did to deserve coming here. Sounds funny to think of it that way. How much fun will it be to spend the weekend here, going to funky little shops, hiking in the mountains, seeing old friends, and of course, getting all gussied up in my very best formalwear for a great celebration.
It sucks that there is a downside. No, no, there isn’t. But there always is. Perhaps if I write about my stinking awful side here, I can get over it and just get on with enjoying myself. Or at least trying to.
Are you ever NOT able to enjoy yourself because you know that the situation you are in is temporary? Or perhaps you’re the kind of person who enjoys yourself more BECAUSE a situation is temporary. Vacations. You go away for a week. It’s like, 3 -2 -1 – GO! Have fun, NOW! Because you have to go back to your ordinariness and troubles and stress sooner than you think. When I arrived, my jaw dropped. It is so beautiful here. And a very kind women, a friend of the bride’s family, offered her guest house to guests of the wedding coming from far away. And it’s the most lovely little house you can picture. Stone walls, high wooden beamed ceilings, perfect elegant decor, large windows, large patios all around the house, a screened in porch which acts as a second living room…it’s hardly a guest house…it’s just a gorgeous little two-bedroom house beside a much larger house. It even has a large kitchen, a set of scrabble, and lots of cold beer and tea (which I’ll be replacing, of course, if I use). Part of me was so thrilled, so awe-struck, not just of the beauty and elegance of this house I have been given to enjoy for the weekend, but also of the generosity of such people who would freely give this gift to a stranger. Then my mind (and perhaps my paranoia) kicked in with thoughts of, “how can I best take advantage of this?” and “how can a thank my hosts and adequately show them my gratitude?” and “ya right, I’m not going to enjoy myself, knowing I only have 2-3 days here…it’s like being shown a glimpse of paradise and then having it whisked away…”
See, I’m not as gracious as people think. I fear that I must appear ungrateful. Being here, I feel that this is a place I would really like to spend a lot of time. This place is very close to the picture I have had in my head for years of what my living heaven on earth would be:
Rural, yet somehow cultured. Ojai has festivals, a playwrights’ theater, music concerts, and much more.
Rural, yet close enough to civilization, and good civilization at that (think an hour and a bit outside of Paris or Rome). LA is not a European cultural mecca…but it is exciting in its way and large and important.
A modest home. Yes, modest. And perhaps even the chance to build it (or design it, or have it built for me with my input, etc). See, I don’t care about being wealthy. I just don’t want to worry about money all the time. I don’t want more than I need. Because the second I do have a bit of cash, even these days, I give it away to my alma mater or charities or arts organizations.
A garden. Veggies. Herbs. Color. I want English roses and just fields of basil.
A beautiful warm kitchen in the center of the home.
Simple, elegant, comfortable decor.
Books. Lots of books.
A perfect office. With a perfect armchair.
Warmth. Kindness. Generosity.
That’s what I want. I want an office where I can be productive, write my novels and philosophical treatises and cookbooks and travel guides and somehow get paid to do it. And a home where I feel safe and free and where I can make others feel safe and free and loved. That’s it. And yes, Ojai is a picture postcard. And it is the haven of second homes of the rich and famous. And I’ll probably never live here. But it’s so nice to see it and experience it. And also quite devastating. Will I ever achieve even a fraction of that picture that hangs by a thread on the walls of my psyche?
Am I running away from doing the healthy grownup things that I need like finding a partner, fulfilling my ability and dream to be a published novelist and chef, and building a beautiful safe home? Or am I fun-loving, smart-minded, creative adventure nut, set on seeing the world, expanding my knowledge, and making a decent buck while I’m at it? You decide. Let me know. Honestly. Here are things I am seriously considering doing (aka jobs I have/will be/am considering applying for):
Cruise ship art auctioneer. Yup, I’m serious. Yes, I don’t adore vacationing on a cruise, but selling art, something I know just heaps and heaps about, and getting a salary, and making commission, and getting to visit dozens of new countries…why not?
English teacher in China and/or Japan. We’ve all been there. Considering this decision. Well, at least among people I know, we’ve all known people to go down this path. I’m a bit old for it. But my qualifications have gone up. And it’s a better salary than I can find here in Israel. AND it would be in China or Japan! Places I’m desperate to visit! And are expensive to visit. So…why not get paid to go…? And get to save up a decent salary while I’m at it… I thought of this today because one of my closest friends is going to China for a year, and he’s made me promise I’m going to visit him. So, I either shell out for a trip for a couple weeks to a month (if I can spare the time…I’ll be in job searching mode when I get back from the States in a month), or maybe go for 6 months (I hear it’s possible to go for less than a year) and earn something, plus get to see my friend.
A Really Goode Job. What this entails? Being the media-savvy wine ambassador for Murphy-Good Winery in Sonoma County, CA. A dream. It’s a 6-month position, getting paid a lot, and all you do is learn, blog, twitter, and be the excited young highly functioning PR face of this winery. All I have to do is make a compelling 1-minute video…that gets posted to their site…and people vote on which is their favorite…I have two weeks to do this, if I want to contend. And really, I have a day to do it, as I’m leaving my good Mac computer here (video editing) in Israel in two days when I go to the States. But really, what would be better? It’s a dream. I love wine. More than that, I love teaching people about wine, and introducing wine, wine history, wine making, and everything else there is to folks who otherwise wouldn’t give a damn. It’s exciting stuff. The opportunity to reach out to millions. So, what do you say…will you vote for me if I go head and spend all night making this video??? Pretty please? With a cherry on top?
Sonoma County
Another silly thing I did today was enter one of those travel contests. It was kind of the most fun I’ve had entering a contest in a while, though, because it involved watching a fun video (vlog) about Paris and London, and then answering questions. If you win, you get three days in Paris, a 1st class trip on the Eurostar (yup, they’re the sponsors), and three days in London. Not too shabby. To see about entering, go here.
The verdict? Am I crazy? Am I? If I could only figure out how to be productive, write these novels, get them out, AND travel the world doing these things, I’d be golden. Someone’s gotta start paying me to blog, I think. I hope it’s possible.
I found several segments of the incredible British mini-series based on John Le Carre’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy online this evening. I wish I could find them all. See, I’ve never uploaded or downloaded copyrighted material. But I do watch things steaming online when I find them. Is it right? I don’t know. It’s there, and I haven’t exploited anything or anyone. I pay for all of my music downloads unlike most of the world. In any case, I live in Israel, a virtual waste land when it comes to good art house cinema. No, I should be so cruel. There are some excellent rental places, like The Third Ear. But even they don’t have Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Or Smiley’s People, the conclusion of the book series where they catch Karla, the illusive Soviet spy king pin. And I’m really desperate to see them again. I’m in that mood. I don’t want to use torrent, or whatever those systems are called. I don’t want to know about them. The way I see it, these types of productions were free on TV. Free. I’d be happy to purchase the DVD if available, but it’s not. Crap.
Why do I love this mini-series so much? It’s the anti-Bond. And for me, as it’s so real, it’s better than Hitchcock. I’m a Graham Greene fan. Sure, it’s sexy. But in a really mundane, melancholic, real-danger kind of way. It almost is a turn off. But not quite. The old school game of international hide and seek. Secrets, secrets, secrets. Sometimes I think that this supposed world of spies must give me comfort. There are moments when I don’t believe I trust anyone. I don’t believe in patriotism. I think it’s dangerous. I’m always on the wrong side of things. So something about this underworld feels right. Because Soviet or MI6 or CIA, it’s all the same thing. It’s all the same thing. The flip side of a coin.
And I’m sick tonight. Got sick last night while I read hurriedly into the wee hours of the morn. Sore throat. Stuffed sinuses. Achy back. I’m hoping it won’t get worse. I’m terrible. I have a really long few flights ahead of me. And a wedding to go to in a week, many, many thousands of miles away. And I need my strength and my health. Goodness. I’m the world’s biggest procrastinator. I lose big sometimes. And I’ll stop speaking in strange enigmaticly boring terms.
There’s a song I love. It’s soulful and true and sad and powerful. Have a listen:
The song is called “Nature Boy,” written by one of the strangest people I have come across, eden ahbez back in 1948. He was the “nature boy.” An orphan, a hobo, studied eastern philosophies, religions, and came to believe in a universal god. He had long hair and wore sandals and walked across the country several times. He wrote a song, and he simply took it to Hollywood. Nature Boy ended up being Nat King Cole’s first hit single. Check out this interesting site and 1977 LA Times article on eden ahbez.
I had a decent day. That should be something to celebrate. A decent couple of days. Yesterday I was in Jerusalem seeing good friends, hanging out, laughing, and even participated in an impromptu evening barbecue on the rooftop of a friend’s hippie-digs in a fun secular-religious-mixed-up-ancient-hippie neighborhood called Nachla’ot. Spicy sausage and marinated chicken thighs. Oh yah.
Today, I had breakfast with my sister (totally forgot about the plans and went in hastily thrown on clothes and an unwashed face) at a nice cafe. Made the mistake of ordering the only thing I’m kind of allowed to eat without realizing that it was the most expensive thing on the menu. Ya, I paid around ten bucks, US, for a bowl of plain yogurt. ‘Cause I can’t eat sugar or yeast. Which means no fruit or sweet muesli or honey. Or anything else cheaper on the menu, for that matter, like pastries or breakfast sandwiches.
Tomer Reshef Salon
Then I went and got my hair cut with my mom. I have the best, the very best hair stylist in Israel. Maybe in the world. They call her the queen of the curly-haired people. And goodness knows, more people in Israel than in any other place in the world have curly hair. Or wavy hair. Or frizzy huge undefinable hair. The whole Jew-fro thing. Yah. This lady conquered it all. If you can read Hebrew, or just want to see some cool hair photos, visit this article about Tomer Reshef’s Salon in a very hip designer-laden area of south Tel Aviv. The philosophy is this: if you don’t use conditioner, your hair won’t frizz. And I can safely say, it is true. Takes some time. But you can use a great aromatic natural oil “mask” after you wash your hair and leave it in. Helps the curls stick. It’s an all natural place.
My mother annoys me very quickly. Luckily, as she was getting her hair colored and it would take another hour, I used the time to find wholesale warehouse kinda priced framers. South Tel Aviv rocks. It’s old. It’s crumbly in areas. It’s dirty. But it’s got the goods. Furniture, clothes, you name it, warehouse style. In Italy, I bought a lot of great artwork. Signed stuff, original prints, great souvenirs, but some of the stuff I know I’m going to love looking at for years. And unlike my usual self (I have bought amazing art in the past, only to have put off framing for so long as to have forgotten it in boxes…for years), I took care of framing immediately. I’m so excited to have picutres, my own pictures, with good frames and glass and matting, that I have chosen. Such a relief, after living in someone else’s artist’s studio, stacks of paintings, walls full of paintings, none framed or framed well, none that I’ve chosen to be up there. I shouldn’t be speaking so of my grandfather’s work. People ooh and ahh when they visit me here. It’s all a colorful picnic in theory…but you wouldn’t want to live there, ya know.
I will sum up with this, as I write too damned much, and I know people aren’t getting to the end. Have you ever heard of a sabich? It’s kind of like a sandwich. Similar to falafel. Hails from Iraq. Well, I love them. And I had one today at my favorite place to get them: Sabick Frishman, on the corner of Frishman and Dizingoff. Just imagine, if you will…a whole pita, slit on top so you can smear the inside with hummus, tahini, a spicy chili-like paste, and amba (another sauce, bright orangey-yellow, very spicy and curry-flavored, made out of pickled mangos), filled with deep fried eggplant slices, sliced up hard-boiled egg, and chunks of baked potato, topped with finely chopped tomato salad, slices of onion (sprinkled with red sumac – a heavenly spice – that’s what really makes shawarma taste like shawarma, if you were interested), cilantro, more tahini, and a special spicy mixed vegetable salad. You can then choose on your own to put various pickled and/or curried-pickled veggies on top. It is heaven. Feast your eyes on this:
After I ate, I went to this fab tiny little used book store with a (relatively) huge English-language sci-fi section. Did you know there seem to be hundreds of spin-off Star Trek books? I found an entire shelf of Star Trek Voyager novels. Bizarre. Do they take place after the crew gets back to the Alpha Quadrant? Or during the Delta Quadrant voyage, and the authors somehow find a way to not mess up the TV show’s plotline? Weird. Who reads this stuff? And why do there seem to be many, many authors? Who keeps the storylines straight? Who safeguards the characters? Wonder if I should give it a try. The reading or the writing…ha!
G’night y’all. I have to get back to reading manuscripts. I’m a big-ass procrastinator. Gotta be ready by 8 am. And it’s 11:45 pm. Ahhh!
I was restless trying to sleep last night. My birthday is really soon. Under three months. And maybe it’s just my depressive tendencies. Maybe it’s low self-esteem. But I really, really, for a major flash, saw this as a completely wasted year. In the next flash of a moment, I frantically started listing things that I’ve already done this year. It went something like this:
Quit job that was bad for my soul
Went to India, a questionable time was had, but I went
I went to Ireland, and it was amazing, and it gave me career ideas and made a good friend
I went to Italy and Croatia and Greece and Turkey with the whole family, and even though I “just went,” it was an experience
I did complete a real first draft of the novel
The first draft of the novel was completely critiqued. Even though I’ve been petrified to do real work using this severe criticism, I got it critiqued and theory can get it finished and sent out soon…
I have been dating. Kind of. Without great effort. But it’s kind of something.
Therapy has been good.
Blogging has been fun and seems productive, even though I don’t get paid for it.
Found a cool part part part time job leading wine tastings
Cooked a lot of scrummy family meals for my uncle and cousins
Got two great cats
Have made huge strides in being a clean, responsible adult who does laundry and makes her bed more than once in a blue moon
Have really made a big effort to see friends, and it’s paying off, even though I’ve backpedaled and slumped in spurts.
I learned I could draw, really well.
Professionally catered one giant birthday party
I wrote a small handful of culinary articles for a Jewish magazine (maybe I should reprint them here…I’m not sure, though, any takers?)
I can probably add a bit here and there. I guess what’s missing here is the “career” category. Nothing that I can slap a label on that says success. But it’s been interesting. And it’s not over. I have made huge strides in completing many, many, many of my “things to do before 30” list.
So, in order to salvage my silly self and ego and be orderly, here are a few more concrete things I want DONE by July 31:
Finish a second draft of the novel
Send out samples and intro letters to agents and publishers
Find paid work I don’t hate (even if it’s very part time waitressing, I need some self-respecting income to start paying rent because…)
I need to move out of my current depressing digs and into a home. I am supposedly in the works to do so and move in with my sister into an apartment my mother purchased last year, in a chi chi awesome part of town, close to the beach, designer shops, cafes, an organic grocery store, you name it. Thing is – ties to Mom, and having to live with a sometimes emotionally-unstable sister. Other thing is, I will be paying rent, so I will technically be a tenant. With rights. It’s a much bigger place with a very hip layout and a decked out roof garden with direct access from our living room, which means the the cats will be happy, and there may just be enough physical space to spread out in case my sister goes ballistic. Then, there are the days when I want to run screaming from the hills, move out of town, or to a crappy far away neighborhood I can afford in order to truly be independent. But I don’t think this isn’t independent. I mean, if I pay rent, I pay rent. And I’m not going to be underpaying, here. It’s just a gorgeous lot of apartment. And I don’t have to look for it. It’s there, because it was bought by my selfish self-centered witch of a mother who intends to use it as her very own every time she’s in town (which means, where the hell do I go…tenants’ rights?). I’m going to stop here. No I’m not. Because I sound like a real bitch talking about my mother this way. I do love her, and I do a lot for her, believe me. She doesn’t just come for a visit, you see, when I could fix up a guest bed and cook a celebratory brunch. She comes for a month or two, takes over everything, and uses the place like it’s hers. No asking to use things. Inviting her friends over at all hours. Leaves her things everywhere. Doesn’t clean. Treats us like children. She’s the roommate from hell. Read The Drama of the Gifted Child. That’s my mom. Narcisist. With a capital ‘N.’ She’s the reason for a majority of my neuroses and major character flaws and huge therapy bills. Period. We don’t get along, and it’s for nothing obvious that you can put a finger on because the whole world thinks she’s a loveable eccentric. She just makes my skin crawl. Now I’m done.
Make a longer-term plan for income and creativity balance. Because I have novel #2 in the works. Very loose outline. But I’m excited. Even if nobody ever reads what I write, I’m a writer, right? Why do I have to convince myself…
These things seem reasonable. Yes, they do. If I work hard. 2+ months? Piece of cake. You are all witnesses! I have to move on this people. Go ahead and ask me how the editing is going — go ahead — and don’t let me evade the questions…
Have a great day…I am, with friends in Jerusalem. I love the productivity that time-crunches push you into!
Disclaimer: this is a really long post. But it’s a good one. If you get tired out, my finest, most exuberant paragraph is last one. Surprise, surprise. So, please read it before you click away. Pretty please. I flat out loved Naples.
I have decided to devote one whole post to the city of Naples. Or Napoli, as it’s actually called. It’s a city older than Rome with lots of Greek heritage, and I think the name may be derived from Neo-polis, or new city. Better google that to be sure. In a sec. Why am I devoting a whole blog entry to Naples? Because it shocked the hell out of me, that’s what. Kind of like the first time you walk through Rome (mine was late at night) and you just happen to stumble upon the Pantheon, just sitting there, just like any old building resting its bones at night, pigeons preening in its joints. Jaw dropping, heart pounding, can’t believe this place can exist without people just screaming all the time, “can you believe we’re here, we’re actually here, that this amazingly beautiful ancient important place is here, and we’re here, just looking at it while eating ice cream and pizza and talking on our phones and stuff like it’s no big deal…?!?!?” Ya, Napoli was kind of like that, too. But different.
So let’s start.
Why Napoli. My baby sister (Junior Indiana Jones I will call her) and I just had to see Pompeii. Had to. We had the most time in Italy out of all the family (this was a family vacation that brought us out from the four corners of the globe), so the two of us promptly took a train from Rome to Napoli, and then planted ourselves (via the Circumvesuviana train — and it’s pronounced “Chir-cum,” as in very-sexy-Italian-accented way to say “around Mount Vesuvius”) in the safe enclave of Sorrento. Kind of like a southern suburb of Naples, really. See, Sorrento is safe. It’s lovely. But also a tourist haven, lots of resorts, etc. It’s a great place to be located to get to both the Amalfi coast and to Pompeii and other archaeological sites…without having to set foot in Naples. Yup. Naples makes people nervous. We, too, were under the impression that we had to get in and get out fast and keep everything tucked in and zipped up tight and look straight ahead and pray that nobody dares even speak to you. Naples means mafia. Naples means tough kids. Naples means dirt. Naples means poverty. Naples means congestion. Basically, as far as Italian cities are concerned, Naples is just the wrong side of the tracks. Period.
As I understand it, it kind of only half deserves this bad rap. It’s a city like any other. It’s got a huge port, so lots of industry. People go to work and come home from work. There’s a great university. But, yes, there is some bad poverty, and the gang violence is kind of crazy. Sometimes. The police really did some good work in the 80s and 90s cleaning up, I think. But it’s nothing a tourist would see. You probably couldn’t find this stuff unless you asked and
Gomorra
went looking for it. As a deterrent against you doing this, though, feel free to watch the recently released film, Gomorra. I nearly shat myself during this movie, based very closely on true stories, the author of which cannot return to Italy because the gangs have a price on his head. I couldn’t believe I was going there.
So why the hell go? Because the finest archaeology museum in all Italy happens to be in Naples. The best mosaics from Pompeii were taken there. Stuff from all over the region and beyond. Junior Jones was dying to see it. And another damned good reason to go to Naples? The pizza. It’s the birthplace of pizza. You got that right. And it is the best, and I mean the very, very, very, very best. But we’ll get to that later. We were planning a quick in and out. Get to our hotel, sleep, wake, go to the museum, grab a pizza, then grab the bags and get the hell outta Dodge. God, was I in for a shock.
See, Junior and I arrived kind of half drunk, half hungover, rushing into town from our wonderful sun-dappled day on the Amalfi coast. Ya, it was kind of stupid. But kind of really fun. Ultimately, it might have been the alcohol that made us completely un-paranoid as we got into town. See, we tried to get in during daylight, thinking, it’s a dangerous town, let’s get in before it gets dark. Our drunken timing was questionable. We got there as twilight was ebbing gracefully away and hence caught the first cab at the station, one that luckily had GPS as neither we nor the driver could find our hotel on a map.
The Portanova Hotel is an enchanted dream of B & B. The most lovely B & B I have ever stayed in in my entire life. So nice, in fact, that it rightfully deserves some four or five hotel stars. And it’s on this dark, curved, tiny little street that you can barely find on the edge of the historic city center. It’s on the second floor (with a steep climb, I might add), of an ordinary apartment building. And Jones and I paid all of 60 Euro for a huge bedroom with a king size bed, luxurious sheets and duvets, sparkling bathroom, organic-esque shampoos and soaps and cotton wool and Q-tips and plush towels, a flat screen TV, and all of it elegantly designed. Class. Like cutting open one of those wrinkled, brown, awful testicle-looking fruits and discovering the many seeded, bright orange, glistening pulp of a passion fruit. If you’re ever in Naples, it’s your duty to look up and stay in the Portanova. Remember. Portanova. Because not only was it sinfully inexpensive, the owner was one of the kindest human beings I could have hoped to meet on this trip. He waited for us patiently, gave us maps, invited us to eat anything we wanted in the kitchen, coffee at all hours, free umbrellas to use in case it rained. Basically, the best concierge service, bar none, in the body of this kindly salt and peppered middle aged Italian guy with very little English to spare us. And we were the only guests at the hotel. It broke my heart to pay so little. Portanova. Remember it.
Back to Napoli. Will you read this far? Good Lord, do I know how to meander. Maybe I’ll intersperse this long text with pretty pictures. We all like pictures.
Junior Jones and I had to really force ourselves to go out that night. The real reason ended up being hunger. Kind of. We were hungover and feeling sick. But we couldn’t just check into a hotel at 8pm and stay in. Couldn’t. It’s not in our family ethos. And what we saw was this:
Churches. Everywhere. More than any other city in Italy I’ve been to. Every other building. Elegant, imposing, grand, intricate, you name it, from many different centuries and decades and national styles. These were some exceptionally designed important buildings.
Very narrow streets, so much so, some of them seem like pedestrian shortcuts, that you very dangerously discover are not only for pedestrians.
Historic churches lining these minute lanes, ever other building or so. I’m not kidding. You have to crane your neck to even kind of try to see the architectural detailing. You can’t stand back at a nice, respectable distance, and just look at these monuments. It cannot be done.
Renaissance mansion houses. Think “Capulets and Montagues.” Think huge, vast, tall arched wooden gates with iron spikes and bolts and stuff as a doorways. Think lush courtyards, fountains, stairways, balconeys. Think mini-castles. Now, picture these structures being the buildings between the churches. You got it. Tiny lanes. Ridiculous amounts of churches and important buildings with gargoyles and statues and steeples and stuff everywhere. And then, these gorgeous, monstrous, oddities of I don’t know, medieval rich-people houses, just everywhere. And now, they’re kind of cut down into individual apartments, a lot of them, and the front doors are too massive to open, so they cut, and I mean cut out like with a jigsaw, people sized doors into these vast almost draw-bridge looking things. And these are tiny, tiny narrow streets we’re talking about. You can hardly see the sky! You can hardly see to the top of the front doors!
Cobbled streets
Funky punk clothing shops
The laundry everywhere, ya, it’s true
Oh, a street that is basically still a “guild street” with every single shop being a nativity doll and diorama making facility. I’m not kidding. Seriously. A long north-south street with hundreds of thousands of Marys, shepherds, wise men, baby Jesuses, mangers, and for some reason clowns dressed up for commedia dell’arte or mardi gras or something. And they’re all great. These little dolls are so frighteningly real looking. And old men whitle them away in the shops in plain sight, all day long. It’s like being in a strange fruit and veg market, lots of colors and choices, and it all looks so good, you want to buy something, you just have to, but who the hell needs a thousand wooden baby Jesuses or scary clowns?
Some really fine graffiti. Most seemed to be by one artist in particular. I’ve started noticing and documenting this kind of artwork in recent years, and I can tell you, I could have gone around with a camera, ignoring the churches and monuments and Mary dolls and pizzas, all day long.
Fab, tiny, hole in the wall, the Naples equivalent of a Vienna Beef hot dog stand, pizza restaurants. And this is it. The very best.
No tourists. Nope. Even in the height of day, the tourists we saw were led in groups. On the bus, off the bus, on the bus, off the bus. Mostly Germans. Some Brits. Middle aged. Wearing fanny packs (aka bum bags). Matching hats. Beware the pickpockets…it’s Naples…oooh!
Wow, I’m getting tired. I think you get the picture. It’s amazing. It’s dark, it’s light, it’s really old, and really young, it’s hip and fun, and it’s creepy. It’s a really great time. The pizza we had was at a tiny place with about 6-7 tables in it. Pizzerias in Naples that want to have customers usually opt to be certified. Yes, there is a pizza certification. There’s a symbol they put outside the restaurant and everything. It has to do with how the pizza is made, not just the ingredients. And it boils down to this: the dough MUST be thrown, NOT rolled, into your standard circle; AND the oven must use real burning wood, not gas, charcoal, or anything else. And they are wonderful pizzas. Thin, woody, tiny burnt bubble-patches underneath. The top is soft, even kind of watery-hot with all the toppings (not in a bad way at all). Get the Pizza Margherita. The simple standard. It’s named after the first queen of Italy. She came to visit Napoli, and the chefs wanted to make a special dish in her honor. Well, she would have nothing fancy. She wanted to taste local cuisine. So, they made a pizza for her. Red tomatoes, white buffalo Mozarella, and green fresh basil leaves. Red, white, and green: the Italian flag. Simple, tasty, and it will only set you back something like 3 Euro. Again, not kidding. Our water cost the same. And it was the cheapest water we bought in all of Italy. You usually can’t even buy a pre-made sandwich for 3 Euro. This is a whole pizza. The very best.
Another fun thing we did was take a tour of “Underground Napoli.” Essentially, it’s a great informative tour of the Roman aquaduct system. Except it didn’t used to be. These underground caverns were first dug out by the Greeks for stone to use in building buildings. Romans did, too, and built one of the largest arenas in the land. Nero, the crazy emperor who fancied himself a singing virtuoso, actually performed in this Napoli theatre…to the misfortune of the citizenship’s ears. We got to see some of the theatre, but only a tiny part — because after years of looking, they finally found it less than ten years ago! See, old cities grow taller. When a house falls down, they didn’t clear rubble. They sort of used what they could, and them built over it. So, over the centurues, European cities grow higher. By meters and meters. The streets might have the same layout and everything. We’re at a totally different altitude. And what happened to this vast Roman theatre? Some parts of it, arches, doorways and stuff, just got incorporated into the basements of medieval houses. Yup. Here’s a perfectly good wall. Let’s just leave it, use it, and put drywall over it. This family that had owned this old townhouse for many, many generations, had no idea that their house was largely composed of Roman walls from the theatre! Back to these underground passages and cisterns — they were also used as air raid shelters for civilians during WWII. Half the population of the city could fit inside. The unfortunate slept outside. Literally. In the street. It was safer than inside the buildings that could crash on top of you and crush you to death. This tour at one point had us light candles and walk through a passage of rock so narrow that I had to turn sideways in order to make it. And I’m not overweight. There was an obese German woman on the tour who tried, and then had to back out. Her slightly less obese boyfriend did make it, but I don’t know how. At least he didn’t take the lead. It would have taken forever. I’m not trying to be cruel here. It was exceptionally narrow. At the end we saw what a full cistern of water looked like, as they had saved one. Like an underground waterfall and pond. So enchanting. I do recommend this tour.
But say, why did we take this tour in the first place? Why did we spend so much time walking around town? What gives? The perceptive reader of this blog would have noticed that the planned itinerary involved only one museum and a slice of pizza. Shucks! Shucks, I say! I would have loved to have stuck to the plan, I would have! Yes, indeedy. But, see, we came on a Tuesday. And on Tuesdays, museums are closed in Naples. Had I read the fine print in my Lonely Planet, I would have figured this out beforehand. But as I was petrified of Napoli and avoiding the thought of having to spend the night, AND I was pretty out of it doped up on prosecco and limoncello, I didn’t bother to read the fine print about opening hours. So, the only reason we came to Napoli in the first place, the famed museum, was a no-go. And lucky for us. Because if we had seen only this museum, we wouldn’t have gotten to trot all over Napoli. And we hardly scratched the surface. I’m almost embarassed to have written this ridiculously long blog entry about my less than one-day experience in this fascinating city.
So – the verdict is – go, go, go to Napoli. Spend more than a day. And don’t go on a Tuesday. Or, do, actually. You’ll see more. And to conclude so ungracefully here as my eyelids droop (3:05 am)…
I’m a writer. I have been around art, artists, actors, musicians, writers for my entire life. And let me tell you, I was inspired here. There was something about the quality of the light. Something very real here. Some deep sadness. It’s really grabs you. I wanted to cry. Why is it so empty? Why are there breathtakingly beautiful buildings decaying away on a side street? Why is the pizza so damned different here? I can’t believe Hemingway didn’t find his way here. I’d write an in-depth guidebook to this city. I’d write a novel and set it in this city. I’d come to this city for a 6-month stay, just to live here. Just to breathe the air and meet the people and walk the streets and maybe finally get to see the inside of the museum. There’s something eerily peaceful here. Like the people are guardians to an ancient secret. They know it. But they go on with their lives with a hint of a smile, shopping for their groceries, riding their Vespas, studying for exams, going to work, breathing in and out. It smells faintly of solitude. Of being the unwanted underdog. Of quiet pride. Of steady survival. Of dirt, of clouds, and rays of sunshine fighting their way through.
Dan Choi, an exceptional military man, West Point graduate, fluent and very adept as an Arabic translator, came out as gay on television. He was kicked out of the military this week. In Belkin’s article, he lays out several options that President Obama has (yes, has), to protect and accept gays in the military. Now. Without congressional action.
Watch Rachel Maddow’s interview with Lt Choi:
Major world democracies have gays in the military. Israel has gays in the military. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” asks people to lie by default, by their silence. How is lying an honorable action? For anyone? Especially for our military.
I am hoping, hoping, hoping that Obama will do something immediately to end this horrible policy. More than 12,000 veterans have lost their careers in the last 15 years under this disgusting policy.
So, when you’re on vacation, as I was for about three weeks, you lose touch. I barely kept up with any news. And so, here are some of today’s links. Stuff I found interesting. Stuff I can’t believe I missed. Etc.
The Star Trek movie opened! And I was somewhere in Italy drinking Limoncino and Sciacchetra in Cinque Terre and completely forgot about it! And it got great reviews, and it looks like it will be this summer’s blockbuster, and this means millions of new Trek fans, I hope, and I couldn’t be happier…and now I need to go see this movie!!! AND I discovered it opened here in Israel at the same time, so no worries for me!!!
A song called “I kissed a girl and I liked it” is now playing on the army radio station, and I’ve never heard of it before, but I like it…let’s google, shall we?
Ah, here ’tis:
And so much more exciting, devastating, embarrassing schtuff…involving beauty queens, politicians, Afghanistan, comedians, wild fires, and much, much more…check out the Huffington Post for the most entertaining way to become informed.
Good morning, world! It’s a Saturday. And I have about 9 days left in Israel. It’s kind of a “vacation” amount of time…except for that I live here. I have something like 8 important appointments to keep in the next week…amazing that I was able to schedule them all…ranging from my psychiatrist, to my waxist, to my Chinese medicine doctor, and much, much, more. And today…nothing to do but enjoy a family lunch in celebration of my cousin’s 17th birthday…and tolerate my increasingly annoying mother who is staying with me for a couple days. It’s a long story. Don’t ask now, I don’t feel like telling it. She came back from Italy with me and is staying until the end of June. Which is a good thing I’m coming to the States in 9 days!
Some thoughts.
Star Trek Voyager. A great TV series. Not my abolute favorite Star Trek series (that would be TNG). But something about the modernity of it, the better effects, the younger more sexy romantic situations, the isolation of the Delta quadrant…make it all very fun to watch. And, I don’t think I mention my love of Star Trek, and of Star Trek Voyager too much on my blog. Maybe a small handful of times. Certainly, I don’t think I’ve ever devoted an entire entry to it. But for some reason, in the last two weeks, most of my traffic has been coming from people searching for Star Trek Voyager. Upwards of 50 people a day, sometimes. For a teeny tiny non-profession and don’t wanna be kinda blog like mine, that’s surprising. Thanks trekkie guys! I don’t think I’m contributing much to the online trekkie-sphere, but I’m curious as to why everyone’s been coming to me.
Other thoughts. I read two great sci-fi books in the last few weeks. Classics that I should have read years ago. One that I started, in fact, when I was 12, but put down in the first five pages or so. And I’m kind of glad I waited. The more sci-fi I read, the less I understand why it’s a genre. Do you know why it’s a genre? I mean, any book that involves outer space or the future is categorized as sci-fi. Even stuff that doesn’t happen in space, but is merely an imagined sort of near-future with some imagined new technology, is sci-fi. Because sci-fi books, the best of them, usually have little to do with science directly. They are so much more about that human condition, social commentary, and excellent storytelling. So what, they happen to happen in space?! Was 1984 considered sci-fi? Was Brave New World? Maybe they were. But besides Jules Verne, at the time, I don’t suppose there was much of a “genre” around. Anyway, I read books. Excellent books. If they happen to be sci-fi, fine. And I love forward-minded writers. Who often happen to write stories that take place in the future or out in space. Oh well.
The two books I read and loved reading every minute I was reading them are, Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card, and Foundation by Isaac Asimov, the latter being the one I attempted reading back in 1992. Apparently, I have a whole series to enjoy now, from each of these books. Ender’s Game I started reading at the Ashram, moving from dim light to dim light at night, trying to squint my way through the pages and avoid the loud trans music that was intermittantly being blasted all over the compound. And Foundation, funnily enough, I found at the Budapest airport as I was waiting for my flight to Rome on a 5 hour layover. It called to me. It was one of the few books in English at one of those portable book stalls between gates, bright orange, with the name Asimov popping off the spine. When I try and subsequently fail to like a book, the memory stays with me, and I felt compelled to redeem my 12-year-old self from the shame of having rejected Asimov. So there, I was, engrossed in the fall of the Empire, my bags of duty free Hungarian Tokaij dangling from my arm as I waited to board. It made my vacation, too. I finished Foundation on the cliffs of Riomaggiore in the Cinque Terre national park, nothing but blue sea and sky and a slowly setting sun before me.
Last thought of the moment (as I really need to shower and dress and wrap birthday gifts in the 37 minutes I have left). Did you ever consider how likely it is that you are? What I mean by that is, how likely was your conception and birth? There are people out there who are likelier than me. People whose parents were high school sweethearts, whose grandparents were the same, who come from the same types of communities, maybe the same religion, ethnic background, etc. Then there are highly unlikely people. Like our current president. How likely was it that a white, white, white girl, originally from Kansas, living in Hawaii, met a Kenyan student? How likely? In my case, my very crazy Israeli mother met and married an American tourist she knew for less than two weeks, an American tourist who happened to be from Chicago…she then endured four years of a crappy abusive marriage to him in Chicago before getting up the courage to divorce him. Then, in all the craziness of her single life in Chicago, she and her roommates have a party, invite tons of random people, including my father’s cousin E, a woman my mother met at a bathhouse of all places. E brings my dad, right out of college, to this house party. Do they get together then? No. Months later, my mother is set up on a blind double date by none other than this woman E. She doesn’t like her date, but her friend’s date happens to by my dad, whom my mother recognizes. And here’s the thing. My mother would never have dated this pasty, tall, gangly, freckled, bizarro had he told her his real age! That’s right. He lied and told her he was 25. My mother was 28, and that even put her off. But had she known that he was really 23, OMG. So, crazy Israeli woman, somehow gets to Chicago via a spontaneous stupid marriage. Pasty-white, gangly, American, right out of college, totally out of his league, happens to meet this woman through bizarre encounters. Yes, they are both Jewish. That’s the only similarity. Because their families both hated this relationship. Am I likely? Am I? I don’t think so. Maybe more likely than Obama. But not by much.
Before I forget – I had a request to describe the Amalfi Coast. I am in Milano now, about a day and a half away from going home to Israel, finally. All in all, it has been a great trip…far calmer than anticipated…due to new antidepressants, perhaps? Or new maturity, finally steering me away from battles not worth fighting? Or my ever-evolving, but always sound philosophy about traveling and vacations? Whatever, it was a decent trip. Good photos. Not too many fights. Great food on occasion. Excellent wine every once in a while.
So, onto my brief Amalfi description:
It is everything you thought it would be. Remote cliffside villages hanging precariously over the Mediterranean, brightly colored houses look like pastel mosaics from afar, and the lemons…oh, my, the lemons! It is the home of Limoncello, the lemon liquor, and everyone and their dog has a small grove of lemon trees in this area, grown on terraces cut into these cliffs. The towns boast cheerful (and pricey) cafes and restaurants, high-class art galleries, and the very best — handmade, hand-painted ceramics….in blues and yellows with touches of greens and earthy reds. It is kind of like Provence. But not.
My sis and I made our way from down to the waters edge from the top of town where we were left after the deathly bus ride that took us to village of Positano. Yes, this was where some exceptionally memorable scenes from Under the Tuscan Sun were filmed. After some debating as to how to spend our day, we ended up shopping something mad for ceramics for our new apartment all day and taking in the most leisurely lunch I have had in a long while. We sat on the harbor, above the sandy beach and 20 meters from the boats docking. We each had a gorgeous pizza, mine ai funghi, hers with artichokes and ham. We then decided, why not, we are not stressing out, no we are not, even though we have to make it to downtown Napoli before dark because we do not want to run the risk of being mugged and murdered as everyone thinks before they get to Napoli (another blog entry coming up…it is the most fascinating and beautiful city). So, we ordered a whole bottle of Prosecco. Yes, we did. And we drank it. Shared a glass with two middle-aged Texan ladies we sat next to us. And then we ordered Limoncello. Yes we did. And we were quite happy indeed. The kind waiter treated us to sorbet in halved frozen strawberries, a yummy and elegant little affair. We swayed our way up the town steps, shopping our way through ceramics shop after ceramics shop, finally, somehow making our way to the top of the town where we miraculously found a bus just pulling in to take us back to Sorrento.
So, the verdict is – Amalfi is gorgeous and swell and all it’s cracked up to be. Probably more gorgeous in the summer or when it is less cloudy than it was when we were there. But stunning.
You should go. There, I said it. Saiyonara, folks.
I have wanted to blog many many many times in the last couple weeks. Unfortunately, on a cruise, internet costs something like 50 Euro per hour. I’m not kidding. I’m now on Corfu. There’s not much to do here. It’s cold. It’s slightly drizzly. And my family is surly. I am seasick on land. Everything feels like it’s moving. Ah!!!!
Some recent thoughts and observations – cruises are, as predicted, really not my thing. It’s like a shopping mall or like a Disney theme park, floating on water, and you can’t leave. There’s a food court. Fancy restaurants. Bars. And the food is mediocre at best, a mass-produced attempt at appearing gourmet. Middle America is usually satisfied. I feel fat. Gaining weight because there is nothing healthy and interesting to eat. They have such American options for the healthy courses — sugar free mousse, low-fat cheesecake, grapefruit “carpaccio” (ya, not even thin slices on some lettuce). Pools, a too-expensive spa, a decent gym with one trainer who teaches everything including a morning yoga class that’s such a joke it’s not even funny. I walked out after 5 minutes, and that was me giving him a chance. There are art auctions every other night, so you can own something of history, something of beauty, and more importantly, have a great and interesting *investment*. There are quiz nights, and receptions, and black tie dinners (why? who cares? it’s just your family? and a chance to take pictures in fancy clothes…). Ugh!
Other things – it’s so easy to spend “quality time” with people and have it turn into fluff. Long coffees that turn into talks about shopping and scheduling. Movies. Shopping. Hiking without talking. You’re always busy doing something. But nothing is of any importance. But it feels important to see everything and stay on schedule. Meanwhile, this is the first time I’ve seen my parents in a year, and I don’t feel loved or bonded or communicating or anything.
There’s a LDS (that be major Mormons) singles group on my cruise. They’re really white and boring. One tried to talk to me. He was nice. Later I saw him in a fine art reception where we were viewing Picasso, Chagall, Miro, and Dali prints, and he was with another of those girls, and all I could hear from them was, “it’s not really original, I couldn’t see this in my house, how much do you think it’s worth…” etc, etc, etc. Mormons. God I’m so closed minded about so many things. Is it wrong? Who knows. At least they have each other.
Anyway, gotta go. Internet ain’t cheap in the only internet cafe on Corfu, either. At least it’s cold and rainy. Croatia and Turkey and yesterday in Santorini were gorgeous days, at least. And I’ve got to return to my family…who will be exponentially surlier and more aggressive with each passing minute I’m here on the computer.
And you know what? I’ve re-discovered that there’s life beyond Facebook. Thank God. It really does suck away time and energy. It’s an illusion. Nothing more.
I spent more than six hours exploring the archaeological ruins of Pompeii today, along with my kid sister. Well, she’s 24 and a super duper archeology student in Israel and has already successfully managed an archaeological excavation. So, it’s not really like I came in blind on this. I have dreamed of coming to Pompeii since I was eight years old.
I remember that chapter in my social studies textbook like it was yesterday…
Visions of people simply frozen in time, covered in ash, a poor little dog cowers, food left in bowls, a lively, thriving civilization suffocated in an instant, to be forgotten for centuries.
Pompeii House, as it is today
And it was everything I could possibly have imagined. It’s perfect. Untouched. A whole town. Shops and food stalls and gorgeous mansions and apartments alike, temples and government buildings, theatres, palaces. The works. A town. A really nice one. The thing I loved the most was that I completely got the feeling of what it must have been like to live there. The houses are beautiful, charming, comfortable places to live in. The art is still there. Frescoes with the timeless stories of Apollo, Venus, Jupiter, Juno. The town brothel, yes, even a real true blue brothel, complete with what I now call the Roman Kama Sutra – Frescoes of men and women doin’ it in many different positions, above the doors of the sex rooms – yup, little tiny rooms with nothing more than a bed in them – still there – off of one corridor. Five rooms down, five rooms up. Must have had a lot of business. AND I just read on someone else’s outdated website that there have been 34 brothels found in Pompeii thus far. I’m not sure how true that is, but having more than one or two is logical…I mean, healthy business requires competition, after all. But then again, 34! This person claims a lot of sailors and travelers would have been passing through, so it was only logical. Right. OK. Brothels were called Lupinariums (Lupinaria?), our house of wolves. Wolves? Women as she wolves? Here are some of the raunchy frescoes:
When I get to a place where I have more time (I’m at my small B&B in the outskirts of Sorrento) I may upload some of the pics we took today. Charming stuff. As it was raining more than half the day, we even have a series of avant’garde umbrella shots amongst the ruins. And, oh yes, lest I forget, I am indeed publish a postcard series entitled: The Real Dogs of Pompeii. I have adorable shots of many of the strays, all over the site. Including this original mosaic – the first warning, ever, of its kind:
Cave Canem - Beware the dog
Tomorrow, you ask? Well, tomorrow, dear friends, I’m headed to the Amalfi Coast. That’s right, Positano and all your gorgeous neck breakingly high frighteningly thrilling colors and beach and Limoncello and fish and sun will be mine! For a day, at least. Then off to Napoli. Yup. Hanging with the gangsters tomorrow night. You know it. My sis has to, just has to see their museum. And I? I took the one less traveled by. And that led me to Pizza.
It’s 12:18 am, and I’m nearing being done with the packing and cleaning and bill paying…but not quite enough to feel comfortable. Why am I blogging, might you ask? Well, I’ve decided not to sleep, what with a cab coming in 2.5 hours, and I’ve got much on my mind.
First off, some articles really worth taking a look at. Important and interesting stuff that I’ve not noticed on the big radar:
Keith Olbermann: “President Obama, You Are Wrong” – A very powerful video, well written, moving rebuke on the president’s decision not to prosecute CIA interrogators for torture. Want a very compelling argument on learning from our mistakes lest we be doomed to repeat history? Watch this!
Modern life’s pressures are hastening human evolution – That’s right, we’re not done evolving. We’re actually speeding up. So much so, that in 10,000 years or less, the then-humans may not even be “Homo Sapien” any longer and could not interbreed with current-day humans. Read this article. Very cool. Very intriguing.
OK, now I really have to get back to doing things other than blogging, listening to Susan Boyle for the umpteenth time, and get on with the packing, bill paying, Italian train time table finding, airline ticket confirming business I really should be up to. I fly in less than 6 hours! But the thought of being away from a computer for three weeks…well, except for internet cafes, and the like, is kind of daunting…no, it’s also liberating. The 100-day marker is coming very soon for me. 100 days until my 30th birthday. The more I blog, the more I live, really, and spend time with good people, the more I understand how silly and pathetic this countdown is. Right now, it’s a great device. I would be lying if I said I was cool as a cucumber about this birthday, but I’m much better about it. I’m working on me, and that’s all that counts. I’m doing OK. More than OK, really, depending on the day and how I look at it, really. And enough with this pep talk! Tomorrow night, with any luck, I will be sleeping in some gorgeous little B&B on the Amalfi Coast. Aren’t I a lucky duck. So what if my savings will be blown to high hell, soon. How many people go to the places they want to go? Not enough, that’s for certain.
I first watched this video on Youtube early Wednesday morning GMT+2. I found out about it then, instead of perhaps a day later when it became a huge sensation in the US because of her name. Susan Boyle. While I suppose it’s common enough, I have a dear, dear friend by the same exact name, and when a Facebook friend posted that, “Susan Boyle is my hero!” or something to that extent, I perked up and immediately googled. Most everyone has undoubtedly seen this, and if you haven’t, you MUST. I am not ashamed to say I have seen it perhaps ten or more times, since. And I’ve got some thoughts. First, here it is. Youtube has blocked embedding on all videos of her, apparently.
There have been many articles written about why Susan Boyle’s story is so extraordinary. See some good examples of at HuffPo. Mainly:
1) Don’t judge a book by its cover
2) Ageism be damned!
She’s a dowdy country bumpkin, an old maid who stayed home to care for her dying mother. Such wasted talent. But she is The Everyman. Someone so ordinary and unassuming. And yet she has an exceptional gift. It’s at once an exhilarating experience and a tragedy for all of us to watch her. So uplifting is her voice, but she has been in obscurity all her life, and indeed would have died in obscurity, had she not sung on this television program. It’s heartbreaking that she represents all of us. All of us. Because who knows, we could all be so talented in our own ways. And despite living life “with no regrets,” I do believe we all have our “what ifs” to reckon with. It’s not just the ordinariness, not just the age, not just the talent that wraps up to become this Cinderella story.
Did anyone notice how poignant was the song choice? Can you imagine Susan backstage, knowing, believing in her heart that this was her one chance to perform on such a grand stage before such a large and esteemed audience? She clearly did not even fathom she could go on the final round. She trotted offstage without any thought after she sang. She took the judges compliments gracefully, but was still shocked with they gave her three yeses. So here is our Miss Boyle, preparing for the one and only performance that would count in her lifetime. And she chooses I Dreamed a Dream. Bloody hell. Have you taken a close look at the lyrics? Well, have a closer look:
I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high,
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving.
Then I was young and unafraid
When dreams were made and used,
And wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung,
No wine untasted.
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hopes apart
As they turn your dreams to shame.
And still I dream he’ll come to me
And we will live our lives together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms
We cannot weather…
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I’m living
So different now from what it seems
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed.
It’s her song. It’s a song about wasted dreams. About the difference between youth and jaded age. About how life can and does destroy you. And yet. And yet. The song has a tiny glimmer of hope. She still dreams, even though there are dreams that cannot be. I see Simon’s face as the camera switches to him, right when Susan sings the words, “I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I’m living…” Are these not the very words with which so many of us are intimately acquainted?
What can we learn here? It would be so simple to say, “go out, work hard, achieve your goals, live your life!” Ya, sure, it’s sad that a talent contest is what brought Susan Boyle out of obscurity. But on the flip side is this: the pure joy of it. Had Susan never performed, she would still have possessed just as beautiful a voice and just as spunky a personality. She would be the same person. She was as incredible the day before the entire world knew who she was, as she is today. And she is just as ordinary. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could accept both of these things within ourselves. To push hard to achieve our dreams, and yet be at peace with everything we have, day in and day out. Does one push negate the other? Does ambition negate the tranquility of some sedentary ordinariness? I don’t think so. But I still think that most of us have not come to peace with the fact that we will not be world famous and beloved by millions for all our wonderful quirks and talents and abilities. Still. Still. Still. Just like in the song, we dream dreams that cannot be. We still hope, even when we’re closer to grave than cradle. Can we reject the dream of universal love and admiration, settle for the love and admiration around us, and still work to reach the stars? I hope so. Life would be a little less disappointing. Yet it is what we make of it. It always is. Take it as you’d like.
I leave for Italy in about 16 hours. I’ll try to blog more before. Lord knows I feel like purging and writing and explaining and theorizing and philosophizing and all the wonderful self-centered things a blog allows (talk about dreams of universal attention and love and respect and bla bla bla…). Have a wonderful Friday, and I great weekend!
So…I haven’t written for a while, and it wasn’t for lack of material. It was because I without computer for too long, and I had too much material, and now so many f-ing errands…you get the picture.
An AUM Meditation Session
I went to an Ashram, the “Desert Ashram” an hour north of Eilat (in the middle of nowhere and in view of Jordan), an Osho Ashram – participated in many, many, many bizarre meditations, some of which I enjoyed, some of which terrified me, and some of which we just plain funny. Lots of screaming, breathing, vibrating, etc. And I went to a lecture entitled, “Secrets of the Female Orgasm.” I was really hoping to learn something. Instead, I have a hysterical story racked up for a future post. Go figure. I slept in a tent for 5 days. I slept when I wanted. Ate veggie food. Read a great sci fi book I brought with me (Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card – read it, if you haven’t). And basically, had an OK, pretty relaxing time with a bunch of bourgeois pseudo-hippies on an alternative spring break.
Venice
I’m going off to Italy in a day and a half. Yup. Italy. With my family. We’re converging from many places all over the world. My two parents from Chicago, my doctor sister from NYC, and my sort of student sister who lives near me but went to Italy 2 weeks early to make a mega-vacation out of it. The ‘rents bought a cruise for us all last year before the economy went crunch. So, we’re going. It’s paid for. I’m going a week early in order to hike around Pompeii, a dream since I learned about in 3rd grade, eat the world’s best pizza in Naples, experience the majesty of the Amalfi coast, meet up with both sisters for three days of Roman extravagance, and then all three of us are meeting the parental units up in Venice. For the cruise. The worst idea for a vacation, I think, as I have terrible motion sickness and have been stockpiling Dramamine (and its Israeli equivalent) since I learned of this idea (thank you Mother). And from there, Croatia (for 8 hours), a bunch of Greek islands (for 8 hours a pop), and one Turkish island (again, 8 hours). It’s bad. I mean, it’s barely a taster. It’s not even one night. It’s a stroll, a meal, a souvenir shop, and hey, it’s time to get back on the bus…except it’s a giant boat. Nothing says Stupid American Tourist like a giant white cruise ship. Ugh. And I’ll be one of them. There are formal nights, too. I have to go to black tie events…I’m a backpacker for f’s sake! Oh well. Can’t say no to a free vacation, right? When we get back to Venice, Mom and I zip off to the other coast and do 4 days in Cinque Terra (dream come true for me, again, lots of hiking, quaint vineyards, artisanal cheeses, views, hiking, food, wine, ham, cheese, wine, and did I mention food…and hiking?). We end the trip with 1.5 days in Milano before Mom joins me on a flight to Israel…where she’ll be extending her visit for 2 months!!!!! Which is why, dear friends, readers, countrymen…I got myself a ticket home – Stateside – that be right! My first trip home to the States in well over a year and a half! Yeehaw! And it means I avoid dear Mother for one out of her two months invading my space in Tel Aviv.
I promised poetry, though, right? Well, if anyone cares for bad poetry-exercise-prompted written at an Osho ashram, there’s some below. Knowing me though, it’s kind of funny and dirty and crude and cynical. Everyone was writing about the sky, the sand, the emotions, the sounds of the birds…bla, bla, bla. WordPress has taken out all my stanzas. I don’t know why. So I can’t tell you where one should begin and one should end. Oh well. I tried. Like 5 times. Go figure, wordpress. Really. Well, here we go. Here’s my take on the Ashram, in verse, no less:
Prompt 1: write a poem of no more than 6 lines which has the title “Desert” or “Kiss”
Desert
There are no more to conquer
No sands too dry
No heat too harsh
No thirst too great
No.
There are no more deserts to conquer
Only from which to escape
(notice me cheating…always…there are 7 lines in that one…cheeky, cheeky…)
Prompt 2: Write a poem on the theme, “The Zorba the Buddha Festival” (the name of the festival I was at, if you can believe it or not)
(translated from the Hebrew…she made me…I don’t like to write in Hebrew…I’m bad at it)
Why do they say Pestival with a “P”?
And not Festival with an “F”?
Why do they wear such stupid clothing like these?
Do they think they’re in India?
Why do they search for answers here?
Do they think the hippies know the secret of life?
The bourgeoisie is coming to the desert
Caravans, caravans, caravans
Toyota, Hyundai, Daihatsu
iPod, Arak, North Face, Crocs
Searching for themselves.
There are no answers. There are answers.
They go home. Sand in the car. Dust in the hair.
Hope remains. Life goes on until the next pestival.
(it sounded better in Hebrew. The nuances were lost. Can you tell? Too bad I can’t type in Hebrew…not that anyone could read it..)
Prompt 3: Write a poem based on specific physical observations.
Thick, crusty, yellow and warped
The monstrous ugly duckling
Amongst his fair brothers
Protruding above the others in their line
This was not a congenital condition, oh no
No genetic abnormality disturbed his birth
He grew, identical, from toe to tip
Like all his adorable kin
But this little piggy went to market
And that little piggy went home
And while this little piggy ate roast beef
Our little piggy got a mushroom pie
The shameful secret that cannot be hidden here
Under woolen warmth or stiletto style
And thus, and thus, this is the story of the seemingly normal
Seemingly sweet, kind, desert dusted
Feet of my rebirthing neighbor
(Do you guys have any idea how many people suffer from toenail fungus? It’s nasty. I mean gross. I’ve got one borderline nail that I’ve been treating with lacquer-medicine for months now because there is no way I’m turning into Franken-toes. This person grossed me out to the extreme. Cmon folks, take care of your feet. I don’t have the best ones, I know it, but I try. I try.)
Finally,
Prompt 4: write a poem of no more than 5 lines that contains the words “sex” and “surfboard” and contains a variation on the word “pain”
(Joy of joys…)
Sex with him was to be
Better than chocolate!
Like the best rollercoaster,
A magical surfboard ride!
Hell, he was just another painful poke
And why have a I regaled you with horribly bad ashram poetry?
1) because I can
2) because the Israelis thought I was a bloody brilliant modern day Emily Dickinson (ha!)
3) to prove that I did not, nor do I ever intend to DRINK THE KOOLAID! Booyah!
4) because I’m procrastinating right now on a massive to-do list…
I am plain tuckered out. Was, maybe 8 hours ago, too. I haven’t worked this hard in a long while. Sucks that I’m barely making any money, and that in this holiday season, I’m spending more than I’m making, easily. But it’s nice to have a full schedule. There’s something refreshing about feeling my body totally exhausted. From the soles of my feel to the scalp on my head.
Today, I got up at 7:30 am (after less than 5 hours of sleep) in order to get to my psychiatrist at 9:30 am. For the first time in a long while, he was super attentive, focused, and really seemed to listen to me. He agreed with me that we’d better switch up my meds, and we considered a few options. For the second time, by a second psychiatrist, I was offered Lithium. And for the second time, I refused. There is such stigma attached to it. And I don’t want to gain hundreds of pounds. Lithium screams “bipolar and proud of it” to me, and I just don’t want to go there. When it was first suggested, nearly a year ago, I did a lot of research…including all the art inspired by Lithium…the Sting song…the Nirvana song…plenty of other stuff. I wonder if someone as talented and respectable as Sting is, is still on Lithium. And whether it was the right choice. Because Lithium seems like I’d have to admit to myself that I’ve somehow lost it. So, I’m going to start on something called Cymbalta (sp?), and I won’t have time to research tonight, as I’m literally falling asleep as I type. Good Lord…know what this means? Time for major, and I mean major withdrawal this week. Thank you Lexapro, thank you terror, thank you disillusionment…you see where I’m going? I don’t. I’m drunk with fatigue. And starting to jones.
So, after the doc, went to my sisters to help her frantically pack for Italy (I’m meeting her there is just under two weeks), then had a strained lunch with my grandmother where I found myself having to apologize for everything and anything including my mere existence. And then. And then. Wine!
It was so chaotic in the store I was placed in today that the manager asked that I not do any tastings (until perhaps the end), and just represent the winery in the aisles and help people with their choices. My first thought was bloody hell…I got into this business for the tasting itself…wanting to teach…to converse about an actual product…not be a salesperson in the most direct and annoying fashion. But you know what? I did better business today than I did on any other day in the last two weeks. Why? When you’re leading a tasting, you’re kind of stuck to your station. You can walk around, but then the wines aren’t being watched over. And if you’re helping some people with a tasting, you miss customers walking in behind them and around the store. Sure, people would have preferred a tasting, I think. But you know what? I learned that it’s me, the “expert,” the winery rep, the salesperson, who decides what to sell the customer. If I sound assured, and I consciously choose what to present them, they will buy it. More times than not. Amazing. Just the power of mere suggestion. Nothing pushy. Even helping with other products, other wines, beers, spirits…and they trust you. It’s scary what an art sales really is. And kind of disgusting. Because when you think about it, we’re all prey. If we’re not selling, we’re being sold to. All the time. But hey, today, I was really proud of myself. I got people to change their minds after they went to the register with bottles they had been convinced to buy. And I wasn’t the least bit pushy or rude. How could I be? I’m me. Miss American Manners. In Hellish Tel Aviv.
And then, and then, we’re talking 9 pm, I walked half a mile, got a bus home, went to the pharmacy to get my new meds, and the went to my uncle’s with a chicken and four premium bottles of wine, and I proceeded to cook…for the last three or more hours. Chicken soup (with carrots, onions, garlic, celery, celeriac, parsley root, and leek…and of course the obligatory bay leaves and allspice) is done…as is the ridiculously complicated quinoa salad that I have become famous for this year. It takes a ton of chopping and peeling and minute work. It’s not difficult. Just time consuming. Tomorrow the matzah balls, tsimmes, and roast beef will have to find themselves being made somehow or other. I hope. Because at 9 am I need to be out the door to my last holiday tasting, all the freaking way on the other side of the city…until 3 pm, when I rush to my uncle’s to finish cooking. Good Lord!
And now, I’m going to hop in the shower. Oh how I’ve needed to shower. For like three days. Please don’t think me gross. I’ve had other priorities, for the first time in months. A “feels good to be dirty” kind of high? Not really. But it should be at least somewhat satisfying. And Thursday! Thursday! I’m off to the Ashram in the Desert for 5 full days!
Happy Passover to All! And Happy Easter (whenever it falls this year…sorry, it’s the first time I have no idea)!
‘Scuse the allusion to rude language. My feet really do hurt. Badly. It’s my own stupidity. I’ve been wearing boots with a relatively high heel to my wine tastings this week. Why? Because heels make me feel more important – elegant – feminine – powerful – and some other things I could throw in there. In heels, especially high heeled boots (and we’re not talking three + inch monstrosities here…more like anything over 1.5 inches, maybe two-ish or a bit more), I feel like I can face the world, and in a good mood, I could even take it over. I mash my heels into the floor…I’m told I’m a stomper. I like to hear my steps when I walk. And basically, when you’re on your feet for several hours on end…these are pretty much the worst shoes to be in. I dream of sneakers. But in reality, I wouldn’t ever wear them when I’m leading a wine tasting. I dress nicely, put my hair up, wear some makeup, some jewelry. Why? Because selling is a show. And wine is a luxurious product. And I need to be taken seriously. And a woman in heels who is well put together (we’re not talking prostitute-ish), will be taken more seriously than one wearing flats. Period. At least that’s my experience. And it makes me feel differently about how I look, hence affecting my behavior in a positive way. The result: my feet hurt like a mother f…..
Anyway, Passover is around the corner, very very very much so. So, if you’re Jewish and stocking up on wine, remember me, my aching feet, and buy some wine from the Golan Heights Winery or the Galil Mountain Winery. Top of the Israeli market. Big award winners. I recommend the Yarden Cabernet Sauvingnon 2005, the Yarden Katzrin Chardonnay 2005 (if you can find it…it’s a absolute dream), and the Yarden Gewurztraminer 2008 (de-vine). Here’s a big Israeli wine blog, with a review of several of these, by the big Israeli wine critic, Daniel Rogov.
And those are my thoughts for the evening. Did my Passover food shopping this morning. Saw my doctor for another umpteen prescriptions, ranging from yet another brave attempt at conquering a yeast infection, to a mood stabilizer, to motion sickness medicines for the cruise I’m going on in Italy in a couple weeks (“thanks Mom and Dad,” or perhaps “good grief Mom and Dad,” should these Israeli meds not work and I end up vomiting for a week while at sea…).
Good night and good luck to you all. And God help me through this week.
I have so much running through my mind…one of which is the book I have written that takes place in 1991…so, as a fun continuation of yesterday’s April Fools videos…here are some monumental videos from when I was 12 and living in Europe. Enjoy the sexy bizarre mayhem of my youth. It’s shockingly funny what kids are exposed to…
Ya, Army of Lovers? What was up with that? I haven’t googled them yet, but let me tell you, we were like, mesmerized by this video…the costumes, the bondage, cross dressing, makeup, and overt sex…right on TV during prime time. Gotta love French TV. But I think this group was German. Ha, ha, dirty Germans…
Oh, yes, we had fun mimicking Prince gyrating to his guitar…my sister peed herself (on my bed, no less), in a fit of giggles, as we were impersonating him in front of the mirror (that was over my bed, hence the unfortunate accident).
My first love, Freddie Mercury. It’s one of my fave videos…something about the cross dressing. I loved the boobs and the mustache.
Now, not what you think this is, but I loved it just the same:
That’s not exactly true. I tend to be so gullible, Webster’s did start printing my picture about fifteen years ago next to the word. Right.
But I am so so so ridiculously thrilled at all the April Fools pranks going around the mass media circuit. I’m going to post some funny videos and links. Just because. It’s so nice to laugh, don’t you think? We don’t do it often enough, at least I don’t. And having taken a “Laughing Yoga” class in recent memory, I’m told it’s supposed to be really healthy. Even if you don’t mean it. Laughter, even the fake kind, is truly the best medicine.
Enjoy!
BBC’s the Swiss Spaghetti Harvest 1957:
Microsoft unveiled a new yodeling game, Alpine Legend, that lets you “jam with alpine legends like Franz “The Manz” Lang and Johann Hornbostel.” Add-ons include a tri-horne and a goat:
Binny’s Beverage Depot, arguably the store I made the most fun of in my youth. For goodness sakes. Who is Binny? And a beverage “depot” of all things? Well, it actually makes sense. In an American superstore kinda way. These stores are huge. And while it makes things more convenient and cheaper for the consumer, I always feel these k-mart-ish monstrosities take away from the real world charm of what wines and beers and spirits really are. Then again, it is America, here. The home of the “champagne of beers,” oh Lord our God and God of all ages, save me. No American beer, besides what we call microbrews stands up to the imports. And Lord knows I drank my share of MGD in college, oh goodness gracious I did. Little did I know until years later that this was actually an “upscale” American beer for a college student to be drinking…some good friends at other colleges (perhaps state schools) were happy to point that out.
But, back to Binny’s. They’re having an event called “World of Whiskies,” where for around $50 you get to taste around 150 whiskies…from around the world…duh. And OMG. I would really kill to be there right around now. AND – this is apprently an annual event held on the night before the Malt Advocate’s WhiskyFest. For $95:
Your ticket includes Glencairn tasting glass, 1-year subscription to Malt Advocate magazine, event program with tasting notes section, all seminars, gourmet buffet and beverages throughout the evening.
The best and the worst of America. Of the world. I so want to be there to taste and learn and experience. But I don’t want to be in a herd. At least in Israel, there aren’t enough people to feel like you’re being driven like cattle. And should I ever become expert enough in any of these related fields, I certainly wouldn’t want to be preaching to masses of folks yearning to suck down inordinate amounts of excellent whiskies. Oh I’m such the snob. I have no right to be. Really, I don’t. Nobody does. God, I wish I could “break into” this industry. I would love to teach people about this stuff. I want to taste everything and meet the makers and maybe even try to make my own as an experiment and certainly refine my palate as much as possible, because Lord knows (and the Lord does indeed know if a Lord does indeed exist) that I have a fine, fine nose on the front end of my face. It’s a nose to cast a thousand ships. I identify herbs and spices in foods like no other I know. And I am mostly untrained as a greyhound, honest I’m not. And I’d so like to be. I’d be proud to auction my nose off the the highest bidder, honest I would…that is if I was confident about its skill. I’m going to stop now. I just compared myself to a greyhound. Next, who knows, I’ll be insuring my nose like Rita Hayworth did her gams. Good Lord. Gams? And what’s with the Lord’s today? I don’t know. I forgot my meds, and I drank too much coffee, that’s what. And I’ve started to write about passion. Sexual desire. And its food equivalent. It’s a good day, for sure. And now I’m stopping, you fine fine readers, wherever you are. And if you’re in Chicago – GO! Go to this thing, and tell me about it, you lucky lucky sons of bitches.
I am sipping a “long” espresso in one of my favorite cafes in the heart of the fashion district of Tel Aviv. It’s a better day than yesterday, that’s for sure.
Yesterday, I did not leave my house. In fact, I barely left the sofa. Yesterday, I ate nothing but nuts — almonds, walnuts, and a few raisins thrown in there — everything that happened to be readily edible in the house. Yesterday, I looked for anything to distract me from the terror. Yesterday, I watched several hours of television, including every episode of the new show, “Lie to Me,” online. Yesterday, I was down. Yesterday I was really really down, down beyond “the meaning of life” down. Yesterday, I nearly called my parents for help. I still might. And that’s a scary place to be in.
Then something happened. I don’t know what. Evening came. I felt more calm. I got up. I straightened things up. I made a list. I cooked spaghetti. I answered a phone call. I was ever so slightly productive. I read a manuscript I needed to work on. Finally, I took a long needed shower at midnight (I still had makeup caked on my face from the day before – !!! – and talk about the fuzzy teeth issue). I slept well. And I got up in a more peaceful mood.
I’m perplexed at my state these days. I don’t know if I’m strong, and I have serious mental health issues, and that it’s all coming out now because of my lack of structure, and my finally breaking away from family, and because of being alone or a combination of these things. Or if I’m actually allowing myself to be quite weak, that I can be strong, that I have been strong, and that now, I’m allowing myself to be lazy and weak, indulging in depression, like some sort of mental vacation. It sounds stupid, but I can’t decide. I don’t know whether I’m strong and I’ve reached my limit, or whether I’m strong and I’m allowing myself to slip. Does it matter? To my ego, only, probably.
In either case, I don’t think I’m getting the help I need. Problem is, I don’t know what that help is. I know I want to (need to ?) be more closely taken care of. But without a spouse, very close siblings and/or parents, I’m not going to get any care. And what do I mean by care? Not sure. Certainly not chicken soup in bed and calls four times a day to remind me to do things. I’m not an invalid. But one call a day would be nice. One or two visits per week would be nice. Help with some basics would be nice. Maybe I just need to find the money to hire a cleaner once per week. Maybe I just need to go to therapy more than once per week. And maybe if I scheduled regular coffee dates with friends, I’d be OK.
But yesterday, lying on that sofa, paralyzed, so filled with sadness, feeling so worthless, all meaning sapped out of me, almost all hope drained out of me, I just wanted someone to come, not ask any questions, and hug me, feed me, even bathe me. I’m starting to understand what it is to have reached the bottom. The end of the rope. Maybe I’m not there yet. I don’t want to slip any further. And today is better. Much better than yesterday. There are good days. But the bad days. The bad days are getting worse. And I don’t know why. And I don’t know what to do. And it sucks. I hate that I know both sides. As shitty as life is, I know how spectacular it is. Being alive is magic. But it is also a curse. It cannot be one without the other. It’s both, simultaneously. It’s part of the paradox of human existence.
The song that’s with me for the night. Relish the master poet:
I’m in Haifa. It’s a stormy night. I’m with my lovely artist friend D, and we shared a dinner, tired as we both were, and then went to a nude modeling session to draw. I feel safe here in her studio apartment, late as it is, with our makeshift mosquito netting hung quickly as an attempt to ward off these horrific offenders.
I am dying to blog about my first wine gig last Friday, but I can’t seem to concentrate. Too tired. Too wired. Too much chemical craziness inside. I’ve been having meds issues. Yup. The Lexapro (or Cipralex, as we call it here in Israel) hasn’t felt like it’s been doing much for the past couple months. It was a pretty rotten February. That or I really do suffer from seasonal depression, as last February was the pits as well. But Israel’s not cold, really. Or grey at all. Anyway, my psychiatrist suggested we double my dose from 10 to 20 (I think it’s mg) per day. Basically, I was taking one pill per day, and we were going up to two. Sure, great, fine. No, not fine. Day one involved my sleeping for the whole day, and dragging myself off the couch only because I had an appointment I couldn’t not cancel, and I spent the entire meeting high off my ass like I had smoked a couple of joints on my own. Ya, that’s progress. I decided, no way, I’m going down by half a pill. Better, but I’ve been sleepy all week. Two to three hour naps at weird hours every day. And I feel groggy all the time. All the time. Like in a kind of emotion-less, slow, silent, creepy kind of high-numbness.
And now, all I want is to get off the drugs completely. Easier said than done. If I do it, I’m going to endure some pretty bad withdrawal. Worse than I’ve ever experienced before. Worse than cigarettes, I imagine. I had a sneak preview today because I was out of pills and had to run to the pharmacy to refill. Not something anyone should do with Lexapro. I’m supposed to take it around the same time every day. Well, a four-hour delay gave me a physical preview of the jonez-ing I will endure soon, or when, I go off this stuff. Even a few hours afterward, the balance must not have been struck, as I would have killed for a shot of whisky or a xanax or a cigarette or all three at once. Yup. Why? So, great, I’ve got a slight bipolar problem. I’ve got depression issues. One little pill can help immediately. But temporarily. And at the end of the day, a drug is a drug is a drug. Perhaps if I go all-natural, get acupuncture, take homeopathic remedies, eat all organic, spend lots of time doing talk therapy, draw pictures, be positive, positive, positive, and enjoy a glass of wine or scotch every once in a while to dilute life’s shit every once in a while, it would be a decent replacement for psychiatric drugs. Because I hate to think what this is doing to my liver, to boot. I might as well enjoy my liquor, as right now, it’s not safe for me to indulge very much at all. Imagine that I went to a whiskey tasting, had eight lovely glasses before me, and took a miniscule sip of each one, leaving them virtually untouched. Like, a hundred bucks work of booze down the drain instead of down my hatch. Pisses me off.
Drugs are not the answer. I’m not psychotic, and my bipolar diagnosis isn’t all that bad. It’s a blip. A minor thing. I hope. So, what’s the answer? Who the hell knows. Drugs are a temporary shelter. The roof wears thin pretty damned fast these days. And it’s astormin’. Maybe I should just learn to enjoy the rain.
A facebook friend posted links to other segments of ABC’s most recent 20/20 program from a couple days ago, all about the impact of the economic crisis on everyday people. And on kids. Really decent stuff. Nothing too “investigative,” however, as I’ve not been living in the USA for almost 1.5 years, it showed me how out of touch I was. Living in Israel, I’m cushioned from the economic crisis. I think this is because of a combination of things -
A socialist governmental system – sure people fall through the cracks, but not many – people don’t starve here, as far as I know. People who don’t work get money from the government.
Israel distanced itself from the mortgage crisis. Our banks are safe. Sure, more people than average are losing jobs as a recourse of the international “ripple effect,” but it’s not like our financial foundations have been cracked. At all.
Personally speaking, I’m young, single, have some savings, have a kind family, and life is pretty much normal, though I do worry about where the money is going to come from in the long term.
And finally, this is Israel. We have endured terrorism, wars, and a large percentage of the population are holocaust survivors and/or their offspring. Tough economic times we can weather. Piece of cake. Because as bitchy and rude and crude as Israelis are, we take care of each other. Nobody I know has lost a home, or is in danger of losing a home, and if they were, I would be the first to take them in, do everything to find them a job, and fix the thing as soon as possible. Many people I know have lost their jobs. But nobody is panicking.
So, all in all, I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten in the States. But watching that video kind of made me want to pack my bags, move to Detroit, buy a $100 house near these nice people, and start a new life, building it quite literally, with my hands. Because these people are correct. When you have nothing to lose, you have everything to gain. It’s not a big gamble. It’s a safe one, albeit pretty unattractive to most people.
And I NEED a home. One I can afford. I don’t have much to my name. Maybe S10,000. Probably less by now. But I have no debt. None. I’m scared of moving out to the “boonies” or to the “country.” I am single. I have a tough enough time as it is forcing myself to be social. If I isolate myself like this, or move to another environment farther from my friends, what kind of favor would I be doing myself? Then again, doing everything possible to get out of this soul sucking apartment I’m living in now, full of the bagage of the dead and gone and departed, full of other people’s dust and clutter, is essential. I promised myself a home by my birthday. I’d better get moving. My ideas? Haifa – it’s still a city and I know some people there, although it’s not a great lively city and it’s only one good friend I actually have there. Rural kibbutz – cheap rent, horses, agriculture, maybe a chance to learn a thing or two about winemaking, from the ground up. Ideally, I’d like to buy. But I don’t have a steady income, and probably not enough for a large downpayment. I’d need the Israeli equivalent of that $100 house. But perhaps it exists. Then again, I’d have to go to Israel’s equivalent of Detroit…or Kansas…to do it.
I had to. I just had to. It’s so ridiculous. And at the same time, that cat looks absolutely fabulous. Better hair than mine. Surfing the Kitty Wigs! website, I learned that these wigs have been featured in numerous magazines and television programs, and of course, all over the web. But lord knows, I would not spend $50 plus shipping on this for my cats. They would kill me, and I’d be out $50. I can’t believe this strange and highly successful business!!!? Who knew there would be a demand???
Two nights ago I went to a modest whiskey tasting at a very nice wine and liquor store in Tel Aviv. The selection wasn’t much to write home about. But it was super-friendly and turned out to be a great evening. And the guy leading the tasting, the brand manager at Akkerman (the largest importer of spirits, beer, and wine to Israel), was really sweet, told great stories, and I learned some new things. There were only about ten of us sitting around a table (including the shop owner -one of the most knowledgeable wine-and-spirit men I’ve met in Israel), all of us nibbling on a nice charcuterie and crudite spread throughout, and it was, just, really nice. Which for a melancholic like me, is something to be happy about. So, here’s a brief summary, and I’ll try to be as pictorial as possible…everyone likes pictures best, right? Well, in the absence of the whiskeys themselves, you bet.
Here we go! And for those of you with no patience, there are a couple of hilarious videos at the end! And let’s get on with the show!
Random facts: Whiskey is not a geographical term, as Scotch Whisky (from Scotland only) and Bourbon (from Kentucky only) actually are. Japan is apparently making incredible whiskeys these days, perhaps better than some of the Scotch. There’s a story that goes something like this – a Scotsman married a Japanese person way before the war and brought this tradition with him…and because of the direction of the alliances, this guy had to leave, but left a whiskey-making sensibility behind there. And I’ve never tasted a Japanese whiskey. And I really should. Gotta do some research about that. They have the correct climate conditions and some excellent water, so it makes sense.
When I see this, all I can think is, "For relaxing times, make it Suntory time."
Fun Facts continued!
Jack Daniels has overtaken Scotch – it’s the single largest lable being bought in the world today. Of course, more Scotch is being sold, but it’s the single biggest. In the Scotch world, there are four big takers making up the majority of the pie – J&B, Ballantines, Johnnie Walker, and Dewar’s. All blends. And there’s a big historical reason for that. Which I just learned about. Which I’ll get to later.
Master blenders (which every distillery has) only use their noses to create the blends. They smell the barrels. And I’m told they’re very “simple” and strange people, apprenticing for decades, learning what the true smell and taste of that particular whisky is meant to be, and then taking over for the recently deceased master blender.
Whiskey in a barrel evaporates at a rate of 2% per year. Think about how much whiskey has gone up into the “sky” from a 25 year old barrel! In Scotland they call this “the angels’ share.” Sweet.
There are two types of Scotches, malt and grain. Malt whisky is distilled in a single pot in a relatively simple process. Grain whisky is distilled in a column with a process called fractional distillation – it’s a more complicated, but far cheaper process – the result being far more tasteless scotch.
Pot Still, for single malt
Column or Coffey Still
So the big difference between single malt Scotch and Blended Scotch Whiskies? Single malt is just that. One kind of Scotch, made in a pot still, from one single distillery (it can come from different barrels, though – they too use master blenders, because every barrel is different, and they need to try to stay consistent somehow). My previous post has a short video on how they make single malt at Laphroaig. Blends are a mix of grain whisky (the cheap, tasteless, fractional distilled kind) and many different malt whiskies. Yup, that’s right. Cheap, tasteless whisky, flavored by up to 50 different single malts (that have very unique flavors of their own).
And why are blends so popular? Because they are much much much cheaper and easier to produce. It’s like taking a blank cheap canvas, and using tiny tiny dabs of expensive paint to give it flavor.
Until recently, I thought blends were a waste of time. Generally, the cheap ones kind of are. For me, anyway. I’d rather have the real thing. A specific strong unique flavor. But last month when I got to taste the whole Johnnie Walker line, I learned better. The top-of-the-line blends use really expensive and really old whiskies, some of which don’t even exist today. AND because the blends are doing so “well,” they are forwarding the whisky industry as a whole. It’s a great time for Scotch, as far as I know.
More facts? God, who is going to read this?!
OK-
Onto America. Scotch and Irish immigrants in the new world wanted to make their favorite brews. But, again, these are still colonial times with the big bad taxing English calling the shots. So, they push on into the frontier. Appalachia. Tennessee. Kentucky. The French. Get along great with them, side with them against the English, treat these guys a lot better, go ahead and make your whiskies, boys. For a really long and succinct history on the name “bourbon,” go to this website.
American whiskeys are pretty different than Scotch or Irish. Why? Corn. The main grain aux etats-uni, of course! American whiskey rules are: 1) 51% corn AND 2) use of new wood barrels ONLY. See, in Europe, they use old barrels. Great flavor from what was in there before. But in the US of A, new barrels. Sweet liquor from the corn, aggressive woodsy taste in the throat going down.
UNTIL
Jack Daniel’s. Crazy guy. Born 1850. Left home at 6 years old. Had his own distillery at 13 years old. Moved it to its current home in Lynchburg, Tennessee at age 16. Lynchburg’s got great water from underground springs. To this day almost all the 350 residents are employees. And it’s a DRY TOWN. Not kidding. During prohibition, the heir to JD’s ran for office in order to protect the business, and got a special arrangement — they could make the whisky…they just couldn’t drink it. To this day, you can’t drink it where you make it. There’s an “11 miles, one step, and a closed door,” rule.
But back to Jack. His whiskey was smooth. Why? Maple charcoal filtering. Took the bite out of the new wood taste from the barrel, AND added taste from the maple.
Sometime after his death at age 61, they created “Gentleman Jack,” an upscale version of the original. The difference? It’s charcoal filtered twice. Before and after. And they use “gentler” barrels. So smooth. It’s a nice drink. I’m not fond of American, but this one, I do drink on occasion.
Last but not least, Canadian. I’m embarrassed to admit that this was the first time I tasted Canadian. And I really liked it. To this day, they’re not as big in the whiskey world. But they’re there. Why? Prohibition. When America couldn’t make alcohol, they got tequila from Mexico and Scotch from Canada. I tasted Canadian Club, and it was unbelievably sweet. You know why? They make it from rye! That’s right. Rye is another drink, albeit related, but in Canada, it’s their grain of choice for whiskey. And believe me, it was gentle, sweet, and totally full of vanilla. I also learned that one of the whiskies I have drunk quite a bit of in the past, Chivas, was originally Canadian. Cool beans.
So what all did I taste at the tasting? Funny you should ask.
Scotch: Laphroaig (single malt, very peaty and smoky and very much what I like to drink. It’s from the islands and you taste the sea in every drop); Dewar’s White Label and Dewar’s 12 year old (blends, sweet, very different from each other. I was surprised by how pleasant the “cheaper” White Label was); Glengoyne (single malt, from the highlands, so traditionally would have less peat — however, this time, no peat. It’s the only distillery in Scotland that does not use any at all. A very bizarre flavor. Not what you’d expect. I encourage Scotch drinkers to try this one, if you haven’t).
American: Jack Daniel’s and Gentleman Jack. Already described above.
Canadian: Canadian Club. Ditto.
That’s it. Seven. But well worth the two-hour lecture. Thanks for reading my spiel here, if you’ve kept up. Now, go have a glass of whiskey!
Bill Murray doing Suntory:
Sean Connery (!!!) doing Suntory:
Oh boy, the full Connery:
And the best for last, I present you, Keanu Reeves:
Suntory time feels so bad, it’s good.
Suntory time, baby. Thank you Ms Coppola. Thank you Mr Murray.
Happy St Paddy’s Day! The most adorable expression I’ve seen today:
Thank you Jim Henson.
A few more videos to lift our spirits:
I went to a wonderful little whiskey tasting last night, and I’ve got a FULL report coming. But I thought I’d tempt your tongues and noses with that one. The Laphroaig was lovely, thank you.
And finally, thanks to my friend the genius computer engineer (who btw invited me to last night’s tasting), this really special short film. It’s a bit long (12 minutes), but well worth the watch:
Having been to what I am starting to believe more and more is my pill-pushing quack of a psychiatrist, as well as my cool barely-older-than-me psychologist in the same day, and having read a Judy Blume book cover to cover in between, here’s a fun video to brighten all our days:
I’m a bit woozy, as I took a xanax an hour ago or so. Not the best day. Well, an eye opener. My writing workshop consensus was that my book, although ridiculously promising at the beginning, needs a lot of work in the middle and end. I mean, when they gave me the critique a while ago on the first third, it was through the roof. The kind of stuff that a publisher would have a wet dream over. And now I realize what a grandiose mountain it is I am really standing before.
I felt really alone today. Really wanted to cry and be comforted by a mother. My mother isn’t the type. So not the type, it’s laughable. All my life I never realized that I approached her with so much hope that she’d finally just embrace me without opening her mouth. With pure acceptance. Without curious, suggestive, self-centered, egotistical, judgemental jabs. And I spoke with my father today for the first time in what must be over a month or maybe even more. I think it’s like more like two. And the weird thing is, I don’t have the strain with him as much as with my mom. He just doesn’t call and is so busy and in so many countries, I never know when to call and where I might find him. It was nice to hear his voice. But it made me so sad. I wanted to cry, to tell him that it is quite possible I’m terribly depressed and that I’m not sure my meds are working and that I feel that my life is insignificant sometimes and that I don’t know what the solutions are. But I couldn’t say anything. We just talked about my travel plans for the spring, and he helped me with his industry-insider knowledge in booking some flights. And part of me was so angry. So angry at him that I couldn’t say these things. So low. And all we did was “talk business” as usual. I’m pretty sure I sounded strained. You know, when someone asks how you are, you always say you’re fine. Even though you might be the farthest thing from it. Why open Pandora’s box? Why tell a parent who can’t do anything to help you and usually gives you advice you don’t care to hear because it’s conservative and insensitive, that you’re lost and scared and miserable? It would only hurt them. But then who do I turn to?
I took a xanax, not something I do often, maybe 2-3 times a year…but it’s gotten closer to 4-5…not a dangerous amount. Because I was sensing myself start to spin. I called a friend on the phone and she didn’t answer. I would have called one or two others, but it’s the Sabbath here, and they’re religious and won’t have their phones on or won’t answer.
My date went well. He was exceptionally smart. We have a lot in common. But I sensed I wasn’t quite all there. We are going to meet again. But I need to have a heart to heart with myself, if such a thing exists. My gynecological issues these past couple months have been scary and uncomfortable. I can’t pretend that the idea of sex isn’t still off-putting. It is. I want to get to know people. Just people. Sometimes I think I’d give almost anything up to have unbelievable sex just once in my life. Maybe even pleasant good sex. Other times, I know in my gut that I’d be more than OK if I’d never have sex again in my entire life. Funny. It’s a take it or leave it. Sometimes I feel (or rather I know) that I’m really missing out. Other times, I really know it’s not worth it. Sex has brought me nothing but worry and discomfort and jeopardized my health. I don’t know what it feels like to burn with desire. Maybe I’m not capable of it. But I know I need a partner. I need to keep dating. I want to built positive relationships, have strong friendships, weave a varied and colorful and supportive basket of people around me. But the intimacy thing. Sometimes I wonder about hypnosis. I’d really like to dig to the root of my problems. I was never physically abused as far as I know. But after all my years of dating, of sexual dabbling, and therapy on top of it, to still be so uncomfortable, so panic striken, seems fishy to me. Regular yeast and urine infections, along with the worry of STD’s and pregnancy, for crappy sex that feels a bit uncomfortable at best just isn’t worth it. Keep the dirty knobs away. For the moment, anyway.
Lots of random things shooting around my head…and I’m going with stream of consciousness, here.
Discovered Bill Hicks, an exceptional comedian who died of cancer at the age of 33 in 1994. I discovered him surfing, as you do (well, not “as you do,” really: the smart women I wine with on Wednesday nights want to set me up with a friend of theirs, and they gave me his name to look up on facebook, and he had posted the monologue David Letterman omitted from broadcast on October 1, 1993, just a few months before Hicks died). He’s great. The Letterman clip was good. But I liked this one better:
Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin born on the same day, February 12, 1809. Someone important and inspirational made that connection recently, and I can’t remember where I read or heard it. In the grand scheme of things, important people are occasionally going to be born on the same day. But perhaps not people this important. I wonder what on God’s green earth was happening with the stars and the fates on that wintry day in 1809.
My table is slanted. I don’t understand, as it’s not wobbly. BTW, I’m at one of my fave cafe’s, Dizi, featured in a previous post or two.
I’m determined to make writing fun again. I’ve got to work on this book, it’s one of my main three goals this week. I’m going clip photos of supermodels from the early 90’s heyday of supermodels. I’m going to find fun pre-teen stationery to write fake letters on. I’m going to read the criticism that’s been generously given to me. I’m going to take it to heart, soak in the spirit of the changes I need to make, and then start slowly. I will not get offended, dispirited, jaded, etc.
The amazing soundtrack to Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? is playing. Keep on the sunny side of life, indeed.
I am still moving too slowly. Though my clothes are still folded, my bed made, and the dishes are still washed. And I finally got my psychiatrist on the phone and booked an appointment (another of the top 3 things to do this week). And I called into my new wine job, and they gave me my first round of holiday shifts, so exciting to be leading wine tastings (!!!), which will also give me a chance to make over a thousand shekels before leaving for Italy. Doesn’t sound like I’ve been moving slowly. But I have. If you take into account that I slept until almost 10 am, wasn’t even slightly productive until after 12 pm, didn’t shower until 2 pm, and didn’t leave the house until 3 pm. And I watched an episode of Star Trek Voyager in there. Even Bill Hicks believes in space exploration.
My Purim night was OK. Just OK. It was amazing to witness the debauchery in Tel Aviv. But not drinking made participating really hard. The “high tech” mega-company party I went to was kind of fun, however far too crowded. There was free drink (shucks, no alcohol for me…poo!), free food, lots of cool entertainment. And celebrity performers, too. It was OK, but I think atmosphere is very important, and stick too many people in too small a space that isn’t well organized, and I can’t find ways to have fun. My other friend’s party was slightly better, and I knew at least half the people. BUT everyone was pretty well sloshed by the time I got there. Which was kind of hilarious. But also kind of boring. I kind of played mommy at the end. We all left to go to the Florentine block party, THE place to be on Purim. They shut down all the streets in this semi-dump semi-gentrified bohemian neighborhood. And I’ve never seen so many people out on the streets before in my life. Never. And it was 3 am. Tons of music, alcohol, craziness. This being Israel, I was nervous being around there. I didn’t think there was enough police protection for an event this huge, especially with everyone in costume (plenty of ways to hide stuff and people), drunk, young-ish, and affluent (this is Tel Aviv here). I left my drunk friends and booked it home with another sober friend who’d be spending the night on my couch (not as easy as it sounds, we had to wade out way through acres of these people and get out of the neighborhood before we could find a cab that was also not stuck in gridlock traffic). Next year, I’ll hopefully be able to drink. And no block parties for me. Give me a nice private party any ole day, and I’m a happy camper.
And now I really have to work. Yes, work! Get the file out! Find those supermodels! Read those notes! Go! Go! Go!
Yes, that’s me in a NASA flight suit. Or ASAN, as you can see, I used the Photo Booth application. I’m trying to decide whether to wear this outfit, or my Star Trek captain’s uniform. Ya, I guess I have a thing for science, space, futuristic, optimistic, yada yada yada, costumes. But this one, the flight suit, was mine. Yup, mine. When I was 11. Can you believe it? It’s tight, and I’m not sure I should wear it out. But I certainly fit into it, and zipped it up. It’s a child size 18. Not sure what that means, but it’s a child size! I’m not an obese ogre that I often believe I’m turning into. I got this flight suit in December of 1990. At Space Camp. In Huntsville, Alabama. And no, I didn’t make it to NASA. Or I should say, I haven’t yet made it to NASA. Perhaps they take poets, philosophers, and sci fi nuts who can do them loads of PR good. But here it is, my authentic child-sized flight suit. I think I may go with my less-than-authentic authentic adult-sized Star Trek uniform. Black is far more slimming, don’t you think? What is it about space exploration and onesy jump suits, anyway?
Why am I getting dressed up all fancy? Because it’s Purim! A holiday my mother used to describe as the Jewish Mardi Gras when we lived in France. We commemorate another “survival in the face of imminent death” scenario, way back during the Babylonian captivity. A king chose a Jewish bride, Esther, without knowing she was Jewish. His advisor, a guy named Haman, was dissed by Esther’s relative, a guy named Mordechai, so he plotted to get all the Jews killed by the state. Esther steps up and reveals that she is Jewish, and that should the king wipe out all the Jews, she would be killed as well. So, instead of the Jews going bye bye, Haman and all of his sons were hanged. And we celebrate by dressing up in costume, often dressing as the characters from the story, reading the story out loud from the scroll, and using loud noisemakers to drown out the name “Haman” every time it’s read. It’s the one holiday when it’s a mitzvah (or commandment) to get drunk and make merry. Hence, this is a huge party night in Israel. The week itself is a big old party. Halloween times a hundred, at least. Everyone gets dressed up. And tonight I’m going to two parties…the first, as the guest of my genius computer engineer at her company party (I dare not say the name here, lest I get in trouble…but I’m really psyched for it)…the second, at another friend’s art studio, with lots of people I should know. The downer: I can’t drink. Alcohol=sugar. And I’m on antibiotics and I’ve got the ongoing fungus trouble. Can’t feed the swarming gelatinous friends, now can I?
And what progress have I made, do you ask? I cleaned my room! Yes! Yes! All clothing is hung and folded and clean and gorgeous. I changed my sheets and shams and duvet and everything! It took me all day. And the rest of the house is in dire need of a scrub, but my bedroom is finally resembling something normal. There’s still some clutter, mostly books and paper and notebooks and folders and stuff like that…but I aspire to ow
Wow, I’m getting tired. I think you get the picture. It’s amazing. It’s dark, it’s light, it’s really old, and really young, it’s hip and fun, and it’s creepy. It’s a really great time. The pizza we had was at a tiny place with about 6-7 tables in it. Pizzerias in Naples that want to have customers usually opt to be certified. Yes, there is a pizza certification. There’s a symbol they put outside the restaurant and everything. It has to do with how the pizza is made, not just the ingredients. And it boils down to this: the dough MUST be thrown, NOT rolled, into your standard circle; AND the oven must use real burning wood, not gas, charcoal, or anything else. And they are wonderful pizzas. Thin, woody, tiny burnt bubble-patches underneath. The top is soft, even kind of watery-hot with all the toppings (not in a bad way at all). Get the Pizza Margherita. The simple standard. It’s named after the first queen of Italy. She came to visit Napoli, and the chefs wanted to make a special dish in her honor. Well, she would have nothing fancy. She wanted to taste local cuisine. So, they made a pizza for her. Red tomatoes, white buffalo Mozarella, and green fresh basil leaves. Red, white, and green: the Italian flag. Simple, tasty, and it will only set you back something like 3 Euro. Again, not kidding. Our water cost the same. And it was the cheapest water we bought in all of Italy. You usually can’t even buy a pre-made sandwich for 3 Euro. This is a whole pizza. The very best.
candles and walk through a passage of rock so narrow that I had to turn sideways in order to make it. And I’m not overweight. There was an obese German woman on the tour who tried, and then had to back out. Her slightly less obese boyfriend did make it, but I don’t know how. At least he didn’t take the lead. It would have taken forever. I’m not trying to be cruel here. It was exceptionally narrow. At the end we saw what a full cistern of water looked like, as they had saved one. Like an underground waterfall and pond. So enchanting. I do recommend this tour.
