1 Day: The Last 12 Hours of My 20′s

And I feel fine!

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.

12 hours.  A facial.  Cooking.  Cleaning.  Yes.

Thank you for coming along on this journey.

Me, in an hour.

7 Days: Could’ve Been Goa

Life just never seems to slow down…

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.

Something to chew on.   As we’re looking at “one week…”  A week of food for folks all over the world.

12 Days: Not noticed

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…

14 Days: Monetize?

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!

Recommendations for the weekend: Yarden Chardonnay 2006 (oaky mature layered gorgeous awesomeness); Gamla Sauvignon Blanc 2008 (crisp dry fruity).

Listen to your vet!

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.

15 Days: Requiem

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.

20 Days: Sudden melancholy

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.

22 Days: Sure Fire Litmus Test

I’m making this quick. What a friggin’ day.

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.

No coffee = no culture.

26 Days: Best leg of three? Can it be?

World's Longest Cucumber

That is quite something.  I wonder what else Yitzhak is packing…

An Israeli from Petah Tikvah grew the world’s longest cucumber this summer.  And my rude mind went all a whirl…

Check out some bawdy sites I found, including Woody’s World of Penis Euphemisms, and an online-access edition of Eric Partridge’s Shakespeare’s Bawdy, probably the best book I ever bought in grad school.

Happy Sunday, all!

31 Days: Mourning. Birthday. Boobs.

It’s the FINAL COUNTDOWN!

My birthday is exactly a month away!

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?

38 Days: Long Hot Nights Ahead

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…
• Like the GLBT film fest in Tel Aviv this week. Check it out.
• 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):

Cowboy

Cowboy

• Finally, it was proven in a British experiment that talking to plants makes them grow better….and women’s voices do a far superior job at this, to boot.  It was Darwin’s granddaughter’s recorded voice that did the best job out of all the plants, too!   Makes me want to go out and start a tomato garden.  Seriously.  In the new apartment, there is a rooftop terrace, hence box gardening is possible.  Yay!

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…