2 Days: A second wind…?

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.

3 Days: Hair stressed

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…

41 Days: A precarious Israeli return

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

140 Days: Xanax Solace

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.

212 Days: Do We Matter

New Years Eve.  And just another day.

I have spent it being quite melancholy.  Not pessimistic, although on the outside it seems that way. Just, rather purposeless, bleak, and matter-of-factly neutral. I was running late to my waxing appointment (new potential BF requires this painful procedure, and as usual, my waxist scolds me for not coming in more than 2-3 times a year — I mean, why wax if there’s no point — as it would hurt less and be more effective if I come once a month…anyway…), I didn’t stress. I didn’t stress at all on the bus ride. I think I’m learning a new technique for a healthier daily existence, although at the expense of some existential negativity. Because — why stress? Why look at your watch every thirty seconds? Why curse at the traffic? Why think mean thoughts about the slow bus driver? Why think coulda shoulda woulda thoughts about the morning activities that caused the lateness? Why? It’s just a bikini wax! Or it could just be an appointment to see a friend. Or meet a family member for a meal. Or show up at a party. Why stress? It’s not the end of the world. In fact, it’s so far from the end of the world, it’s laughable to sweat such a pimple of a detail.

Because in the grand scheme of things, I’m not sure that the human race is actually still surviving. Yes, I’m getting kind of philosophical and ecological and abstract and brainy here. I often think about the meaning of meaning. Lately, I’ve been thinking of humanity as simply another species, and not as if it’s a special species, an especially advanced or intelligent species, or even considering the fact that I’m a member of this species. Just another group of animals on a planet going about their business. A nature show, eagle-eye view, if you will. And it’s fascinating. Perhaps the only thing that I think all living things have in common with each other is the drive to survive. And right now, human beings for the most part, are not concerned with their survival. Surviving they are on the day to day, wake up, work a job in order to pay for food, water, shelter, clothing, etc. As a species, it’s gotten so very easy. Almost every person has leisure time. Even the poor. Time to think, to dream, to entertain, to be entertained, and to create and participate in things that have nothing at all to do with basic survival. When an animal has little direct concern for where his next meal is coming from, and where he will next sleep, and how he will defend himself and his family, what else is there? A species who thinks and creates and progresses so rapidly is a special thing indeed. But it occurred to me today that every single one of our actions may be killing our chances of survival more than helping them. Could we attach waste/productivity meters to ourselves every day that measures every one of our expenditures and activities, would we actually be enabling our survival and the survival of generations to come? I think it’s very possible that every piece of plastic we buy, create, toss away, every minute we spend in a car or bus or airplane, every minute of electricity wasted, every drop of clean water we allow down our drains untouched, may very well outnumber the very good minutes spent walking to work, composting biodegradable garbage, etc, etc. Although we’re “trying,” the very lifestyles we have become accustomed to, on the small individual scale that our small lives are, cumulatively degrade our planet quite substantially. We live in a dirtier, scarier world than our parents’ world, which was dirtier than their parents’, etc. And somehow, we still pop out babies. We still have a drive to procreate, to survive, to get better jobs, to get promoted, to buy bigger houses, educate children so they, too, can survive. But surviving is more than a corporate ladder. Survival is much more than keeping up with the Joneses. How can we be so blind? I think it’s very realistic to think that our species might not be around much longer than a couple hundred years. And if we are, in a very very different sort of world, of protections needed against a deadly sun, of complex filters for clean water, of specialized facilities for caring for plantlife. Perhaps even an underground world. A much smaller population. Who knows? See, we’re so smart, existence got so easy, that we became lazy. We are lazy. There will be no polar ice caps in 20 years, for god’s sake!!! And I waste water and throw away plastic with the worst of them. Is it worth it? What if I do really try? What if I compost, and walk everywhere, buy a bicycle, and use the minimum of electricity that I need? Is it enough? What’s enough? Perhaps it will be enough to justify my own procreation. Certainly it wouldn’t be enough for others.

It’s all cumulative. And it’s every minute of every day for every one of us. Millions of tons of paper, shredded away at offices daily; computers being left on all the time; water, just running; wrappings; waste; smoke; fumes. Us.

I long ago came to terms with the fact that things only have the meanings that we impose upon them. I don’t know the meaning of life. It’s different for everyone. But I do know that life begets life. Until now. And I know that we matter largely or singularly only to ourselves. Were we to cease existing, the universe would not weep for us. The stars would not be capable of remembering a species that called themselves human beings. It’s our children who remember us. It’s generations long into the future that exist in order to remember history. If the planet doesn’t exist, if it’s not safe, if our food and energy sources don’t exist, if our sustaining chemicals and minerals don’t exist, the species does not exist.

So do we matter? Should I go off and read a fun Judy Blume book I found in India? Should I go off and have champagne tonight at a new years party? Should I finish my book? Get a job? Take long walks on the beach? Love my fellow man? Enjoy life? Enjoy life…there it is. Enjoyment. Frivolity. Pleasure. Versus what? Survival? Does my going to a party diminish future generations’ existence even slightly? Does my going to a party take away from the possibility that I will start composting, recycling, gardening, and riding a bicycle? Would my doing so balance out trivial pleasurable pursuits? Am I even making any sense? Will anyone even read to this point and follow my ridiculous train of thought?

So, no, we don’t matter. We only matter if we think we do, and if we think we do, we should live responsibly, get others to do so, and start having fewer children. Or I should give up and stop writing now. Or maybe I should start on my theory of rights on responsibilities being artificial and irrelevant constructs for my non-existent readers.

Good night. Good luck. And may we all, all have better 2009s than our lousy 2008s kind of turned out to be. It’s the tail end of a decade, the first of a millennium that we began with such exuberant hope. Oh humanity. We never seem to pull ourselves out of an ironic muck, do we?

And the first good news is that for the first time ever, I will have a real true blue date and someone to kiss me at midnight tonight. I dare not start thinking positively now. Something bad could always get in the way. Oh shit. Knock on wood. Forget me. Ugh. Party hardy and responsible, all.

246 Days: Reality, Stress, and Hair

I can feel the wind on my neck for the first time in two years.  I am slowly becoming me again.  Shortish, layered, stylist, curly bob.  Me.

The huge terrorist upset in Mumbai is difficult to deal with.  I have always known there is terrorist activity in India.  But being an Israeli, being a realist, I’ve always been rather fearless about visiting less-than-safe locations.  Still, it’s bothering me.  I feel horrible for those people.  For the city.  For the people still being held hostage.  Yet. I’m going.  I’m going.

Still no hotel reservation.  Still no activities planned.  Still have no idea which cities I’m visiting.  My place of work just sent out an announcement that I’m leaving the company, and it mentioned that I’ll be traveling in India…so I’ve gotten some emails from some contributors from there.  Maybe they can give me more complete insight on stuff off the beaten path.  Assam, maybe.  Punjab, maybe.  I just can’t wait to get there.  To eat good Indian food.

I have to cook a Thanksgiving dinner tonight and tomorrow.  I have no menu, still.  I have no shopping done.

Oh lord!  My day won’t stop.  I so want to go to sleep.  No, it will be OK.  It will be OK.  One step at a time.

300: Time’s a tickin’

I haven’t written in quite a while.  Quite obvious.  Highlights of the last few weeks:

• Good old friend visiting from Ireland for 2 weeks has thrown me for a loop – tour guiding while trying to work full time and enduring the High Holy Days.  But I think I have now seen every major Christian holy site in Israel.  Glory Joy and Hosannah!
• High Holy Days – cooking galore, traveling galore, teaching about Judaism to said friend, and basically on the verge of a constant panic attack.
• New meds – yup, throwing me for a loop.  Nausea, headaches, roller coaster.  Upping dosage on a day I had to be super friendly and tour-guide-y was really hard.  I wanted to scream and cry and stay home.
• Potentially losing close friend – the guy – yes, the kind of ex who has become the constant friend.  Because I’m preoccupied with said Irish visitor, new meds, traveling the country, and the holy days…I haven’t been able to call 10 times a day, as we had been doing.  Well, not quite.  After we hadn’t spoken in about…hm…2 days, he informs me that he has been hurt, cannot understand my behavior, and is re-evaluating our friendship.  He continues bizarre behavior throughout next couple weeks.  I wanted to include him in Irish friend’s visit, invited him to meals, to the country with us, etc.  He avoided.  Is this all my fault?  Lord knows… Which leads me to a major issue…
• Am I socially stunted/inept/deficient?  Well, the fact that I’m asking is evidence enough, I think.  I know I have issues making and keeping friends.  I am always nervous about offending people.  I don’t think I am ever 100% comfortable around anyone.  And when there is a distance between me and a friend, usually a physical distance (but doesn’t preclude things like time and psychological distance), I forget about them.  It’s cruel.  And it has hurt some people.  But I just forget about them.  If they aren’t present day to day, they just aren’t there.  It goes back to my not investing.  Not trusting enough.  Not staking enough in these relationships.  And so…even though this friend of mine does seem overly sensitive and not being responsive (or helpful) to my overly-stressful week…has fallen into the category of someone I haven’t seen or spoken to in several days/weeks, etc, and hence, I feel nothing.  I feel no guily about treating him as I have.  Part of this is logical, he is overreacting.  And if I lose the friendship over this, it wasn’t worth having.  He didn’t help me at all during the Irish visit, didn’t participate in the fun of it either, and any one of my American friends in his place would have understood me not calling for several days.  But still, I am finding it difficult to feel for him.  I have no compassion.  It seems cruel and wrong.  I feel nothing.  And I don’t know what to do about it.
• Lastly, some excellent news…I am a published magazine author!  My first article came out, and it was a glossy two-page color spread.  And the feedback is in – it’s one of the best articles ever published in the magazine.  People loved it.  It was culinary in nature, personal to the extreme, and alluding to religion (as this is a Jewish publication).  The two recipes I shared were a hit.  I’m very proud, and I may get to write for them again.  I get to send these magazines home to mommy and daddy so they can think that I’m not wasting away here, which is often closer to the case.

So…Shana Tova…Happy New Year to you all!  May you all be enscribed in the book of life.  And please…send me good vibes…I am going to need them…two more days of Irish visit, a family wedding tonight (second cousins I barely know) to which I’m bringing said Irish friend (hence crashing in some respect), lots of work (which I hate and am drowning through), and basically….what do we call it…?  Getting by?  Surviving?  Good news is that I’m forgetting to eat, it’s that stressful.  Maybe I’ll lose some weight over this, which would be a blessing.

Love to all.