Day 0: A Slice of Paradise

Dear Readers:

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.

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.

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…

4 Days: Butter is best

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.

4 Days: Asking for help…

I put together two of these this week...

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!

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.

8 Days: Infinity on end

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:

NEVER mix Moscato with Arak.

It’s a nasty combination.

9 Days: Naked

We’re into single digits here…

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?

11 Days: The Conversations That Matter

Eleven pipers piping.

Eleven stars in Joseph’s dream.

And eleven little days until my 30th.

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!