oh-one, oh-one, one-oh

So it's the start of a new year. And a new decade. And I resolve to start writing again. Even if I have... absolutely nothing on my mind. But I do have notes: Once in a while I jot down a thought or a bit of dialogue, then promptly lose the paper or forget where I stashed it, or even more often, forget that I'd tried to preserve the moment at all.

But in the midst of my annual half-assed apartment purge, some old notebooks have surfaced. They're filled mostly with crap, and a few shiny nuggets of varying value.

My sister, now 19, has blossomed into a sharp and witty young lady - which makes her both a charming dinner companion and a great source of material. Last spring the entire family visited her not-too-far-away university for an afternoon.

While we perused the mosaic of photos she'd taped to the dorm room wall, she said, "All my friends think you're really pretty, Mom. I've got a lot of family pictures up there." Then, after a pregnant pause, "They think you're pretty too, Danielle!"

"You're so full of shit, Steph. You only mentioned that because I'm standing here."

"Well, okay..." she admitted. "But they do all think you look like me."

Good save.

Early last fall, while I pouted about a recent breakup and how much I missed the dude - "especially his little bald head" - she sternly advised me move on, then offered to buy me a hairless cat.

One more: She called me sometime during her freshman year to ask if she could use one of my essays as a monologue in her drama class. I told her sure; take anything you like. Let me know how it goes. Over the years I've covered love and abuse and mental illness... and if that's too heavy, there's girl stuff - fashion and dating and such. I wondered which way she would go.

A week later she reported back: "Ohmigod, my class LOVED it. They were laughing their asses off."

Wow - that's great! Which one did you use?

"The one about us all farting in the car on the way back from Thanksgiving."

So there I was in a room with 80-some-odd Jewish mothers…

No, not launching a joke or recalling a bad dream. My organization has been hosting these Think Tanks, where Jewish women get together to talk about their kids (what else?). Actually that’s the whole point: To discuss the state of Jewish girls today and how we can help them grow through their issues and obstacles into confident women.

So there I was in room full of women – mostly mothers, mostly Jewish – and I’m dutifully typing snippets of their conversations so I can write about them later on. But my mind is not on my notes; it’s on the Jewish girl I was 20 years ago. She would have benefited greatly from the fruits of this discussion. It’s hard to imagine my mother’s peer group, as they were then, engaged in a project like this: Of course they wanted the best for us but they worried more about who their daughters would grow up and marry than who they would grow up to be. So instead of a report on the D.C. Think Tank, I wrote a letter to my 13-year-old self.

* * * * *

Oh, Danielle...

What an awkward gosling you are. Those braces will come off soon, and you’re going to grow up alright, but you’re in for some bumps. Let me tell you a few things that might help you through the next 20 years.

Number one: Go out and make some small mistakes. Right now, before you have a chance to make big ones. Mom is not doing you any favors keeping your strings attached, my little puppet. If you don’t seize control of your own decisions and take a few risks you will enter the real world deaf to your intuition. Trust in your own judgment will be hard-won and easily broken. Save yourself a lot of grief and start your training now.

Number two: Crazy is contagious. If someone is making you feel like you’ve lost your mind, or if a challenge causes you to doubt your competence, stop, step back, and look at things from a distance. I guarantee you’ll see that the crazy-maker was the one who’d gone off the reservation, and the task that stumped you was itself fundamentally flawed. Learn to spot this early and you won’t exhaust yourself trying to please the unpleasable, reason with the unreasonable, and achieve the impossible.

Number three: There will always be mean girls – at 13, 33, 53 and 83. A few to watch out for in the next 20 years: Rena, that girl in your class who’s fast becoming your BFF – Rena is only interested in one person: Rena. You are but a satellite to her, and you will learn this the hard way. Christina, the charming Bolivian transfer student who will take you under her manicured, designer-clad wing – she will ditch you on grounds that you’ve “let yourself go” when you gain five pounds freshman year. (If it’s any consolation, she’ll graduate high school friendless, and your class will unanimously vote “Christina and Herself” as Best Friends in the senior superlatives. Actually, there’s no consolation there; schadenfreude is not your style. Go look that up – it’s a great word.)

Also beware of your college roommate – knowing her since high school doesn’t make her a good friend; LiseAnne at your second ad agency job – she is NOT as sweet as she will seem on your first day; and keep your guard up around Grandma.

Yeah, I know, that’s a weird one. She and your mother are going to say (and occasionally shout) some very hurtful things to you in the future, mostly to do with your weight, and those wounds are going to stick with you for a long time. Understand that (a) they really believe they’re helping you, which is why (b) you will never hear an apology on this matter, and yet (c) you will choose not to return the favor when the opportunity presents itself years later. So feel good about being the bigger person. Figuratively speaking. For what it’s worth, they’ll be equally tactless when you become too thin for their liking. My point is, you have a tendency to hold on to pain, so now’s a good time to start learning how to let things go. Which brings me to…

Number four: Behold, one of your favorite nuggets of wisdom: “You are what you can’t let go of.” Since you won't crack that fortune cookie ‘til you’re 31, I'll give you a head start: If someone bullies, belittles, manipulates or alienates you, and you cannot get past it even after he or she is gone from your life, you will – I swear – find yourself doing unto others (and sometimes to yourself) as that abusive nutjob has done unto you. Erasing those people from your mind may seem like the best way to heal, but you have to be brave: Face your experiences, examine your wounds, and take care not to punish the innocent around you. Most of them won’t understand where you’re coming from, they’ll just think you’re a jerk.

Number five: Don’t be afraid to walk away from a relationship. You’re still too young to distinguish between a strong want and a justifiable need, so I understand why you're quick to bend over backward for the acceptance of guys and friends. Of course you deserve their attention, but you should never have to work for it – especially not at the expense of your self-worth.

Remember this; write it down: The ONLY acceptable requirement for the affection of another human being is that you BE YOURSELF.

Friends and boyfriends who build up your self-esteem with one hand and tear it down with the other are feeding their egos with your adoration. You’ll work hard to please them, because you’ve been conditioned that way, but those relationships – like the Silver Diner chili cheese fries of which you are so fond – invariably leave you sick to your stomach and hating yourself. You will have true friends. (Be on the lookout for Catherine, Leslie, Ron and your little sister, who hasn’t been born yet.) Note the differences between them and the bullies in friends’ clothing, and therein you will find the meaning of a healthy relationship.

One more thing: Your Dad really gets you. It’ll be a long time before you figure this out, but here will be your first grown-up clue: When you’re 19 and about to board the plane for your junior year abroad, and you’re feeling terrified and shy, and your mother is badgering you to “put on a little lipstick” (sorry, she’ll still be harping on that in 20 years)… Your father will look you in the eye and quietly say, “Don’t worry. You can make it on your merits alone.”

And he will be right.

Thursday morning my father was getting ready for work when he received a call from a sweet young woman asking for him by first name. The caller ID said "JBL Management" with a 410 area code -- Maryland, the parts away from the city.

"I was hoping," the young lady said with a gentle country lilt, "that you'd be able to perform a Jewish wedding ceremony in October."

My father paused. "Um, I think maybe you've dialed the wrong number, Miss. I'm not a rabbi."

"Oh, I know," she said, "I was looking for a rabbi or a cantor."

"And how exactly did you find me?" my father asked. I wasn't there but I imagine the brusque tone he effects for telemarketers softened then, as he recognized the woman's mistake miles before she'd see the sign. The man has the patience of a saint. Or a father of four.

"Well my boss told me to secure an officiant for our client's wedding -- a rabbi or a cantor, since they're a Jewish couple -- so I did a Google search and found your name."

"I see," my father said. "Well, I am a Cantor, Miss, but unfortunately in name only."

"Oh."

A few seconds into the uncomfortable silence that followed Dad realized the message wasn't getting through.

"What I mean is, 'cantor' and 'rabbi' are job titles, but they can also be names. For example..." I can just imagine my father leaning on his arm against the kitchen counter at this point, settling into the lesson he was about to impart; he does love to teach. He explained to this novice party planner that a goldsmith named, say, Joe Rabbi might be the go-to guy to craft her client's wedding bands, but he would not be qualified to declare them man and wife. Rabbi Joe Goldsmith, however, would be of more use on their wedding day.

The woman thanked my father, hung up the phone and probably scratched a few more names off her list.

I just hope the little bumpkin figures things out before the clients ask her to plan a bris.

Today I celebrated the birth of spring with my first riverside run of the season.

There's something about the late-afternoon sunlight sparkling on the Potomac -- it's like a long, sequined train on an old-Hollywood Bob Mackie gown -- that makes me so aware of my lungs and my heart and my skin and the incredible mechanics of being alive.

Last fall I brought along my camera and strung together a few shots along the way -- Watergate, Kennedy Center, memorials, Corcoran... D.C. really is such a cool city.

click me!

Not one hour after I'd dropped my parents and my grandmother at the airport to catch their flight to Tel Aviv, my mother called me from her cellphone. Before I answered I made a silent bet with myself -- either she was bored, or someone's passport had been left in the kitchen drawer.

Turns out it was neither: Once the reluctant subject (perpetrator) of so many you-just-can't-make-this-stuff-up tales, my mother has evolved into a devoted field reporter, phoning me without delay to describe every blogworthy run-in with store clerks, family members and low-ranking security officials.

"You're gonna love this one," she chuckled. "Take notes."

Apparently, as my family were inching through the airport security check, the inspectors kept repeating a mantra of "no liquids, no gels, no aerosols," in a vain attempt to spare themselves some work and time. No doubt they hoped that some amongst the traveling herd would take some initiative rather than wait for their moisturizers to be torn from their grasping hooves.

"Well, we were getting closer and closer to the front of the line, and as we started taking off our shoes Grandma started looking a little panicky," Mom said. "Daddy noticed too. So we asked her what in the world was wrong."

"Dey said no aerosols," Grandma lamented, her tone worried beneath her Polish lilt. "I don't know vhat to do. I hev a few in my bag."

"A few?" My father gave her the look he usually reserves for baboons in lipstick. "We're only going for a week. It's not even the humid season yet! Just how much hairspray did you think you would need?"

She spat back, "I'm vorried about how I'm goink to valk around all day; who gives a crep about my hair?"

And for a moment the three of them stood there staring at each other, lost in confusion, until the lightbulb flashed above my mother's head.

"Oh, Ma..." she breathed through a sigh of relief, "It's fine. You're allowed to bring your Aerosoles on the plane."

the lesson of the moth
by Don Marquis

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

I'm not one for poetry but this I really, really like. Someone sent it to me yesterday.

To the moth I say, "I feel you, brother," though I do plan to stick around a while.

I think a lot of people -- a lot more than would ever admit or even realize it -- remain, hold out, trudge on... out of guilt. As painful as it may be to wait out the hours between waking and sleep, they just couldn't live with the pain they'd cause their loved ones if they decided to depart. Not that they'd have to live with it, but... guilt is largely an anticipatory emotion.

And there are other factors, like hope that this elusive "beauty," or even just a reason to pull back the covers when daylight draws you out of dreaming, is just around the corner. Someone once told me that for years and years she just went through the motions, day by day. "It's not that I wanted to end it all," she said, "but for the most part, I was waiting to die." It wasn't, it isn't, easy to admit that I understood exactly what she meant. If you've ever wondered what it's like to live with medium-grade depression, that pretty much sums it up. (There's also a proprietary blend of guilt, anxiety and self-doubt mixed in; think of it as the Cold Stone Creamery of mental illness.) It's an utter lack of motivation -- no drive to live, no drive to die, you're just carried along by your heartbeat day after day after day.

I think the number of humans who are truly happy to exist -- not like that kamikaze moth but for the long haul -- is... actually, quite large. My first thought was "few," but globally speaking I expect there are far more out there who look forward to tomorrow's wonders than those who wait for the end of their days. We just don't see them, except maybe on the Discovery Channel, because they live in less "civilized" parts of the world.

My take on the secret to happiness? "Decivilize" -- downsize, simplify, live basically and indulge a few simple passions.

like human beings
used to be

She was never much of a typist, my Mom. You might say my father was the lifeguard who saved her from drowning in the steno pool. Growing up, before we joined the Computer Age, our house would fill with the sounds of Mom's electric typewriter backing up – "corrrrect, corrrrect, corrrrect" – as she hammered out business letters in her office at home.

As you can imagine, my mother's digital deficiency makes for amusement at e-mail time. Last month after reading my Valentine's Day blog entry she sent me an encouraging note, the new-fashioned way. (It took some years but she’s finally realized that the phone is not the best way to reach me. Now Mom's feeding me a steady diet of three to five e-mails a day.) As usual she typed her message fast and furiously and flung it on its way. Shoot first, check spelling later -- that's just how the lady gets her business done.

Here's to beautiful hearts filled with love, good feelings and lots of tasty things to eat. You're my girl!
Happy Valentine's Day Sweetie,
Nothing tastes better than reading your words.
Calorie free, but feels you up!
You made my day!
I Love you,
Mom

Yeah, fourth line from the bottom. You read that right. As sweet as it is fantastically hilarious.

But, as they say, there is no such thing as comedy without victims. Enter: alswrite(at)wrongemail.com.

In attempting to send me the following message – and, apparently, numerous others in the past few weeks – my mother had left a ‘w’ out of my address (she blames the keyboard) and hurriedly hit "Send" without checking the “To” line first.

Hi Sweetie, Hope you got your exercise and rest yesterday. Sounds like they put you thru the mill at work.

Wanted to tell you of some fabulous healthy muffins I found at Trader Joe’s. They are called "Moral Fiber." Very healthy. Flavor is orange/cranberry. No sugar (just white grape juice). Very high fiber, low fat. Cut in half toasted with a little light cream cheese. They are delicious!! I'm hooked. Love, Mom

The message did eventually reach me, forwarded along with this note from the unintended recipient:

-----Original Message-----
From: alswrite(at)wrongemail.com
Subject: great muffins

You know, this is getting really annoying. I'm being nice by telling you that you're emailing the wrong person because I don't want you to think your emails have gotten to your daughter. But it's really starting to get on my nerves.

Honestly, it was kinder than I might have been. I’m sure that after five or six or a dozen misfires this innocent bystander was at his or her wit’s end.

My mother didn’t see it that way.

“Where's his sense of humor?" She was indignant on the phone. (This incident had warranted a call.) "'All's right' my ass. I don’t think all’s right in this guy’s life. I have this little fantasy…” My ears tensed at the tone of voice that puts the rest of our family on Lucy Ricardo alert. “I think he’s this lonely, unhappy young man, and all he really needs is for someone to be his Mommy. Maybe I can give him advice and stuff; be his pen pal, his surrogate Mom.”

“LEAVE HIM ALONE,” I warned, bracing for the sort of misunderstanding that involves a 57-year-old Jewish mother and a restraining order.

But I didn’t hear from her the rest of the day and figured the matter was at rest – until I received another forwarded message, originally sent that morning from my mother to alswrite(at)wrongemail.com:

Sorry again for the mistaken identity.
But you might as well try the muffins.
Maybe it'll put you in a better mood!!!