always write

winner winner kosher chicken dinner

2011-06-10T13:05:00.015-04:00

Despite my paralyzing fear of both public speaking and cameras, I am pretty darned excited about this:

Hadassah Foundation To Award Third Annual Bernice S. Tannenbaum Prize

Jewish Woman Associate Editor to be Honored

2011-02-09T17:16:00.005-05:00

This is the first thing in a long time that's gotten me riled up enough to want to blog about it.

I'll come back and write something later - maybe - but for now, let me just say that this fool should be schmeared with peanut butter, wrapped in bacon, deep-fried and lowered into a pit full of bulimics on binge day.

...and adding to the topic, which I still have to come back and write about:

The New York Times' discussion of actresses eating in public; and Salon's coverage of the same.

2010-06-24T14:46:00.004-04:00

My grandma - 84 years old today, and sharp as a tack - recently contributed to a series of interviews with Holocaust survivors who spent time in displaced persons camps after WWII. (Both she and my grandfather survived Auschwitz, though they didn't meet until after the war.)

on survivors helping each other heal by sticking together

on talking about the war, amongst themselves

on recognizing other survivors

on Israel

on marriages between survivors

on creating surrogate families after losing relatives in the Holocaust

Videos by Evelyn Litwok. See more at www.jewishdisplacedpersonscamps.org.

I didn't recognize you without your sheitel

2010-04-16T22:42:00.012-04:00

Northern Virginia, 1988. My mother is in a furniture store, my eight-month-old brother strapped to her torso in a Snugli or similar such papoose. An older lady - rail-thin and elegantly dressed, not a sterling silver hair out of place - approaches to admire the baby.

"What a beautiful boy," she says, and coos at him until he smiles.

My mother never forgets a face, nor can she pass up an opportunity to play The Jewish Coincidence Name Game.

"You look awfully familiar," Mom says to the woman, "but I can't remember where we've met... Oh - I know! Don't you belong to my synagogue?"

"Well, no, I don't believe so," says the woman, and then warmly extends her hand.

"My name is Ethel Kennedy."

this could be why I'm still single

2010-04-12T22:04:00.011-04:00

Last weekend I stopped by my parents' house for a few hours, as I often do on Sundays. There's home cooking; cable TV; sometimes a sibling or two hanging around.

I'm sitting - lazing, really - out on the deck with my mother and sister, when my Dad calls from the kitchen looking for my keys. "They're in my purse!" I figure he needs to move my car or something and don't give it another thought.

About a half hour later he blusters in through the garage door.

"I checked your oil," he says, wiping his hands on a rag, "and also your tires, while I was out there. One of them was a little low. So I topped it off."

"You took it all the way to the gas station?" I feel guilty, and grateful. "Dad, you didn't have to do that! I could have added air at the MacArthur Exxon on my way home."

"Oh - no, I didn't take it anywhere. I used the bicycle pump."

I am "so picky" about men because one of those - right there - is worth holding out for. And I certainly haven't found one yet.

under where?

2010-03-21T10:59:00.002-04:00

So my Mom spies lacy undies among the spoils of yesterday's shopping spree:

"Geez, honey - those are, uh, kind of sexy for someone who's not even in a relationship."

EXACTLY.

(Would it be inappropriate to post this on Facebook...?)

(written but never posted in 2005)

2010-03-14T09:31:00.010-04:00

I'm not fond of this saying but I'm going to use it anyway: These are the people who give Jews a bad name.

There, I said it. I said it and I meant it. And here's why: Unless JaRule was your kid's babysitter once upon a time, he has no business performing at her birthday party. JaRule's business is the six-figure kind. This is a party for a child. Dress it up any way you like; a $500,000 bat mitzvah is in very poor taste.

I'm not unfamiliar with the concept of an overdressed event. I did, after all, grow up in Potomac, Maryland - which boasts more sweet-16 sportscars per capita than any U.S. suburb (next to Bevery Hills). But when it came to my own bat mitzvah my parents declined to jump on the bandwagon, and I've always respected them for it. While they planned a lovely lunchtime party for Labor Day 1988, 600 miles away my best friend was planning her own celebration in a tony Chicago suburb. She remembers her mother's reply when she asked what the theme of the party would be:

"The theme is that you're 13 and we let you live this long." Right on.

Anyway, back to the article. I love this part:

As they performed, Amber stood onstage with them, in a $27,000 Dolce & Gabbana dress, waving to the crowd...

So some 13-year-old pisher in Miami is now the proud owner of a schmatte that could pay down 20% of my mortgage, or better yet put a poor kid through college. Maybe when she outgrows it in six months she can ship it to me; I've been looking for a nice tablecloth. (For the record, my bat mitzvah dress cost $130 and was designed by the powerhouse team of yours truly and the owner of O'Hara's Costume Shop on Rockville Pike.)

Even rock stars who are concerned that they will appear venal or trivial if word gets out can be seduced by pay that can exceed $100,000 an hour. All they have to do is run through a series of familiar songs in front of a small crowd that feels honored just to stand in the same room with them.

Hey - tell you what; I do a jazzy rendition of "Can't Help Lovin' That Man" that's a real showstopper. I'll give you the whole Jerome Kern songbook for 500 clams. Even throw in a few Gershwin numbers, no charge. A bargain, no?

If people can afford to do it, it certainly does make a party special," Mr. Ridinger said. "It brings an electricity to it you otherwise couldn't create.

That last part really says it all, doesn't it? "An electricity you otherwise couldn't create." Here's the thing, Mr. Ridinger: You absolutely could create it. In fact, it's your responsibility as the parent of the bat mitzvah girl. This electricity for which you paid so handsomely is supposed to be the by-product of your love for your kid; your pride at her graceful passage through a time-honored coming-of-age tradition. Joy is supposed to be immeasurable on this day. There should be no price tag. But I guess, if pressed, most proud parents would agree that half a million bucks should cover it.

Things I learned in Spain (October, 2007)

2010-03-12T12:00:00.002-05:00

Recently found this list in my hall closet, stuck between a tiny box of Q-Tips and a travel-size shampoo.

1. Fifteen years after the end of high school, I can still speak Spanish! Which is fortunate, because...

2. No Ingles. No, no senora, no puedo ayudar. No se quien puede ayudar, pero no hay ayuda aqui. Adios.

3. In Madrid, loud-talkin', map-foldin', fanny pack-wearin' Amurcan tourists, and stylish, inconspicuous visitors who initiate every query in the country's native tongue, are treated with equal disdain. Do not expect to rely upon the kindness of strangers in this city. Crying will not help.

4. I do not like white bread and ham. Or sausage.

5. The dietary staples of central Spain: White bread. Sausage. Ham.

6. Man may not be able to live by bread alone, but one whole-grain loaf (bought off a toothless gypsy schlepping a basket through Granada) with a wheel of low-fat processed cheese and peach jam? That's five days of good eatin'.

7. Remember Harvey's Bristol Creme? Apparently, made in Spain. It was the most satisfying lunch I had all week.

8. It's possible I have some issues with food.

oh-one, oh-one, one-oh

2010-01-01T13:02:00.011-05:00

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 said 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 to 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…

2008-12-16T22:42:00.017-05:00

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. Watch out for Christina, the charming Bolivian transfer student who will take you under her manicured, designer-clad wing in high school. 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 friendless. Actually, there’s no consolation there; schadenfreude is not your style. Go look that up – it’s a great word.)

You should keep your guard up around Grandma. 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 boys 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 Leslie, Lior, and your little sister, who hasn’t been born yet.) Note the differences between these fine people 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.

2007-04-13T20:24:00.002-04:00

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 that a goldsmith named, say, Joe Rabbi might be the go-to guy to craft her clients' 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.

2007-03-28T21:09:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-03-26T19:14:00.003-04:00

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 repeated their mantra - "no liquids, no gels, no aerosols" - in the vain hope that some amongst the herd would take initiative and spare them a bit of work and time.

"We were getting closer and closer to the front of the line, and as we were 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," said Grandma in a worried tone. "I don't know vhat to do. I hev a few in my bag."

"A few? 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, until the light bulb flashed above my mother's head.

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

2007-03-25T11:27:00.001-04:00

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 just a few, but globally speaking there are probably 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

2007-03-09T16:45:00.002-05:00

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!!!

a heart full of love. and butter.

2007-02-14T14:35:00.000-05:00

Happy Lonely Consumer Victimization Day! The media outlets are abuzz with romantic tips, tricks and recipes to help you rope and wrangle the object of your desire. For its part, The Washington Post Food section offers a recipe for Man-Catcher Brownies (as tested, tasted and lovingly refined by staff writer Leigh Lambert).

It's a pretty basic concoction that produces twenty-four 2-inch blocks of fudgy goodness. Delicious, I'm sure -- if only I could get past the first ingredient: 12 ounces (3 sticks) of unsalted butter.

I e-mailed the page link to a girlfriend along with my commentary: "I fail to see how a recipe that calls for three sticks of butter could possibly help one catch a man."

"Um, I beg to differ," she wrote back. "Men LOVE LOVE LOVE butter."

"Sure -- in baked goods, not women. Unless you count bare breasts slathered with brownie batter. (What, you think they'd rather lick the bowl?) I guess Man-Catcher Brownies are meant to be given, not shared."

When I watch the Barefoot Contessa dump pounds of butter into her pots and mixing bowls it makes me wretch a little. I'm not sure who's been brainwashed -- she or me. Probably me... though I wouldn't be shocked to find Ina's Amazing Arteries in the cookbook aisle at Borders. Keep it up, Ina, and you might expire before your next batch of scones. (Man, I'll bet her shiva would be catered to the nines...)

But in the sage words of the prophet Woody, "The heart wants what it wants." Ina's heart wants fresh butter. Mine wants a little fresh air, so I've declared a moratorium on romance today. Dating is fun but for now, still basking in that just-out-of-prison glow, I need to keep things light. (My motto of late: "I ain't goin' back inside -- not for you, not for anybody!")

And now, since my office is closed and my neighborhood has finally been plowed, I'm going to express my abiding love for cashmere at the Bloomingdale's V-Day sale.

Ardor, chocolate, sweaters, sex... May you find and savor the thing that most floats your boat.

xoxox,

2007-02-12T08:28:00.002-05:00

Didja see me? Didja see me?

Wheeee, that was fun! The neurotic campaign of harassment I waged against one very patient photographer was worth it (to me) in the end: I was not ugly in The Washington Post, and everything worked out fine. Except...

See, just before the new year I succumbed to a seven-year itch and installed cable in my apartment for the first time since Y2K. As part of my Comcast "deal" ("you pay us on time; we serve you when we're not busy scratching our butts"), I had to replace my home phone and DSL with digital cable service. Which meant a new home phone number. That I forgot to un-list.

At about 9:00 Sunday morning my phone rang. I don't use the phone a lot so when my line does light up I feel obligated to answer. I think it's a guilt issue; voicemail feels like such a cold shoulder.

The nameless number on my caller ID was not familiar. Neither was the voice that asked for me by name. He introduced himself politely and told me he'd read my little piece in the paper. "And I wanted to tell you," he said, "not to worry about the wrinkles. It gets better with age."

The man asked me to join him for brunch that day. I politely declined and said I already had plans. He asked if we could do it another time. Then I did the thing I don't like to do: I lied.

"Actually, I'm involved with someone." My face flushed as soon as I said it. I really, really, really hate to lie.

He declared my boyfriend a lucky man. He also said something about wanting to be a racecar driver... I'm not sure how that fit into the conversation, but there it was. I wished him luck with that, and bid him goodbye. He was a nice man. Calling a stranger takes cojones.

I knew my Mom would get a kick out of this.

"What did you say when he asked you to brunch?" she asked. I could hear her not breathing while she waited for my response. She never wants to miss a beat.

"I told him I had a boyfriend."

"Why did you do that!? Give him a chance! He might have been someone fascinating!"

I could already see this escalating into an argument so I played the one card guaranteed to nip it in the bud:

"Ma, his name was Christopher."

She paused. "Oh, well okay. We can let Christopher go. But if Joshua or Moishe calls, for God's sake pick up the phone!"

(For the record, I do not discriminate between Christophers and Moishes; I'm not that kind of Jew. I was merely trying to dodge a pointless fight.)

At that moment my call waiting beeped and again I answered blindly, like a fool. Christopher said that while he totally respects my (fictitious) relationship, he was wondering if we could have a coffee -- just as friends. I told him I'm very busy at work and barely have time even to see my... (God, forgive me for lying) boyfriend. And actually that part is true if you replace "see my boyfriend" with "read last month's Glamour and soak in the tub." Christopher asked if he could call me again a little while down the road. Since I'm as good at saying "No" as I am at ignoring a ringing phone, I answered, "Alright..." in a tone that implied, "Really, don't," and though I'm truly flattered I hope that was the last of that.

That night, while my friend Dave was sleuthing out the origin of Christopher's mysterious phone number (it was a Baptist church in Silver Spring -- I figured he'd called after services; pessimist Dave said he was probably homeless), my phone rang again. This number also came up without a name, but it was a D.C. exchange. Of course by now I knew better but curiosity tipped my hand.

"Is this Danielle?"

"Yes..." I sort of growled.

"My name is Kenneth Lang. I'm writing a book about women with really unique, interesting types of looks, and how their appearances have made their lives interesting..."

I didn't have anything better to do at the moment so I played along. "And what type of look do I have, then?"

Go ahead and say 'Jewish,' buddy. I fucking dare you to go there.

"Well, you just look... different. Unique."

I paused a second longer than necessary. This guy was so not writing a book, but I was dying to see how far he'd draw out the charade. "Alright, I'll bite. What do you want to know?"

My unexpected willingness unnerved him.

"Well... um... would you say your life has been... um... interesting?"

"That's kind of a vague question, Kenneth," I replied without a lick of humor. "Could you be a little more specific?"

"Well I can tell by your voice you're kind of... what's the word..."

"Apprehensive? Suspicious?"

"Yeah. That's it. So maybe this isn't..."

"I guess I'm a tough interview, huh Kenneth?"

He blew a frustrated sigh. "I guess you are." I'm not sure what else he was expecting, phoning a stranger with some cock-and-bull story about a book he'd never think to read, let alone write. I figure he had imagined the scenario playing out more like this:

Kenneth: "So, would you say your life has been interesting?"

Danielle: "Why yes, yes it has! I meet all sorts of interesting people every day. I eat interesting food, wear interesting panties and even sleep in an interesting four-poster king-size bed at 5824 Beach Street, apartment 204! Also, for your reference, my Social Security number is 123-45-6789, I bank at Wachovia, and I am worth 50 million dollars. Say, Kenneth, how would you like to come over right now and have sex on a pile of money?"

Unfortunately for Kenneth I wasn't feeling generous -- not with my time, not with my booty, and not with my 50 million bucks.

So Sunday is over. And while I would like to milk my 15 minutes the same way I celebrate my birthday for a full seven days, duty calls and I must get back to earning a living. That four-poster bed won't pay for itself.

a ninth-grade photo and a root canal, all rolled into one

2007-02-09T08:47:00.002-05:00

See my avatar? (It sees you!) That little eye inspired this post a year ago last fall. After much procrastination and quite a bit of forgetting I whittled that baby down to 100 words and e-mailed it last month to the The Washington Post, for consideration as a Sunday Style Life is Short.

They replied immediately! With a form letter. It thanked me for my submission and said if I hadn't heard any good news in three weeks I should resume breathing. I sighed and let it go.

But then! Two days later! A phone call! "Congratulations, we'd like to publish your essay," said Mary-from-The-Washington-Post. In my mind's eye she was smartly bespectacled, with a warm smile and a pencil through her bun.

"We'll be sending one of our photographers out to take your picture next week."

Mary sprouted horns and blew a raspberry with her forked tongue.

I don't like greenbeans. I don't like suburbs. And I definitely don't like cameras.

Oh, I've got my reasons. Shyness, mixed with vestigial insecurity about my goofy adolescent face. Mostly it's about control -- I must be the first pair of eyes on any portrayal of my being, and wield veto power as I see fit. It's like the laser that shoots misshapen potato chips off the factory line: I will decide what's fit for public consumption -- and what is not.

Rebecca the Photographer phoned me the next day. I was fully prepared to tell her thanks, but I'm going to have my father take the picture because, well, I'm a little neurotic, and maybe kinda vain, and while I'm sure you're more than capable, at least if I keep this awkward exercise in the family I'll have some say over the outcome...

She was disarmingly kind.

"But I'm a designer; I'll probably try to art-direct you," I warned.

She said, "It's okay, I'm an artist too."

"I might cry."

Rebecca laughed and told me not to worry. We decided she would meet me Saturday afternoon at Cafe Deluxe, where I'd be lunching with friends.

Somehow I made it through the rest of the week without sprouting a zit. I drank two cups of diuretic tea Friday night to stave off any bloating. Saturday I spent 30 minutes applying too much makeup and another 45 wriggling in and out of every sweater I own, only to yank on my faithful black tee before launching myself out the door, shamefully late for lunch. My mirrored powder compact sat open on the table: First I fished out a rogue sweater fiber that threatened to redden my eye. Then I checked my teeth. And my lipgloss. And my pores, one by one. My friends were very understanding.

You probably expect me to say that all the apprehension was for naught; that once the clicking began I rose to the occasion and posed with the candid grace of a National Geographic gazelle. Yes, I could say that. But it would be a big fat overpowdered lie.

If you have never been on the business end of a professional camera, by all means give it a try. Not only are you painfully aware that each of your cells is being cataloged for posterity, the lens is so wide and shiny you can actually watch yourself shifting, squirming and wearing too much eyeliner -- from a distance of eight little inches. (Rebecca was going for detail.) It was like being pressed onto a microscope slide. I felt like a virus.

Rebecca was kind enough to show me her digital shots as we went along. I was inconsolable. "My face is too round! Why am I doing that with my lip? God, are my teeth really that big? Maybe I should have brought my laptop so we could see this on the screen. Do you want to come to my house so we can look at them there? No? I only live a few blocks away. Please don't let me be ugly in The Washington Post."

Rebecca seemed like a nice person, certainly a talented person, but not the sort of person who has a long fuse for high-strung persons like me. She was nearing the end of her rope so I decided to go for broke:

"Look, I just went through one of the nastiest breakups in the history of the civilized world. And let's be honest -- " I effected my best just-between-us-girls face -- "I'm all for living well, but looking hot in public is really the best revenge."

I don't know a woman alive who'd disagree with that. Rebecca promised to e-mail her top picks to me before she sent them to the paper, though after the way I'd exasperated her I half expected a shot of her middle finger instead.

Whatever the source of my discomfort in all this -- looking at my own face, or my face looking back at me -- the outcome is more or less irrelevant since I am not the intended beholder. My personal Peanut Gallery confirmed that of the three final shots, two were fit to print and one didn't look a thing like me. Which one will be published is anyone's guess.

'Til then, since Rebecca's had enough of me, I'll be bargaining with God. (Please don't let me be ugly in The Washington Post...)

search party

2007-02-05T08:23:00.003-05:00

I held out for a while, but you knew at least one "Now that I'm dating again..." post was headed your way:

One month into my social reawakening I've met a few nice boys with the help of my dot-com daters' clearinghouse of choice. It's a capricious little exercise; a flurry of e-flirtations from one man, a resumé delivered line by line from another. Neither the flashes in the pan nor the long, slow fizzles have ignited any sort of flame -- perhaps because I'm not ready to risk another burn.

R appeared in my inbox early last month. Each time I'd answer one of his vaguely interested queries he would wait a few days and volley back a brief, almost laconic response. Just as the fly fishing was getting stale he finally asked me to dinner. I had a fine time. The conversation was better than the pizza. At one point R asked, “What did you think of me while I was e-mailing you, before we actually met?”

“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I felt like you were sizing me up. Y'know, to determine if I’d be worth your time.”

He nodded thoughtfully, like a professor impressed by an astute protégé. “And what did you think about that?” Benign condescension amuses me so I continued to play.

“Well I figured it was one of two things: Either you were a stuck-up asshole who couldn’t be bothered to flesh out a paragraph, or you were a busy man who knows himself and what he wants. The latter I could respect, plus I thought you were kinda cute, so I followed you down the rabbit hole.”

At this he chuckled, a little surprised by my moxie I guess, and we nodded in silent understanding that this was the start of nothing more than a beautiful friendship.

Conversation danced around dating for the next while; R and I talked about those criteria by which we all screen potential mates, and the exhaustive checklist -- ranging from height to multilingualism (Tagalog and Urdu? Go figure.) to a melange of religious minutiae -- put forth by the website that linked us.

"What about you?" R asked. "Deal-breakers? Must-haves?" In a heartbeat I cited honesty as a non-negotiable -- a point on which I'd suspected, since our perfectly level eye-to-eye greeting, he might fall a little bit… short. (Sure, he's 5'8" like I'm a natural redhead.) R then submitted, somewhat sourly, that many women place great emphasis on a man’s net worth. The honest angel on my right shoulder couldn't disagree, though the feisty feminist on my left almost advised him that writing "highly successful business" and "exotic vacations" in his dating profile would not help shake the gold diggers out of his sheets.

Anyway, I enjoyed the evening, and R and I will probably never see each other again, which is fine with me. He left me with some satisfying food for thought: Romantic search procedures, and how they evolve throughout our lives.

In grade school a Y chromosome was enough to precipitate a crush. By the time puberty was frothing our milk we'd refined the search to non-nerds, but experience had yet to impart any useful wisdom. (Smarter girls learned to discern before all the good dorks were taken.) Now, as adults, we approach with trepidation... and if enough aesthetic checkpoints pass muster, the silent questions fire:

Are you smart?
Are you kind?
Can you make me laugh?
Can you make me come?
Are you a Democrat?
Are you gay? (Are you sure?)

The point of all this... I'm not really sure. As a wise and sensitive person recently pointed out, I am "spending time alone and getting to know myself by bouncing off a variety of different people." Writing it out helps me process the new personalities popping and flowing and stomping in and out of my life. It's terribly exciting. And maybe that's the point -- to cease the searching and let it come. And let it go. And watch what happens, instead of looking for something to arrive. Not that I'd approach it any other way.

2007-01-27T20:06:00.002-05:00

He was tall, wiry and Bronx-to-riches chic. From the neck up: Danish frames, meticulous bedhead and a carefully cultivated three-day growth. From the neck down: body-skimming black, crisp and lean.

"You have beautiful hair," he murmured, fingering one copper ringlet so it coiled around his pinky just so. Bold, considering we had only just met.

Then he grabbed a fistful of my locks, in that gentle-aggressive way men learn watching Guiding Light on the home-sick days of their youth, and leaned in close to inhale.

"I don't recognize the scent, but I like it. Very... feminine."

Shameless.

His smile was practiced, almost predatory (to a trained eye, at least). No doubt it earned him an enviable rate of return. I knew of his reputation -- he was good, really good. But not my style.

"Come see me Saturday," he said. "I've got a busy weekend but I promise, if you come I'll be all yours." Any other woman would have leapt at this offer; I knew it and clearly so did he.

"Thanks," I shrugged, "but I'm already with someone." I must admit I felt empowered.

It was my eyebrow that got me out of this one, as it often does, cocking slightly to signal 'enough.' His grin held, but his eyes narrowed. This man was neither attuned nor accustomed to "No."

"Here's my number, in case you change your mind." His card was slick and overstated; no surprises there. I accepted it graciously, careful not to dismiss -- you never know when you might need someone, after all -- and we went our separate ways.

That Saturday I arrived to warmth and smiles from my faithful J. We took some time to get reacquainted before I peeled off my sweater and gently unwound my braids. And finally, as I yielded to those trusted, knowing hands, came the question I'd been waiting months to hear:

"Cut and color, same as always?"

Happy five-year anniversary to Jessica, my one and only.

2007-01-25T15:43:00.001-05:00

It's just been one of those days. One of those days when your office building catches fire just as you're on the verge on a creative breakthrough, and you have to abandon your Adobe Illustrator document and the idea that went (quite literally) up in smoke when the alarm started to wail, and you forget to grab your scarf and your gym bag with the $140 (totally meltable) Asics inside, and none of the firemen is even remotely sexy, and when Officer Moustache finally gives you the all-clear with two chubby thumbs up you climb seven flights of stairs in four-inch heels and then stop for a pee before getting back to work, only to realize that your underwear has been inside-out since 7:30 a.m.

have you met my boyfriend?

2007-01-18T22:16:00.000-05:00

I know this guy -- a close friend, actually -- who's rather in touch with his intuition. He likes to interpret his dreams. All of them. There was a period several years ago when he would call me each and every morning with a elaborate account of the goings on in dreamland the night before, asking me to decipher the meaning in flaming midgets or the color puce as they pertained to his fate. Finally I bought him a dream interpretation book at my local head shop so he might learn to figure things out on his own.

And I created a monster. A monster with a journal by his bed and a 'clairvoyant' confidence so inflated it threatens to burst at any time. His favorite joke: "I'm so good at divining the future... I can do it in my sleep!" Har. Har. Haaaaaaarrrrrr.

A couple weeks ago, just after the new year began, my friend sent me this e-mail:

"The other night I had a dream about you, and in it I learned that in 2007 you will come to date a young man named James. I believe James is slightly younger than you (but not scandalously so), he is Jewish, with dark brown hair that is somewhat more than wavy and somewhat less than curly. His hair is a bit unkempt and his bangs sometimes hang over his eyes. James is about six feet tall and lanky and I believe excelled at an alternative sport, perhaps ultimate frisbee. James often does not shave for a day or two, in the fashionable way of young men in their late 20's, and he can present himself thusly at his job (yes, he's employed), which I presume but did not clearly see must be a non-profit organization. Here's the kicker: James is French, or of French descent.

"So, you're all set."

I replied:

"Non-profit, you say? I hope James has le trust fund, 'cause baby likes her Neiman's -- and none of that after-season sale business either ;)

(A joke, of course. I have never visited Neiman Marcus, except to use the bathroom once. But I did buy a winter coat for $16 last week at Old Navy (where they probably know me by name) and I've been telling everyone in town about my great big bargain ever since.)

"Thank you for this glimpse into my future -- I hope it proves more accurate than your premonition last June in which G and I lived happily ever after. I'll allow for some margin of error this time and try to muster optimism for suitors with any and all foreign accents, and names that begin with the letter J."

So I'm putting out an A.P.B. for my dream guy, hatched by the psyche of someone who knows me at least as well as I know myself. That may be even better than a dream of my own.

Tall. Dark. Foreign. Five-o'clock shadow and frisbee in hand. If you see him, kindly send him my way.

2007-01-08T19:03:00.002-05:00

What time is it? How long have I been asleep? It's 2007? Jesus Christ, I hope somebody's been seeing to my bills.

So I've been gone for a while. Oh, thanks, but I don't really want to talk about it. The CliffsNotes: Someone I loved did a very bad thing. I'd give it an 8.5 on a 10-point scale of interpersonal transgressions. And I went through what I'll call my Dorothy Gale period: Sort of lost, trying to comprehend how I came to land in such a mess, how I would find my way out, how the systemic failure of heart, brain and courage can allow a person to create so much pain, or to absorb it. I'm almost back now... only I didn't hitch a ride in some magic balloon, I had to hoof it all the way from the Land of Blahhhhhs. (If I'd only had a train...)

Here's my silver lining: It wasn't the end of me, so I must be stronger. Now's my time to fashion the lessons of this personal apocalypse into tools that'll save me down the line. I'm resourceful that way; practical, creative... I'm the relationship MacGyver.

If anyone is reading this... thank you for your patience. I'll be home soon.

another birthday on the books

2006-08-31T08:05:00.002-04:00

Today is the first day of the 31st year of my life. I'm still deciding whether this will be a look-good birthday (shopping; pedicure) or a feel-good birthday (donate blood; rescue a pound puppy... okay that second one's bullshit, I don't care for dogs and they aren't allowed in my building, but I am in the mood to tap a vein). What to do, what to do... Blood replenishes faster than cash... but... Loehmann's... birthday... discount... ohIgiveup. Shopping it is. I'm weak but I'm well dressed.

You know what's weird? I feel younger. Younger than I felt a year ago. While last August I was pumped and ready to barrell into my fourth decade with attitude a'blazing, on this birthday I have had to remind myself -- several times already -- that I am not 29 today. My inner grownup, patient and patronizing, strokes my hair and cups my chin: "Yes, honey, 30 was a turning point, but that doesn't mean you get to count backward from now on."

I actually celebrated last weekend when my family and I descended upon Rockville's famed Far East restaurant for the Annual Chinese Birthday Feast, a ritual in which we order enough to feed a Jewish football team (if such a thing existed) at sundown on Yom Kippur, and leave with a week's worth of leftovers -- yessir, yessir, three bags full.

My youngest brother gave me this card:

He's a clever little bastard.

Early acknowledgments continued when my Grandma called around 3:00 yesterday afternoon. "Happy birthday!" she sang. "Thank you, Grandma! But you know, my birthday is tomorrow."

"Oy vey, I got confused," she chuckled. "Eh, alright, so you'll take it today. Nu? What are you going to do on your big day?"

"Well, I'm having lunch with a friend. And then after work I'll either go shopping or donate blood at the Red Cross up the street. And I'm sure I'll fit some dinner in there too."

"WHAT?!" My grandmother produces thunderous volume from her itty bitty frame. "Donate BLOOD?! Who DOES such a thing?"

For a second I thought she was pulling my leg. "Well... um... lots of people. All the time."

"But WHY? Why would you let somebody TAKE YOUR BLOOD?"

"Because I'm type O Negative, the universal donor. And there's a shortage. And... it's just... a nice thing to do?"

"Don't do it," she commanded.

I tried not to laugh out loud. "Grandma, why not?"

"It's not a good idea. Don't do it!!!"

"Why is it not a good idea?"

"For your health. It's not a good idea for your health."

"Are you kidding me? People do this all the time. I do this all the time. They have blood drives. At the temple (I tried to make it Jewish for her), and in high schools. Blood grows back in no time." I cringed at that last part -- "blood grows back" -- how embarrasingly elementary, but I had to explain this concept in a way that might help it sink in.

"No. No way," she insisted. "People give blood when they know somebody who's sick."

"Then it's okay?"

"Yes, then it's okay."

"But it's not okay to give blood to a stranger?"

"That's right."

"Nice attitude, Grandma. You're a real humanitarian."

"You listen to me, Danielle." I could feel her angry little finger pointing at me. "I know what I'm talking about. I've gone my whole life, 80 years, without letting anybody take my blood."

"And I'm sure you'll leave this world feeling that much richer for the extra pint you've saved."

And with that she grunted a final "Happy birthday" and hung up the phone. Of course Grandma immediately phoned my mother to report my horrific plans. Whether Mom defused the situation or incensed Grandma further I do not know, but I expect this will all have blown over in two weeks' time. Three at the most.

Later last night my mother called to tell me, as she often does, that I was missing a fascinating program on television. "It's about the end of the world. They're talking about what would happen if a black hole came too close to the earth. We'd have a couple days to say goodbye and then we'd all just... disintegrate. Or something like that. Anyway, turn on '20/20.'"

While I changed the channel she sighed into the phone and I could imagine her -- right hand pressed over her mouth, head shaking slowly. "It's so scary," she moaned. "That it could all end like that, just in a moment. Oh, honey... I love you. Go. Enjoy an ice cream. Right now!"

And then I decided it'll be at least another year before I'm too old to listen to my mother.

rule number one: don't get caught

2006-06-12T16:29:00.001-04:00

My sister is such a fool. You'd think that with three older siblings she'd have learned by osmosis how to successfully pull a few tricks in her teenage years. Hell, I was the trailblazer and still I managed to sneak into Georgetown bars every weekend. Of course, it was the early 90s then, before IDs had holograms, back when Georgetown was still cool. But this isn't even about bars or drinking; it's about a DVD.

Last night my father called me around dinnertime. "I need your advice on something." He sounded tired; like whatever was going on, he'd had enough of it.

"Your sister was out bopping around Bethesda with her friends last night," he said. "They decided to rent a movie. So she calls me from Blockbuster to ask what our account number is, and then she puts the cashier on the phone and the woman asks me if Steph has permission to be renting 'Sex and the City.' To which I of course I replied, 'No freakin' way.'"

I told Dad that was a good call. "It's totally inappropriate; Stephanie's just not ready for that show -- at least not unedited. I own all the DVDs and every time she asks if she can borrow one, which is often, I shoot her down."

"Well, she and her friend came home with a Blockbuster bag and when I asked what they had rented she told me it was 'Shrek 2.' Pretty innocuous, right? So I said fine, and they went down into the basement, and I went to bed. I guess it's my own fault for not looking inside the bag...

"The next morning I came downstairs to find two DVD cases sitting on the kitchen counter -- 'Sex and the City' season 3, and 'Sex and the City' season 5."

I tried to stifle a belly laugh. "So what'd you do?"

"Well, I confronted her! And she just didn't think what she'd done was a big deal. I know there needs to be some consequence, but I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do."

Oh, the irony; of all my siblings, I was the kid who smoked dope in the parking lot of the local mall. I was the one who skipped school, sneaked out, sneaked in, lied about my age and made out with 24-year-old Army boys on the Exorcist Steps when I was only 16. And now my father is asking me for disciplinary advice. (These days I'm asleep by midnight on Saturdays and sipping coffee over the New York Times by 8:00 a.m. the next day. The last thing I smoked was a piece of salmon.)

After a bit more chuckling I said, "You know, Dad, I don't know which is more disappointing -- that she committed the offense, or that she was too stupid to hide the evidence." I promised to think it over and get back to him with any ideas.

My best friend L -- wise, creative and just a little bit twisted -- is always a good consultant on matters such as these. So I asked her: If she was the parent in this situation, what would she do?

"Well, I might congratulate her for being able to talk her way into the rental after the telephone call from the store clerk. But then I'd have to chastise her for being stupid by getting caught with the contraband. Then again, I might give her kudos for having the chutzpah to flaunt those DVD cases by getting caught... I think you should make her smoke a foul cigar until she turns green. No, wait, that's for getting caught with cigarettes; never mind.

"Okay, here it is: Make her watch the DVD in front of the entire family... and... give you all a running commentary on the plot and scenes!"

Brilliant.

I shared L's ideas with my Dad. "Public humiliation it is!" he declared. "And on top of that? I think I'm going to be too busy to drive her to the DMV for that learner's permit. Like for the next few months."

2006-06-09T18:56:00.000-04:00

Official diagnosis: Bupkis!

I squirmed through a slippery sonogram of both my breasts today (they throw in the goop for free) and it turned up a screenful of stuff that looks a lot like the surface of Mars. No signs of life. I thought I saw something shaped vaguely like a hat -- which could have been the Monopoly piece or Carmen Sandiego (thanks, Lior) -- but it was just a tiny lymph node.

I'm to return in a couple weeks for a baseline mammogram... and all I can think about is California Pizza Kitchen. Next time you eat at CPK, take a peek behind the counter where they prepare the crust: They stick a round lump of dough between two circular steel slabs, pull a lever that clamps them together, and when they finally let go that dough is as wide and flat at the plate they'll serve it on.

Man, I could really go for a pizza right now.

Thank you, everyone, for your concern and for keeping the gag going; I enjoyed a few chuckles this week that helped the days fly by.

taking my lumps

2006-06-06T08:28:00.001-04:00

Just when you thought I'd exhausted the topic: More about breasts!

In this issue of Boobie Digest: My Very First Mammogram.

There's something in my breast. A lump -- I guess everything subcutaneous is a lump until you take a look inside. It's rather large (as breast lumps go) and a bit painful, which is a good indication that it's the kind of something that's nothing, as opposed to the kind of something that's something.

I'm not too worried... but I am curious. What could it be? The missing tophat from my first Monopoly game? That jujube that vanished into the couch? A fragment of an old broken heart?

Jimmy Hoffa's pinky ring?

Hairball?

I consulted my best friend on the matter, and she returned an impressive list of possible diagnoses, including: tears not shed; your virginity; the popularity neither of us found in junior high; sushi; the Lost Tribe of Israel; and (my personal favorite) "Maybe that's where your socks go when they disappear in the dryer."

All helpful, but still I'd like to open up the floor: Anyone want to hazard a guess? Come on, it'll be fun! Guess the Lump, all entries due by 9:00 a.m. this Friday, an hour before I see the radiologist. Maybe I'll even get Dionne Warwick on the line, just for shits and giggles.

Oh, don't look so horrified. You gotta have a sense of humor about these things! We all have to take our lumps now and then. You've got four days; now make with the funny stuff and help me take mine.

like a fiddle

2006-06-03T10:47:00.000-04:00

While Mom was out for the evening, singing a gig at a retirement home in Northern Virginia, I came by the house to wash a bit of laundry and hang out with my Dad. Once dinner was eaten and my khaki sheets were dry, Dad offered me a slice of my mother's famous banana bread for dessert.

"Mmmm... maybe just a bite. Only the bottom." I love the moist, chewy layer where the cake sits on the plate collecting gooey sweetness. My family has learned to eat that part first, before I can swoop in and gobble my favorite puddingy morsels right off their plates.

Dad set to work slicing a sliver from the bundt, sawing gently back and forth with a serrated knife as is his Proven Method (patent pending). The man may be anal, but nobody cuts a cleaner slice of cake.

He tipped the piece over onto the plate and we both groaned with disappointment; no bottom layer -- it'd been cut away.

"It's your mother," he said. "Not so coordinated. She just grabs the knife and presses down. Totally smooshes the cake, no sawing motion at all. And she's in such a hurry she usually cuts it on an angle too; takes the bottom layer right off the next piece." He sighed and shook his head, a defeated teacher realizing at last that some pupils will never master some skills.

At mention of the word 'coordinated' my mind flashed back to the wedding we attended a couple weeks earlier in New York. I watched my parents enjoying the band: My father boogied to the beat; my mother... well, she looked lovely in her pink gown.

"Not coordinated is right," I said to Dad. "That scene on the dance floor last weekend... oy vey."

"Yeah, did you see what happened when I tried to lead her? Disaster."

"Fortunately I inherited your sense of rhythm," I said. I was speaking of my own proclivity for shaking my groove thing, but Dad must've thought I meant my piano training.

"I suppose I would have done pretty well with a musical instrument," he said, nodding thoughtfully. He watched his kids grow up with music, always wondering what it would have been like to learn.

"Well, instead you married one!" I said brightly.

And then my father smiled in that wistful way he does when he thinks fondly of my Mom, which is often, and he murmured, "Yes, I certainly did..."

...only she plays me."

flesh & boneheads

2006-05-31T23:33:00.000-04:00

Yesterday on the treadmill, my daily dose of cable TV leads me to Episode 5 of Dr. 90210: "If It Ain't Fixed, Don't Break It." For Taryn, a young transsexual, it's about that time; time to trade in the hand she was dealt and pick up a pair. Taryn has probably been on a hormone regimen for some time; she is a wisp of thing, more feminine even than I, with porcelain skin and -- I only mention this because Dr. Alter made such a issue out of it -- very small nipples. Apparently this, coupled with a lack of breast tissue, will make it difficult to shimmy Taryn's implants inside and fill 'er up, as the medical types say. While she has no breasts, her body is reedy and smooth and (save for a few hanging bits concealed beneath her skirt) she looks every bit a girl. So it's a bit jarring at first to see her standing there nude from the waist up. An uncensored topless woman is not a sight to which you're typically treated on American TV -- especially at 5:30 in the afternoon. But I suppose, as far as the censors are concerned, Taryn is still a man, and so we're permitted to see her, itty bitty nipples and all.

But then -- a change! Halfway through the surgery, suddenly we don't view Taryn the same way. Which is perhaps the whole point, but still -- I'm more than a little put off when, the moment that deflated breast implant pokes through Taryn's chest wall, suddenly her nipples are off limits to the viewing public and the blurry patches of censorship appear. "Here lies a woman," they seem to cry, their fuzzy fingers shielding our eyes. "Thou shalt not peek!"

Later in the episode we meet a young mother who visits Dr. Alter to repair a torn labia. (I tuned in after the part that presumably explained how her poor vagina came to be that way. Sort of glad I missed it.) What they revealed: A crude (as in 'undetailed,' not 'vulgar') illustration of the state of affairs between the young lady's legs. What they concealed: The tiny strips of flesh excised and laid unceremoniously on the surgical table. It was hard to tell through the pixelation but I gathered they looked like dehydrated earthworms, the kind you see shriveling like so many sun-dried tomatoes on the sidewalk in summer. Hardly recognizable as female genitalia. Not at all censor-worthy, if you ask me.

Now, maybe I'm missing something here, but the message I took away from all this was: "Caution! Female Flesh: Not Safe for Public Viewing!" Why can we look at an illustrated vagina but not at the quarter ounce of unidentifiable skin that once surrounded it? Why is it acceptable to see the nipples of an individual who is, for all intents and purposes, a female being, but not kosher to view said nipples an hour later with a water balloon inside? We see the rest of the breast. They display the unconscious patient propped up on the operating table, newly minted rack gleaming like two scoops of vanilla Haagen Dazs on a banana split. But the cherries -- the cherries are what make the sundae whole. And they've been wholly obscured. Yes, we know they're there... but only because we're not allowed to see them.

American censors: big boobs, and plenty of 'em.

(Related: Check out this little piece in Salon, "What Happens When Your Country Isn't Weird About Sex?" And then fire up your passport.)

are your legs tired...?

2006-04-26T08:31:00.003-04:00

I live in one of those fancy parts of town where the buses only stop by every half hour or so. So most afternoons I'm on a tight schedule: Change at work, dart to the gym and 45 minutes later leap off the treadmill just in time to mop off, grab my bags, sprint to the bus stop and climb on board. Without time to cool down or change, I am at my ickiest on these post-workout rides home -- still panting, still schvitzing, clothes damp and an old sweatshirt laid down between the blue plastic bus seat and the backs of my bare thighs. I'm not a stinker but just in case I'll pick a seat near an open window.

While I marinate in sweaty gym gear, the iPod is shuffling along, and I drift between daydreams and people-watching. Where my mind lingers depends on my mood and whatever the playlist yields: I might get lost in my own fantasy. (Maybe sex, set to Marvin Gaye; or the what-if-I'd-been-a-concert-pianist dream, if I happen upon Chopin's second piano concerto).

This afternoon the crowd is bland so I retreat into myself. The iPod hits a patch of 80s tunes -- Rick Springfield, Journey and Irene Cara, all in a row. To the other commuters, ignoring one another (as is The Law), I'm just a sweaty splotchy frizzy pigtailed girl, staring dully at protesters outside the Turkish embassy. But on the inside... on the inside I am Jesse's Girl, Oh Sherrie and Jennifer Beals all rolled into one. What a feeling!!!

A few stops before the end of the line, an older woman labors up the bus steps, leans heavily on her cane with a deep sigh, then pivots and tips backward into the seat across the aisle, spreading into the space with an airy thud. She's heavy-set, dressed in purple velvet from head to toe, bright eyes peering through the shade of a broad-brimmed hat. The woman beams smiles all around as she addresses her fellow citizens. A chit to her left, a chat to the driver; nobody pays attention. Their dismissive silence is a judgment: "Crazy."

I'm turned halfway around in my seat struggling with a stuck window when I feel something poking at my sneaker -- one, two, three times. As the rubber foot on the chatty woman's cane nudges my big toe once more, I turn around with my eyebrow cocked and loaded.

"You have very long legs!" she chirps in a thick French accent, grinning from ear to ear. I am caught completely off-guard; a half-assed smile is all I can muster while I grasp for an appropriate response. "Oh... um..." I stammer a bit, almost point out that I'm only five-foot-three, so how long could my legs really be, then I think better of it. (I'm still working on my compliment acceptance skills.) Another passenger grins sympathetically -- "That's what you get for sitting up front" -- so I shrug and say, "I'll take it!"

The French woman accepts my humor as a green light and launches into a monologue. "Oui, very nice legs indeed. Strong! Long! I see you do much exercise!" It's not as weird as it could be, I guess. Coming from a man, or from someone younger, the attention might motivate me to change seats. But this lady... she's a little eccentric maybe but she's not crazy. Maybe a little crazy. But more importantly, she's one of those precious jewels who makes it her business to spread warmth and cheer in the form of compliments wherever she goes. (D.C. locals, you know the sort of person I mean.)

You know, commuters work hard to look absorbed in their lives; you don't realize how bored they are until something interesting happens on the bus. As Frenchy loudly waxes lyrical about my gams, people start to pay attention. The woman next to me discreetly plucks out her left earbud. A young man across the aisle and a few seats down emerges from his nap one eye at a time. Their heads are turning now, one by one. They're all listening to this lady, trying (but not really) to pretend they're not that interested in the spectacle, and each of them is stealing glances at my legs. It's not that there's anything much to see down there. My lower limbs are a bit doughy, really... white, vaguely bruised, scarred-up knees and three-day stubble. But the woman won't stop talking about them. Even I can't help but check out my lap, if only to see what all the fuss is about.

Finally she switches gears. "Pretty smile, too! Very bright. Your eyes, they are smiling eyes. It reminds me of some classic paintings. Like a Renoir, maybe..." Happy to have changed the object, if not the subject, I continue to flush and blush and stammer thank-yous each time the woman pauses to breathe, which isn't often. She never stops smiling. Every single person seated toward the front of the bus is grinning at me now -- except the driver, who's scowling in his rearview mirror. But even he, like the others, is enjoying my flattered embarrassment. They are laughing at me and with me; kindly, sympathetically. It really is rather funny.

Two stops later the lady yanks the cord, gathers her bags and hobbles off the bus, still smiling from ear to ear. I call after her, "Have a nice evening!" Talk about a mood boost; I feel like I just had a V8.

Just before the bus reaches my stop, a man across the aisle calls out to me, "She was quite a fan!" I grin sheepishly and turn pink again, while five other people chuckle in agreement. The bus stops a moment later and as I stand to leave the guy adds, "Another minute and I was sure she'd have asked for your number!" And with that the entire front half of the bus cracks up. It's a rare moment of fraternity in a place where, most days, the only sign we're even cognizant of other humans is the fact that we avoid stepping on one another's toes.

I wonder if the French woman knows the sort of power she wields. I stepped on the bus starving, wet and cranky; I stepped off still damp, still hungry, but feeling like a million bucks and change. For the first time in a long time I slowed my sprint to the apartment to a stroll so I could chat with one neighbor. I held the door for another. (Actually I always hold the door, but I did it cheerfully this time.) I hope I see Frenchy again soon; I want to tell her how much I love her hat.

lettuce give thanks for this bounty I'm about to consume

2006-04-13T11:35:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, while out for Thai with a friend, I elicited a few head shakes by ordering dinner with my proprietary blend of self-effacement and high-maintenance demands: "Hiiii, I'm going to be a little difficult here. Sorry (shrug) -- neurotic. Okay, I'd like the seafood grilled, without oil. That's no oil. No fat. And steamed broccoli, please. Also without oil. Sauce on the side. Thank you. Make that extra broccoli, thanks so much." (I always wrap it up with an apologetic smile -- 'I know I'm a pain in the ass. Please don't drizzle ipecac on my meal.')

When the food arrived my friend's eyes grew wide and she breathed, "Wow... there's enough food on that plate for three people." Indeed, the broccoli was piled high; it was just what I'd wanted. I told her, "Give me 15 minutes," and I tucked in.

When it was all over she stared at my empty plate and shook her head slowly. "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it with my own eyes." To which I replied, "Yeah, not the first time someone's said that to me. How 'bout some frozen yogurt?" It's possible this friend only hangs out with me for the freak value.

A few nights ago I met my family for dinner at the same Thai restaurant and ordered essentially the same dish. My Mom and my sister offered me bits of their own coconut soups and noodle dishes, but I politely declined, stating that "Really, I'd like to be alone with my vegetables now."

And then yesterday, when I met John for lunch before heading home for the Passover seder, I loaded up a styrofoam container with an admittedly obscene quantity of salad bar veggies. I did so in anticipation of a fattening meal many hours away; lunch would have to keep me full for a while with as few calories as possible. John has known me a long time; this wasn't the first time he'd watched in amazement (and a little bit of disgust, though he claims to love me just the same) as I scarfed down more comestibles than his 6'2", 185-pound body could ever pack in during a single sitting.

As we were wrapping up the meal, chit-chatting about some recent drama in my love life, his gaze suddenly softened and he said to me, "Honey, give me your hand." I reached across the table and he cupped my paw between both of his, squeezing gently with a tender look in his eyes. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Oh, shit," I thought, "here it comes. We finally make nice like old friends, and I get a little loose-lipped, and finally he's going to break and run, tell me he can't handle the idea of me with other men. I knew this would never work. I shoud've known you can't be friends with an ex."

John continued, "In the last six months or so -- since about the time you came back into my life last fall -- I have not..." and here he paused and swallowed hard. I held my breath for two seconds while he collected himself.

"In the last six months I have not... um... eaten as much salad as you just scarfed down in the last eight minutes. That really was amazing. Really, just... I honestly don't know where you put it all. Just thought you should know; I'm inspired."

And then we busted up while I slapped him on the arm and scolded, "What the hell are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?" and he shot me his trademark 'Gotcha!' grin and we both enjoyed a hearty laugh.

But I sort of have to wonder... could I be a vegeholic?

waiting-for-judgment day

2006-03-31T08:31:00.000-05:00

"You'll be out by noon," Kayla said, "12:30 at the latest."

By 3:00 my eyes are bleary from reading without glasses (which I left on my desk, where they belong, right?), my earbuds and the contents of my iPod are irritating my head, my hand has cramped into a useless claw from scribbling this post in a notebook, and I have done all the napping one can do in a jury lounge chair. People-watching ceased to be entertaining hours ago; now the District citizens seated around me, dozens of rows in front and in back, are simply getting on my nerves.

To my right, a plump woman in leopard silk pours half a bag of peanut M&Ms into her right fist, where she hides the candies, transfers them one by one to her other hand and slides them deftly into her mouth -- like a student sneaking contraband snackfood every time the teacher turns around. Only nobody's watching, and no one cares.

An elderly man shuffles around and tips backward into the seat in front of me, landing with a quiet groan. He's clean-cut and dressed in a tailored brown herringbone blazer, but he smells terrible. Crossword Guy next to me sniffs the air, looks at me as if to say, 'You smell it too, right?' and mutters out of the corner of his mouth, "I think I can identify the source..." We grin at one another. He's nice-looking, young, shoes too Euro and polished to belong to a straight man. I make a mental note for the next time I'm called to this day-long purgatory: Fire up the gaydar and plant yourself next to a well-dressed homosexual. A bit of queer snark is a fantastic pick-me-up in the mid-afternoon slump, or at any time of day. The old stinker is hunched over a paperback novel, his poor posture a reminder to check my own; I instinctively sit up straight and tall in my chair. Crossword does the same. With a silent sideward glance, we are bonded in that moment by our common vanity, and an old man's B.O.

Another row forward is a thirtysomething man built like a small mountain; from the base of his small, shaved skull he widens steadily at about 45 degrees right down to his seat, over which he spills onto the next chair. The young woman next to him seems not to notice that someone else's ass is occupying half her seat; she's busy examining the sparkler at the center of her engagement ring, a diamond roughly the same size and shape as one of her enormous front teeth. I wonder what talents one might be able to hone with choppers like those. Rip the tags off new clothes? Consume a lobster unaided by tools? Open beer? That would explain the Hope Diamond on her hand; a girl who can pop the top off a brewsky isn't likely to stay single for long.

Since I arrived this morning and probably for some time before, each of the room's six TVs has been tuned to a snowy channel that plays a ghost of "The People's Court" on screen and an unrelenting stream of grating static through the speakers. Eventually -- at 11:55 a.m. -- one of the jury handlers darts in and starts a DVD. Twelve minutes later we're released for lunch, returning just in time to catch the final (now completely out of context) scene of "A Beautiful Mind," followed by the DVD menu (Watch Director's Commentary; Watch Producer's Commentary; Watch Russell Crowe's Mother's Commentary). It's accompanied by a short musical theme that is charming for no more than 120 seconds. After 15 minutes of that accursed sound I turn to Crossword Guy and announce that I'm going to kill myself now. He asks if he can have my iPod. I giggle; a bitch after my own heart.

I imagine jury duty is a lot like being an animal in a shelter: We're penned in, supervised more to ensure our presence than our well-being, never mistreated but far from free. Once in a while someone wearing a bored expression and a jangling keyring wanders in to pluck a few poor souls from the cage and refresh the "entertainment," but just as quickly he is gone, the rest of us left behind without a thought. No one notices that the litter box is full; the water dish is empty; the same infernal strings-and-voices melody is wafting from the TV speakers over and over and over again -- three bars of music strung together in a hideous, mocking loop, repeating for all eternity or until someone sits on the remote control and inadvertently releases us from our pain.

By 3:00 I am still in the lounge waiting, and not once have they called my name. I pace the hallway for a while. Make a couple phone calls. Kick myself for leaving my computer at home. Stupid girl! The courthouse halls are quiet but never empty. Lotta suits here. Everyone seems to be playing a role -- The Law, in uniform or suit; and The Citizens, in all manner of casual dress. It takes me back to my days with S, when I was a category unto myself -- 'Prosecutor's Girlfriend' -- and enjoyed privileged access I probably shouldn't detail here because most of it surely wasn't kosher. I will say that I've been on the inside of a murder trial, seen the crime scene photos, heard 911 recordings, watched grown men weep on the stand, confessing that they're still unable to sleep six months after they witnessed the bloody scene that changed the way they see the world. Few people in this jurors' lounge understand, truly, why they're here. The gravity of the role they could play. The responsibility to judge. The power to give freedom or take it away. The pressure to be sure, and to be right. I comprehend the weight; I'd be scared but proud. Right now, I'm ready to go home.

Around 4:00, after languishing in the courthouse for the duration of an absolutely stunning, cloudless day, we're released back into the wild with a cheer (and a few balled-up papers chucked at the televisions). It's too late to hit the office but early enough to Metro to Tenleytown and stroll the long way home, enjoying the sunshine, and an ice cream cone, and sweet freedom.

smell ya later

2006-03-24T16:23:00.002-05:00

My hair smells like roses today. I have not, to my knowledge, been in contact with any roses in the last 24 hours. This could be (good)mood-related, or the collective effect of several randomly-chosen anti-frizz potions mixed and schmeared atop my mop (I mix and match from a lineup of five or six, just to keep it interesting). Or maybe my already bionic sense of smell is super-charged because of the synthetic hormones those itty bitty yellow Yasmin pills have been pumping through my veins for the last eight days. But every time I turn my head I catch a whiff of something heavenly and I think, "Hey, that's me that smells so pretty like flowers... Get it off me! Now!!!"

Don't get me wrong, I love fresh flowers. Arrange them around my house on a semi-regular basis. But never the smelly kind; Lilies are a no-no. Roses too. Give me gerbera daisies, spider mums, anything that smells like nothing, and I'm happy to display it on my dining room table or by the bed. My mother doesn't understand this about me, so every time she thoughfully brings me flowers (like when I'm sick or when she knocks on my door, covers the peep-hole and calls out, "Candygram!" When will I learn?!), she picks the stinkiest bunch she can find. "Don't these just smell divine?" she coos, and holds them out toward my face. She always looks so offended when I decline to whiff, as if she'd grown the blossoms herself, nestled their little seedlings into the ground and watered them daily with love and care, instead of plucking them from the "3 for $6" bin at the Safeway down the street. "Fine," she'll huff. "Don't smell them. But you're really missing out."

And then a few minutes later, "Here, just take one sniff. One sniff, Jesus Christ, it's not going to kill you," and the next thing I know I've got lily dust up my nose and everything I eat for the rest of the week tastes like a fucking flower. Lily sushi. Lily enchilada. Lily Nicoise salad. Thanks, Mom.

To review: Flowers are lovely, but keep the stinkers to yourself.

And now on to fragrances not found in nature: Perfumes and colognes. Rule of thumb: If you are a liberal schpritzer, stay at least eight feet away from me. Some of the women in my office -- nameless but unfortunately not odorless -- douse themselves in aromas so foul that I actually arrived home last night grateful for the smell of fresh mulch and manure outside my condo. Got that? Their perfume offends me so much that I am relieved to smell shit.

And with men? Forget it, it's a deal-breaker. Or it should be, I've learned my lesson. A few years ago I dated a guy who wore Drakkar Noir. I know, what was I thinking? (I was thinking about sex. Watch out for that, it'll get you into trouble.) Wearing a fragrance 15 years out of date should have been red flag enough; worse yet, the boy wore so much that really, the stink was wearing him. Finally I gave him an ultimatum. "It's me or the Drakkar," I said, arms folded across my chest. "But I'm cologne guy!" he pleaded, "It's my thing!" I would not, could not budge on this issue. "I really care about you, Baby, but as long as you keep hittin' the bottle I cannot stick around. You have a problem; I won't be an enabler." Eventually I won the battle, but the black flask remained in his bureau and was doubtless reintroduced when he moved to Miami that spring.

I can't say perfumes are useless. They're integral to sensory memory; like my Nana and her White Linen, or that pretentious masculine stuff my Dad used to dab beneath his collar when he'd take my Mom out on the town in the 1980s. Bennetton Colors reminds me of high school; Pleasures takes me back to the start of my career. See? I wasn't always a smellophobe. It's just that as I get older and know myself more, I want to be myself more. And that includes smelling like myself - like the things I use: my shampoo; baby powder; deodorant; and my favorite winter lotion. Sweet. Clean. Honest. In other words... oh, who the hell am I kidding, that's not like me at all. But if you close your eyes and breathe in deep, you can believe it's true. Which I guess is the whole point of smelling like something else.

2006-03-20T17:15:00.000-05:00

Happy spring! I won't bother apologizing again for the lack of posting; at this point I'm just the blogger who cried 'busy.' Nothing's wrong, everything's fine, I'm doing what I can.

So, it's springtime! Even though we're expecting snow tomorrow. But that's okay, because even if it's too cold to wear sunny styles it's not too early to buy them. Some people garden, others clean; I shop. The spring harvest invariably yields yet another pair of cargo pants, a stack of tank tops I really don't need, and at least one 'pretty' item that will never see the outside of my closet. Someday I might accept that my (mutually exclusive) fondness for lace and button-down shirts is not a fondness at all, just a fleeting lapse in judgment. (in·san·i·ty n. : Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.) I am still learning to be girly; I only bought my first pair of thigh-high stockings last fall, and I wore them once. On Halloween. Maybe I'm not cut out for this 'sophisticated woman' thing after all.

But still, shop I shall, and soon these bulky sweaters will retreat to the high shelf, the undershirt will become the only shirt, reluctant shoulders and knees will reacquaint themselves with the sensation of breezes on bare skin. As in a reunion with a long-absent, long-distance lover, I'm a little shy at first... but my body remembers and that naked consciousness, that conscious nakedness, will vanish, in a moment, on the wind.

2006-03-13T19:52:00.000-05:00

My father called me just after 9:00 last night and said hurriedly, "Are you watching NBC? Turn it on, there's a character who looks a lot like Jessica. And she's dressed in plastic."

I changed the channel and sure enough, there was my best friend from high school, clad in a vinyl dominatrix getup, staring down Vincent D'onofrio in what looked to be an intense scene (though I only caught the end) of this week's 'Law & Order: Criminal Intent.' I giggled and waved at the TV. Hi Jess!

I've mentioned Jessica before in a post about her husband, Erik, and his role in the unfairly defunct 'Love Monkey' on CBS. Today she informed me they will be in town this week for the following reasons:

This Friday, March 17th, at the Folger Shakespeare Theater, Erik & Jessica will be reading from their book 'Living Justice' as part of the PEN/Faulkner Reading Series. Actors from the L.A. cast of their play 'The Exonerated' will be there to perform some scenes. (This play is amazing, by the way, if you haven't seen it before.)

But wait, there's more!

The next night, Saturday the 18th, they'll be at Provisions Library on Connecticut Avenue, also reading from the play and the book alongside an exhibition of 'The Innocents,' Taryn Simon's photographs of wrongly convicted individuals.

Check it out, kids. It's good stuff. Maybe I'll see you there.

one pill could make me larger, one pill might leave me small

2006-03-13T08:09:00.000-05:00

...I'm looking for the pill that's gonna tell me when my period will fall. (See what I did there? I made a rhyme! Rhyming is fun.) I'm also looking for the pill that will make me not want to leap off the roof each month. It's time I stopped pretending that my pre-menstrual symptoms are not disrupting my life, that they'll go away with my next cycle, or the one after that, or when the moon's not full, or when the sun comes out, or when American Idol is done for the season. I have a problem. I need to fix it. This will require breaking my rule of No Medication Unless You're Dying or Have Cramps.

I've always felt a bit hypocritical preaching clean living, what with my excessive daily intake of Sucralose, Cool Whip, fat-free 'cheese' and caffeine. But really, I think I make an admirable effort to eat right, exercise much, avoid medicines for pain and sniffles. I even go without glasses every few days to give my eye muscles a chance to flex. Strong body inside and out is what I'm going for. And in keeping with that policy I have repeatedly declined my doctor's offer of oral contraceptives, year after year since my early twenties. I'm not gonna lie to you; my concerns are mostly superficial. Weight gain, inflating breasts (I like mine small)... And it's really not about birth control -- monogamy (and I mean real monogamy, not like "I swear, baby, you're the only girl I'm doing right now") is the only way I'll relocate my Trojans from the bedside table to the junk drawer. (I love how that sentence gives the impression of a thriving sex life. I am quite a woman on this blog! Note to self: check expiration date on condoms.)

After slogging through an especially rough cycle this past month, something just snapped. Or clicked, let's say it clicked, that sounds a little less "men-in-white-coats-came-to-take-me-away." Something clicked and I realized I'm spending about one third of my life swollen and panic-seized in the clutches of (what is more than likely) PMDD. I must admit to myself that this is not just going to go away; that my body is aging, it's less cooperative, less predictable than it used to be, and for more than a week each month it's beating the peace right out of my mind. And it's not fair. I deserve better! There are new pills on the market. I eat well and run because it does my body good. It only makes sense I should take care of my head, and beat the bloat (which only makes me crazier) while I'm at it. I'm seeing my doctor on Wednesday. New policy, effective immediately: Do What You Must To Be Happy All The Time (Or As Often As Humanly Possible). Viva la Revolucion!

2006-03-06T22:25:00.000-05:00

I know, it's been almost a week. I'm digging out. Bear with me. Sometimes I feel a bit foolish going public with emotional downswings, sometimes I want to delete a post that looks bitter or weepy in hindsight, but I try to uphold the law of No Regrets here. So the pity party's over but I'm not getting rid of the evidence. (You sweet blog people who wrote to see if I was okay -- thank you so much for asking. I am feeling much better.) Little Mary Sunshine will be back with you shortly. Thank you for your patience and please enjoy some fresh snark while you wait. It's on The House.

I've spent the last six days at my family's home, making sure my 15-year-old sister didn't get knocked up or burn the place down while Mom and Dad were on vacation. It's been said (again and again and again) that you can't go home again. And you know, it really is true. My parents live in a beautiful house with a gourmet kitchen and big-screen TV, huge laundry machines, buttery leather living room sofa, my beloved piano... luxury upon luxury that my cozy little apartment could never hold. And you know what? I'm uncomfortable there. Really uncomfortable. The beds are unforgiving. The water takes an eternity to heat up and the pressure is weak. (My shower in the city will wash your nipples off if you forget to face away from the stream; back in the 'burbs it takes the better part of an hour to wash my hair.) The cats are annoying -- one of them shits on the doormats and the other is too neurotic to sit in a room by himself. The kitchen's overwhelmingly large and I don't know where the coffee filters are hiding. And it's FREEZING in there. I think there's something wrong with my family, they're like pod people -- something's just a little bit off... Who the hell keeps a house at 67 degrees? It isn't right, people. I'm telling you, it's just. not. right. Normally I'd touch the thermostat on pain of death, but I figured there wasn't much Dad could do to me from Florida (though he might just be anal enough to sense the temperature shift from 1,000 miles away and send a neighbor to enforce the law). I bumped that baby up to 70 degrees. That's right! Try and stop me! Anybody need help with a dirty deed? Scamming your dealer? Robbing a bank? Get me while I'm hot! I made sure to drop the temperature back to Arctic Tundra before I left the house this morning; maybe I should've left a window open for good measure. I don't think my father will know what I did. Y'know, until he reads this, or gets the gas bill, whichever comes first. Then I'm Dead Meat. Which is no big deal, really, 'cause they can hang me up pretty much anywhere in that house and I'll keep for a month at least.

2006-03-01T00:16:00.000-05:00

Bless me, Bloggers, for I am pinned. Suffocating beneath the weight of a looming panic attack. It's been four weeks since my last menstruation.

I know I should not let my hormones rule me, that I'm supposed to keep my urges in check, but it's overwhelming, Bloggers, and I don't think I can stifle the impulse to curl up and sob much longer. Just for a moment. That's all I need. If indulging in such a sweet release is a sin then let me be guilty. I'll pay my penance later.

In the last four weeks I have been good to myself. Eaten well, exercised a lot, cultivated some cherished new friendships -- one in particular that's illuminated corners of my intellect I'd almost forgotten were there. It's been a happy month, Bloggers, at a time of year when even happy days are scarce. Except, of course, on cable. I didn't realize how good I felt until I started feeling bad. I took happiness for granted and now I feel badly about that, too.

Around quittin' time yesterday my gut began to sink. By dinnertime my chest was growing tight. I climbed into bed early, breath shallow, mind racing at breakneck speed. I even took some NyQuil to knock me out -- a desperate measure, I know, since I'm loathe to take medicine even when I need it -- but still I was up three times before dawn. (Actually that could have been the tea.) By the time my alarm came to life at 6:45 my brain had been up for an hour. Roused, apparently, by my heart, which was pounding against my ribs. "Nice of you to join us, lazy bones," the two of them scowled at my puffy reflection. "Now go wash your face, you look like shit."

Seven hours later my ticker is still thumping. Needless to say I can't concentrate on much besides breathing deep and slow; if I turn my attention the wave of panic might hit shore. It's time to leave the office, I think.

Blog, grant me the strength to soothe my restless mind so I may sleep in peace, wake with a smile and revel in the joys I'm so fortunate to encounter from day to day. I have faith that this will all blow over in a couple days. It always does. It almost always does. In the meantime it helps to unburden myself to you, Bloggers. You are always there, simply to listen and not to judge such a self-indulgent pity party as this one. Thank you for that; I'm feeling better already.

2006-02-23T22:03:00.000-05:00

Excerpts from my first foray into the wild world of physical therapy:

PT: "So, Ms. Write, is it alright if I call you Danielle or do you prefer Ms. Write?"
AW: "Heck, you can call me Princess if you want. Everyone else does."

AW: "Do you need me to roll up my pants for this part?"
PT: "No, I can get to your kneecaps through the jeans."
AW: "Are you sure? 'Cause I shaved my legs for this. It'd be a shame to waste it."

That's right, I flirted with my PT. I flirted and I flirted good. More specifically, I spent the entire hour flirting with a strange man while he massaged and manipulated my neck, my hips and my sweet little knees. Or to put it yet another way, Blue Cross/Blue Shield paid a man to put his hands all over me while I fed him coquettish charm, spoonful after lovin' spoonful.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "I am so in the wrong line of work." No, you're thinking, "Why would you do such a thing, you ridiculous floozy with your irresistible goofiness and inappropriate sense of timing?"

Well, I'll tell you, there were two reasons: First, he was cute, in a short-sleeved-buttondown-with-a-tie-like-Detective-Sipowitz kind of way; and second, he flirted with me first.

Okay that second part's not true, I flirted first, but I didn't mean to! I just made a joke to lighten the mood -- he asked, "How's your health? Heart? Lungs? Kidneys? Liver?" and I gave him the thumbs-up and declared, "All present and accounted for!" -- and he laughed pretty hard and I laughed and we realized that hey! we both get it! as in get-it get it, you know? And thus began the flirting. And I know it was flirting because he answered each of my zingers with one of his own. And his ears kept turning red. And I was being adorable. Really, I was in rare form; must be a full moon.

I came away with a short list of stretches and exercises to "retrain my spinal cord" and accomplish a few other things I couldn't even pretend to understand, but I'll practice them faithfully if it means I can keep on running.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got another appointment in two weeks and I need to start thinking about what I'm going to wear.

2006-02-22T14:38:00.000-05:00

I thought I was pointing to the dijon mustard but apparently I indicated the squeeze bottle labeled "are you sure? 'cause this one ain't fuckin' around" instead. Whooooo doggie! That sauce was so hot it made the turkey cry. The good news: My winter perma-sniffle is gone gone gone. The bad news: I cannot feel my tongue. Didn't stop me from scarfing down the entire sandwich in 16.2 seconds, though. What?! I was hungry!

my funny, lovingly resentful valentine (and other stories)

2006-02-15T08:40:00.000-05:00

My parents dropped by last night to deliver a bag of Valentine's Day goodies on their way to "visit" (read: catch in the act of boozing/smoking dope/otherwise wasting tuition and fucking up his young life) my baby brother at the University of Maryland.

I know, so thoughtful!

I photograph not for the memories, but for the evidence.

But wait -- there's more!

Fragrant strawberries, crisp sugar cookies, cherry-red dish towels and jammies gifted in the tender, passive-aggressive spirit of the holiday. "I adore you," they say, "in spite of your attitude problem. Someday I'd like to spoil your children with cookies and sleepwear. (*sniff* *scowl*) I should live so long."

Um, thanks Mom. I love you anyway too.

It was a good day. For a Tuesday, for a holiday, for any day. About Valentine's Day I will say this: Forget that stupid song. It's better to be with the friends you love than to pretend to love the date you're with.

7:42 a.m.: The usual breakfast. A steaming mug of smooooth and potent Whole Foods Allegro French Roast. Cereal: crunchy. Banana: perfectly ripe. Milk: ice cold. Giada De Laurentiis: mercifully absent from The Today Show's Torino broacast. This is what a morning should be.

10:13 a.m.: Long-distance phone call from my college roommate. They're moving back to D.C.! To stay! After much rejoicing, Auntie Danielle begins to plot the systematic overindulgence of Baby R. Spoiling to commence in T-Minus Four Months and counting.

"Face it, I'm precious. Resistance is futile."

1:03 p.m.: Sushi lunch with my ex at our "usual spot." (We're, like, BFF now. More on that another time. Maybe.) John presents me with a poem, prepared on special ivory paper and tied in a scroll with red satin bow. I wouldn't normally publicize such a thing but he was so f-ing proud of himself he's probably been drumming his fingers in anticipation of this post all morning long. I decline to read it just then on grounds that crying even once in Jonathan's Gourmet is one too many times, and I did enough of that while we were dating.

1:55 p.m.: Exit lunch and spy "sale" sign at City Sports across 19th Street. Find my $140 running shoes (which I've put off buying because they're so freakin' expensive but they're the only ones I'll wear and who the hell made this rule that you have to replace them every three to four months, and if they only last that long then WHY DO THEY COST $140????) on sale for $110, plus the buy-one-get-another-pair-for-30-bucks deal, and they have two pairs left and they are BOTH IN MY SIZE, so basically I get a pair of top-of-the-line Asics for free and I'm set for the next eight months. Which is great because I'm so po' now I can only afford the first half of the word.

2:17 p.m.: Return from lunch. Ask Rosie to humor my irrational fear of sentimentality and read John's poem to me. (Flashback to the day my SAT scores arrived in the mail. "I can't look. You open it, Josh." "But I'm onwy fwee yeaws owd. I don't know how to wead yet." "Damn you, boy!") I weep briefly -- it's quite a poem, even by my hard-hearted standards -- then roll around in the warm fuzzies like a pig in shit. It took John and me four long years to find our peace; A solid friendship with someone who knows and loves me down to my last dysfunctional molecule is better than one thousand displays of romantic one-upmanship from Clive Owen and Ralph Fiennes in a challenge to win mine dainty hand.

5:15 p.m.: Free 15-minute massages at the gym? Score.

9:12 p.m.: Aforementioned family visit. We sit in the lobby of my building and chat a while. On my way back upstairs I wave to the night desk manager, hoping he won't notice I'm in my stuffed cow slippers and shuffling around without a bra. I offer him a cookie from the pile in my outstretched hand. "Your parents spoil you," he says, and takes two. I cannot argue with that.

Happy Day.

love me, Simple, love me true

2006-02-14T12:32:00.000-05:00

If you'll indulge me a moment, I'd like to discuss "The Bachelor" without admitting that I actually watched it last night. If you cannot suspend your disbelief, kindly dismiss my vulgar taste in entertainment as an act of desperation, committed in the absence of cable TV.

1. Is Valtrex a sponsor of this program? No? They should be. All that tonsil hockey, overnight dates in the Fantasy Suite... Only one of those lucky ladies will win the Bachelor's heart, but I have a feeling a little bit of Travis is going home with each of them.

2. I suspect that landing a spot on this show is not unlike boarding the kiddie coaster at Six Flags: If your noggin falls above the line you're not allowed to ride. There is an exception, though; every season one crazy fox slips past the maximum-IQ rule and works the entire mansion into a tizzy with her claws-out confrontation skills, overconfident sexuality and other assorted shenanigans. She's the sort of nutjob I'd just as soon ignore, but the other girls practically invite her to crawl under their skin. The whole experience looks like a psychological stress test gone awry. Oh well, I'm sure the producers know what they're doing. Only a heartless beast would think of ratings when true love is on the line.

3. If I took a sip of beer every time someone uttered the word "amazing" in a single episode, I would expire from alcohol poisoning by the second commercial break. "He's such an amazing guy." "This elimination is amazingly hard, you're all such amazing women." "Our first kiss: so. amazing." "It's really amazing how fast this cold sore erupted, but I'm still totally glad I came on the show. The opportunity to be part of this all was... in a word, amazing." You poor simpletons, what's amazing is that you manage to place your shoes on the correct feet each day. It's a good thing you're pretty. (You too, boys.) Go to Border's and buy yourself a thesaurus. A thesaurus. T-h-e-s-a-u-r-u-s. No, they're not extinct, it's a book of synonyms. S-y-n-o... *Sigh.* Never mind.

unfinished business

2006-02-11T11:49:00.004-05:00

I came home a little on-edge last month after seeing "Munich" (it's enough to make anyone paranoid) and noticed a hair on the bathroom floor that looked too dark to be mine. So I did what any mildly neurotic person would do: I convinced myself someone had been in my apartment doing something disgusting while I wasn't home (I never should've let my contractor hang on to that key) and made a mental note to have my locks changed first thing in the morning.

And thus was added one more item to the list of things I will never do.

Do universities still award degrees for life experience? Yes? Then label me MP -- master of procrastination -- and sign up for my night class in the fall.

Putting things off is usually harmless, like the pink scarf I've been knitting since December 2002. It's almost long enough now to wrap twice around my neck. I think this could be my year.

In a related crime, I failed to complete the fringe on one end of my favorite green wraparound. I've been wearing it this way for three years. Now I just call it my signature style of crochet: "Soft and unbalanced, just like me!"

My swelling household to-do list is more like a catalog of long-term goals: Patch wall, change light, hang pictures, paint something fun on the kitchen door. And vacuum, for chrissakes! You know it's time to clean when your dust bunnies start splitting off into gangs.

Three boxes of broken and unused backsplash tile have been rattling around the back of my car for close to a year now. All I need to do is find a damned dumpster and heave-ho. So close to a clean backseat... and yet so far away. There are doctors to see, friends to call, chores to do... I've become a consummate listmaker, rolling undone tasks from notepad to notepad as I cross off one item and add three more. It never ends.

For every published post on my blogger account there are a dozen unfinished essays and ruminations saved as drafts and waiting to be rediscovered, like so many half-stuffed teddy bears in a hastily abandoned toy factory. The situation at work isn't much better: My office... You know, I'm not even going to go there. Last week my boss came in, stepped on a pile of annual reports and asked me, "So, um, when are you planning to 'remodel' in here?" Hopefully before she fires me for my disorganizational skills.

The social implications of this behavioral pattern cannot be ignored: For years I've been planting seeds for relationships I've never allowed to grow. My entire love life is a garden sown but not reaped. I might dig up a carrot now and then -- more out of curiosity than desire -- but the bulk of the crop is unlikely to thrive.

Meanwhile, I can't deny that I'm a little hungry. (For the record: I do date. I don't write about it. I think that's a task best left to the experts.)

According to the Tao of G.I. Joe, "Knowing is half the battle." Clearly I'm aware that this is more a problem than a quirk. And that it's really about anxiety, not laziness. And that, at least in the romantic vein, I can't get away with blaming a broken heart or my Paralyzing Fear of Commitment™ any longer. So recognizing all this I should be well on my way to a solution by now... right? But instead I've stopped trying at all.

In December I had grand plans to build a gingerbread house on the large dining room table I never use. Standing in the candy aisle at Safeway with a bag of Brach's Spearmint Leaves in my hand (they make excellent shrubs), I thought, "I'll probably lose interest in this halfway through, and then what'll I do with all that sugar going stale in my house?" Not a rhetorical question, actually; the answer was "I will eat it," and so the project was done before it started. Failure for fear of failure; talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy. At least I didn't eat the candy.

My ex-boyfriend is reading this and finally understanding why I never took to golfing: I was only interested in whacking the ball; the follow-through was of little interest to me.

Until I meet a man strong enough to break down walls, and find a job that pays handsomely for inspiration and not much else, I'll simply have to work on this. My new pet project: "Stop Procrastinating in 2006!"

Now where's that pad of paper... I need to add this to my list.

cold irony

2006-02-08T21:27:00.000-05:00

Under the plexiglass shelter of my bus stop, during rush hour, just after the sun's gone down on this bitterly cold night, a homeless man wriggles into a pair of bright blue pajama pants, working them up inch by inch over the jeans, sweats and thermals he's already been wearing for who-knows-how-long. He mutters happily under his breath, pleased as punch with this new layer of his onion. His fingers are nearly black with dirt and in all the tugging they leave a smudge on the flannel pattern -- dozens and dozens of big yellow circles with whimsical letters that read, "The Good Life!"

2006-02-08T08:34:00.001-05:00

It frustrates me to no end when beautiful people dumb down their looks. This woman on the bus today -- she had fine, delicate features, flawless skin, the stature and posture of a ballerina. But everything on and around her person was a variation on the color poo: Shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a bland ponytail, nude pantyhose, tan pumps, tailored skirt suit in a buff-and-coffee tweed. Sandy coat. Khaki scarf. There are a million synonyms for 'earthtone' but at the end of the day they're all shades of dirt. (And you know how I feel about beige.) This girl was beautiful, if you were looking, but nothing about her getup would ever draw the eye. Every day is Halloween for her, and her costume is "Toast."

Now the guy next to her in the baby-pink tie -- not a natural beauty, but I found him quite appealing. Yessiree. Smartly dressed in navy with splash of color and an orange scarf to boot. Funky curls. Sideburns. Fabulous European shoes. He had this grown-up Bruno Martelli thing going on. No, I'm not giving you a link for Bruno Martelli. If you're so young that the name Bruno Martelli doesn't ring a bell then you can go look it up. You kids today with your instant gratification... In my day hotlinks were served with pancakes and The 'Net was a clumsy but suspenseful movie with Sandra Bullock and that sexy British guy who must have a lousy agent otherwise I'd remember his name. Back then we had to work for our information. I'm not so foolish as to think you'll crack a book in search of Bruno Martelli, but if you really want to know who he is the least you can do is type it in yourself. (Who am I kidding, you'll totally copy and paste. Punk.)

What the hell was I talking about? Oh -- looking drab. Right. It's like cooking without salt. Even the finest ingredients are inedible if you don't spice them up a bit. As my best friend used to say on her grubbier days, "Ugh. Let's just get takeout and rent a movie. I'm not fit for human consumption today." Exactly, girl. Exactly.

I'm sure there are a million reasons to watch,

2006-02-06T19:07:00.000-05:00

but here are my top five:

1. "Love Monkey" is an oasis amidst the dunes of crap that comprise our primetime network television lineup. It's like meeting an underwear model at a Mensan comedians' convention -- smart, funny and a pleasure to watch.

2. Cool musicians guest star. James Blunt will be on tomorrow. (Oops -- pardon me, let me wipe that drool off your shoe.)

3. Two words: Tom. Cavanaugh. (Again! How embarrassing. I'm really very sorry.)

4. Jason Priestly is fat! Come on, thirtysomethings, we've waited like 15 years for this! (Actually he's quite precious on this show.)

5. The guy who plays the owner of the indie record label? The one who hired Tom Cavanaugh at the end of episode one? And now he's in all the episodes? He's married to my best friend from high school. If the show doesn't get picked up then I can't dazzle strangers with the true claim that "I know that guy from 'Love Monkey,'" and I think we can all agree that would be a damned shame. (If you click the "Next on Love Monkey" link on the left of the screen here you can see an interview with Erik. And some other people I don't know personally.)

Erik and Jessica wrote a pretty famous play. They're good people. Watch them on TV.

Love Monkey. On CBS, Tuesday at 10:00 p.m. EST.

Watch it. It's good. And I don't even like TV.

2006-02-03T13:15:00.000-05:00

This isn't a cop-out post -- I've got some stuff in the hopper -- I just want to direct your attention to some noteworthy journalism today.

The New Republic did a nice job summarizing the State of the Union speech. Not sure if you can get to it through this link if you're not a subscriber, but still worth a try.

Also see President's Intern's take on things. That chick (whoever s/he is) rocks.

And finally, a bit of wartime journalism on wartime journalism, also from TNR. I always look for this writer's byline because I went on a date with him once (nice guy; intimidatingly smart).

If you can't view the articles and you'd like to, e-mail me and I'll send them to you through the TNR site. Or subscribe -- it's well worth the dollars.

2006-02-02T08:41:00.001-05:00

So I totally have a girl crush on my gynecologist. Not a crush crush, a girl crush. You can tell when you meet her she was effortlessly popular in high school. A thriple threat -- pretty, smart and nice. If she tossed you a "hey" between classes you felt important for the rest of day. And though she would always be friendly, you would probably never be friends. Still, you put your best foot forward -- iron the Benetton rugby, arrange the scrunch socks just so -- because you hoped she'd notice and invite you to the bitchin' party Bryce Harrison was throwing while his parents were out of town.

I guess this explains why I primp for my gynecologist -- my inner teenager wants her to think I'm cool -- but still it doesn't make much sense. Dr. S won't notice my prettiest peach panties. She won't care if I'm waxed, buffed or painted plaid. And let's be honest: Not even the most elaborate topiary will abate the self-consciousness that comes from hanging my ass off the edge of a table with a lamp shining directly where the sun is not supposed to shine.

Things pretty much go as they always do at my annual checkup. I lament my erratic period (the wily bitch is still on the lam) and the bloated lunatic who usurps my mind, body and soul one week out of the month, and I ask Dr. S what's new in birth control since my last exam. (In case you live under a rock -- some women use hormonal birth control to regulate their cycles.) Not that it matters -- I won't take The Pill. And I'm not interested in The Shot or The Ring or The Patch (which I find an ironic product, since it's historically been used to suppress an urge, not enable one). Of all the scary things I fear catching from a penis, a fetus is pretty far down the list, so condoms remain my method of choice.

Dr. S is cheerful, attentive and efficient. She asks. She listens. She remembers that I'm ticklish and takes it easy on the breast exam. But when it's time for the... unpleasantness, the good doctor is all business: Feet up. Scoot down. Further. Further. Further. Okay. Swab, two, three, we're done. She even warms the duck man in her palm before she puts him to work. That's what I call customer courtesy.

And then the ritual of Peeing in the Cup -- an elaborate test of aim, coordination and reading comprehension. (Tip: Write your name on the cup first.) The moment I walk into the bathroom, guess who shows up? Surprise! Fortunately I was prepared with the emergency stash of supplies I keep in my secret purse pocket.

So Aunt Flo arrived, and she brought the pain, and last night I skipped the gym and reclined in my big, soft bed, a mug of steaming Woman's Dong Quai Tonic tea on the bedside table and my trusty heating pad (I call him Hottie, because when he's close to me I feel goooood) pressed firm against my belly. And you know what? I kind of enjoyed the ache. It lets me know things are working in there. (Now that it's a full-fledged cramp I'm singing a different tune, but I made sure to write that last part in the moment so as not to forget the good.)

I become anxious when something in my house, my car or my body goes awry. And lately I've been kind of pissed at that wayward ovary for laying down on the job. But then I realized she isn't necessarily bad... perhaps she's just principled. I think she was protesting the fact that I let my plumbing checkup slip to two, three, four months overdue, while I never miss an opportunity to spruce up my facade or landscaping. Maybe I'm just drunk with relief but right now I believe that scrappy little organ was merely on strike, speaking out for the betterment of reproductive health. I respect that she marches to the beat of her own drum; she's a lot like me that way.

2006-01-31T21:30:00.000-05:00

This is when it sucks not to have cable. Bush's State of the Union (or, as it's known in my house, "The Fine Mess I've Gotten Us Into This Time") is on every. single. channel. All six of them. And you know how I feel about the president taking up my TV time. Thank God for the Internet and its bounty of instant-access entertainment. If you've never checked out Atom Films, I recommend it highly.

Right now, on my computer screen, a claymation Urbunny is being rendered into street meat as he's dragged behind a sedan in rush hour traffic. He's making the most adorable little bunny sounds. It's sort of sweet.

Meanwhile, on my TV screen, a rather animated chimp dressed in people clothes -- I swear, you'd almost believe he was human -- is moving his lips while the audience on his left stands and claps, grinning widely, like so many monkeys with cymbals between their paws. They're not making any sounds, because I pushed the Mute button 20 minutes ago, which is also so. fucking. sweet.

Technology really came through for me tonight.

is that a meatball in your pocket or are you just having a heart attack?

2006-01-27T16:25:00.000-05:00

Toward the end of my Wednesday night Torture by Treadmill for Better Health, Rachael Ray took her final quick break from "30 Minute Meals" and left me to suffer through the third Hot Pockets* commercial to air during the half-hour show. And whilst I schvitzed my mind did wander, and I thought to myself: If the Hot Pockets people have developed a "healthier" product (a smidge less fatty but just as likely to kill you) that purportedly looks the same, smells the same, tastes the same ("He doesn't know it's Lean!") and costs the same as the original, why do they continue to sell the one that's REALLY bad for you? Shouldn't the new and improved version render the original obsolete? Does anyone else find this irresponsible?

Stop rolling your eyes. I know I rant about unhealthy food a lot. If you confiscate my soapbox I will only spread my gospel from atop your empty Hot Pockets cartons.

I visited the company's website this morning and was not at all surprised to find the following information listed for each product line:

Lean Pockets: servings per container; calories; calories from fat; total fat; Weight Watchers points; and a link to the complete Nutrition Facts label.
Hot Pockets: servings per container; ounces per serving (nine); and a link for "where to buy."

Clearly they're catering to two different audiences. And I get that -- it's how a multi-product business is run. But isn't there something to be said for doing just a few things and doing them right? Isn't there some inherent value in simplicity?

Also -- and mostly unrelated -- apparently Hot Pockets is holding some kind of t-shirt giveaway. To me there's a significant disconnect between a company that devotes a wing of its website to "Family Fun," and a shirt that labels the wearer "Fast & Easy." (I'm ordering mine today!)

So who's in charge there? Whose is the Great Brain that decided to keep Fat Pockets stocked in your grocer's freezer? And why is his left arm going numb?

I feel better now that I got that out of my system. I suggest all you Hot Pocket eaters do the same.

*This post is in no way meant to condone the consumption of any Hot, Lean or other type pocket. Except maybe pita, but that's really bread.

2006-01-23T18:31:00.000-05:00

I think I've got a bad ovary. Lately her behavior... well, it's been erratic. Unpredictable. She's falling behind on the job. Could be booze, could be drugs -- I maintain a pretty strict clean-living policy but you never know what your employees are doing in their off time (and this one only works every other month). Now it seems she's absconded with my period, which is almost a week late and nowhere to be seen. (No, I'm not pregnant. Yes, I'm sure.)

If you run across these two please direct them back to work where they're needed.

UPDATE: A clue! This was in the Post today. The girls might be on some sort of pilgrimage, like hippies hitching to Woodstock.

the resemblance is uncanny

2006-01-21T09:47:00.000-05:00

I prefer to wear blue when I'm kicking ass, and of course I have eyes, but still -- the hair, the lips, the rack, the hips... I think I missed my calling as a crimefighter.

(Thanks 3, who found "Bat-Danielle" here.)

2006-01-19T17:07:00.000-05:00

I wonder, if my orthopaedist's gajillion-dollar hourly fee was being extracted from my checking account and not Blue Cross/Blue Shield, whether he would be quite so cavalier about leaving me freezing and naked in Exam Room 3 for nearly an hour.

It all starts out fine: The nurse asks why I'm there and I describe the sound that issues from my knees when I climb, squat and kneel: "It's kind of like... slowly cracking a celery stalk under a summer-weight quilt." (Dorky, but accurate.) She asks me if it hurts and I say yes, most of the time. Am I taking anything for the pain? No, I don't care for pills. I just use the elevator and try not to drop things on the floor. The nurse scribbles and nods in a way that says, "I feel you, girl," then hands me a paper tablecloth and tells me, "Take off everything but your underwear. Don't forget the socks. This opens in the back." And with a click of her pen, she is gone.

It's cold in that room. Cold and... what's the word I'm looking for... blowy. A blanket would be nice. Maybe some hot tea? The paper 'gown' (and I use the term as loosely as the big napkin fits my form) keeps malfunctioning -- over my shoulders and down toward my lap. I see it's labeled size L; must stand for Linebacker. I could try and fish my sweater from the pile of clothes on the floor but who knows when the doctor will show up, and I don't want to greet him with my gown parted like a curtain and my panties center stage.

So I sit. Stay. Start to look around. Stacked on the air conditioner, for my entertainment: Nine different golf magazines. Who do they think they're dealing with? Oh -- look at that! Medical illustrations taped to the wall behind my head. Fifteen minutes later I understand the inner workings of the shoulder. (Complex! Fascinating!) After 30 minutes I have memorized the knee. If I was staring at the gynecologist's wall I'd have learned to birth my own baby by now. But my gyno never keeps me waiting this long -- she's in and out before I know what's what. Women get that you're on the clock; I appreciate that now.

Why, oh why did I leave my iPod in the office? Maybe there's something to this doctors-on-retainer idea. Housecalls and undivided attention... Though I imagine even that could turn into a cable-guy situation if enough greedy patients catch on. "You say you might be having a stroke, Mrs. Goldman? Let me check the book... Okay, Dr. Berman will be there between 9 and 2 tomorrow."

I'm counting metacarpal bones on The Human Hand when Dr. G finally breezes in. He really is a nice man, and a good doctor. He asks, he listens, he does the hokey pokey with my kneecap and even indulges me in a bit of light gossip. (Suburban Jews know all the same people.) His parting gift: A hypochondriac's smorgasbord -- 23 local physical therapists from which to choose. But (this time) the problem isn't in my head, it really is in my knee. "Most of your cartilage is worn away," Dr. G says with matter-of-fact sympathy. "Not much we can do to fix the damage, just try and stop it from getting worse." And then he shrugs, grins and pats me on my paper-clad arm. "Welcome to aging, young lady. It's all downhill from here."

rants, raves and a river in Egypt

2006-01-18T12:46:00.000-05:00

Lunchtime, Wednesday, January 18, 2006: Building on last evening's post, I'm declaring this Rant Week here at Always Write. Every day this week -- which is that week, in case you hadn't noticed -- I will deliver a fresh tirade on an arbitrary topic. At least I'll try; this week (again, that week) I tend to be lazy. Just know that Bitcherella is reporting until Mary Sunshine returns. And don't knock me for being cranky -- at least I'm trying to harness the creative power of my horrormones.

Today's disgust is inspired by the big brains at Fox Broadcasting Company.

I'd like to think that if I had cable TV I would not have succumbed to that wasting disease called "American Idol" last night. Jesus, what a freak show. I couldn't look away.

My favorite characters are those not content to embarrass themselves in a musical fashion, or even in a fashion fashion. There is no such thing as bad publicity here; it takes a tantrum to make damned sure, for better or for worse, that America never forgets the name... uh... you know, they all looked the same to me. One by one they stumble from the audition room, eyes moist and lips trembling, and play to the camera one last time: "But everyone tells me how amazing my voice is!" "You people don't know what talent is." "When I'm famous, y'all ain't invited to my show." And the one I never tire of, "Fuck you, Simon!" And then comes the thrashing. The swearing. The choking, hiccuping tears. It's as if these young hopefuls have just learned a cherished pet was creamed by a speeding bus outside. Only that pet is a dream of stardom. And that bus is reality. Climb on board, kiddies, or be run down.

I blame the mothers. (I know, I always blame the mothers.) Those omnipresent stage moms in their stirrup pants and Bedazzled sweaters, pacing anxiously outside the audition like expectant new fathers in a hospital waiting room. "We done spent all Lurlene's college money to fly out here from Shitsville, but we made it. And now I'm here to watch my baby rise and shine like the star she is. This is it! I can feel it! She's gonna go all the way this time!" We should all be so sure of something at some time in our lives. No wonder Mama looks so shocked when her songbird is spat without ceremony through the doors of the inner sanctum. But come on. She wailed and flailed as if under a voodoo spell and yet you encouraged her to "keep on singin', baby, somebody gonna discover you 'ventually." Shame on you, stage mothers. You pump your talentless children full of false, unflinching confidence and send them careening into televised humiliation like lemmings into the sea. Oh, the humanity!

I will say this, though: It took a few years, but that Seacrest boy is starting to grow on me.

cookie push

2006-01-17T19:38:00.000-05:00

You love your kid, and I get that. It's a beautiful thing. Really. I understand your desire to watch your baby girl grow into a winner, to see her come out on top, though of course you'll adore her even if she doesn't.

But please, I'm begging you, get off my case with those goddamned Girl Scout cookies.

You offered, I declined. "I know they're delicious, but I don't keep cookies in my house." That should have been the end of it; that should have been enough to pull me out of the drop-by rotation and off the distribution list.

But today it continued: "Subject: Help Lucy stay the top cookie seller in Brownie Troop 1685!"

It was kind of you attach the order form for my convenience. But I take my fats unhydrogenated, and I'm still not interested in buying any cookies.

Surprising me in my office will not change my mind.

"The lemon ones are low in fat!" They're still junkfood.

"Randi bought three boxes!" Randi could eat five.

"Buy them for a gift, then!" Nobody I know eats this dreck.

"Just a couple boxes of Do-si-dos! I know you love your peanut butter..."

Don't pretend you haven't seen me trudging out of the office in my running shoes every night for months. You know how hard I worked to lose those 12 pounds, how determined I am to lose eight more. What you're doing here? It's like pushing blow on an addict. There's a special place in Hell for people who prey on the weak and vulnerable. Especially those who do it on behalf of their kids. Does it make you feel good to know you'll be spending the afterlife with ambulance chasers and slumlords? No? Well, it tickles me pink.

2006-01-15T23:01:00.000-05:00

I guess I'm it.

Normally I make it a point never to participate in chain mail. But I've been blogally challenged lately and I could really use the filler until I find whatever my brain needs to finish another decent post. Maybe a bit of nostalgia will inspire me. Here goes:

Four jobs you have had:
1) editorial intern, Caribbean Travel & Life magazine
2) counselor/teaching assistant for a children's music and theater camp
3) gymnastics instructor
4) dinnertime pianist at a country club

makes me realize: The jobs I held before my career started were a lot more interesting (on paper) than the ones I've held since.

Four movies you could watch over and over:
1) The Goonies
2) As Good As It Gets
3) Goodfellas
4) Fantasia

makes me realize: I own each of these and haven't watched any of them since I moved into this condo two years ago.

Four places you've lived:
1) Tel Aviv, Israel
2) Cozumel, Mexico (I was conceived there, so technically, for a few days at least...)
3) Bethesda, Maryland
4) the Upper Caucasia region of Washington, DC

makes me realize: I'm jumping through hoops (Cozumel? Please.) to hide the fact that I've lived 29 of my 30 years in and around the same city. Still, I'm a very proud Washingtonian.

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1) I'll lump together the PBS cooking lineup: Jacques Pepin: Fast Food My Way; Everyday Food; Lidia's Family Table; and America's Test Kitchen
2) Nature or similar animal-related program; undersea exploration preferred
3) anything with surgery and/or real-life forensic science
4) I can't pick just one more so I'm creating a half-hour category: Looney Toons; Roseanne; Teacher's Pet; Family Guy; The Simpsons (the first 10 years)

makes me realize: I'm a little nerdy. And I'm okay with that.

Four places you've been on vacation:
1) mainland Greece, Crete and the west coast of Turkey
2) Italy, from north to south
3) Sinai, Egypt
4) San Francisco and Sonoma County, California

makes me realize: (a) I'm well traveled; I had to leave a lot of Europe and the Middle East off this list, (b) I don't know where my passport is, but I'm pretty sure it's expired, and (c) I'm way overdue for a vacation.

Four of your favorite foods:
1) vegetables, all of them
2) copious amounts of cereal, with cold milk and fruit
3) my Mom's chicken soup
4) sushi, sushi and more sushi

makes me realize: My metabolism must be really slow, 'cause with a diet like this there's no reason I should have such a hard time losing these last eight pounds.

Four places you'd rather be right now:
1) Israel (more in an I-miss-my-extended-family kind of way than a longing-for-the-Jewish-homeland kind of way)
2) in my 27-year-old body, which was thinner and had two fully functioning knees
3) bed
4) in front of a blazing fireplace. The wood-burning kind.

Four sites I visit daily:
1) aol.com, for e-mail
2) blogger.com, to write (or stare at the screen and wait for a viable idea)
3) nytimes.com, for news
4) thenewrepublic.com, for more news

Four Bloggers you are tagging:
Sorry, I can't do it. Feels like selling Amway to my neighbors.

this is the last I'm gonna say about it (alt. headline: "Call Me Che")

2006-01-13T08:01:00.001-05:00

Sunday night I wrote a post about some... unpleasantness with my mother. Tuesday morning I took it down. Some people have been asking why. "Was there a nuclear fallout? Are you out of the will?" No, and probably, but the thing to understand is that I didn't write that post for entertainment, I wrote it out of frustration. It was a hard thing to do. And I didn't publish it out of spite, I did it because I was desperate, because it seems that this public medium is the only one through which my mother will absorb important information in any lasting, meaningful way. It's a simple matter of communication style; some people listen better without the distraction of talking. I'm the same way. Once my Mom read what I had to say, my point was made and I could take the post down.

Preliminary data collected through the grapevine indicates that I may have only fueled my mother's indignation, and angered a bunch of her friends to boot. Long-range results are anyone's guess. To be fair, when we got together last night neither the blog nor the tantrum were discussed, and my Mom was being extra sweet. I'm just not sure if she was making an effort or gloating under the mistaken impression that I un-published the story out of shame.

Here's what: I've always borne the brunt of my mother's rage and been the only one to stand up to it (one of many reasons I am considered "the difficult child"). Last weekend my entire family was involved and affected, and while the discomfort was nothing new, it was, for me at least, the last straw. I felt that to tell the story of our latest altercation, in all its ugly detail, was the only way to make Mom realize that maybe the problem lies not just with the lazy, ungrateful children who give her no choice but to roar her terrible roar and gnash her terrible teeth. (Again, in the interest of fairness: There's no shortage of love and praise there. She's proud of us and tells us all the time. She tells everyone all the time.)

My family backed me up on the post, but our solidarity lasted only a day. The storm blew over, the mess was swept away, and as usual I'm the only one still tripping over debris.

So for now, it's done. At least I can say I tried. If the rest of my family wants to keep the trailer parked in tornado town, I guess I'm stuck there too. To unhitch and move away would mean leaving them behind and for me, for now, that just isn't an option. Even in the path of occasional destruction, there's no place like home.

(Can you tell I saw "Wicked" last night? So good. There are monkeys. See it if you can.)

another irate customer

2006-01-05T17:27:00.000-05:00

It is inevitable, as I invite people to read my blog and hope they're entertained enough to come back and read some more, that this little corner of Web space should cease to be my own. Sharing is, after all, giving away a piece of what's mine.

For the most part the blog has overflowed with unexpected benefits: My boss and some co-workers read, which may help make the case for my own column in our quarterly magazine. Some of my oldest friends read, which lets me keep in touch over long distances without bringing The Dreaded Telephone Machine into play. My immediate family reads, which has fostered a level of understanding between my mother and me that did not translate through the Language of Fighting in the first 30 years of my life. And as for the rest of my friends and relatives, I hope they derive some pleasure from my musings, come to know me better -- no small feat, I'm told -- and perhaps, as a result, find me a little less scary, standoffish and/or strange.

The unfortunate flipside to all these pros is that what started as an uninhibited catharsis has evolved into an exercise in self-censorship. My mother gets upset if she feels I've crossed a line. (Though that could be a simple misunderstanding based on careless reading.) My Grandma doesn't use the Web, but someone else in my family gets his knickers in a twist over a few stories I've told about her. (And to think, I was holding back.) I obviously can't write about work, not that I would anyway -- I think we all know where that road leads. I second-guess every post that covers weight, religion or lifestyle choices for fear that I'll offend a friend or, worse yet, destroy a friendship. Basically I'm no longer free to say what I really think about anyone or anything. Even though I sometimes say it anyway.

I cannot, for example, rant about religious hypocrisy or cheapness or wastefulness or boob jobs, bypass surgery, infidelity, ostentatious weddings, extravagant gift registries, children I can't stand or spouses I despise in enough detail that the subject of my discourse -- if there even is one, sometimes I'm just generalizing -- might get a clue he or she is on display. I am, however, welcome to describe any scenario that flatters the mind, body or soul of those in my family and their extended circle of friends. Be honest; be funny; but for God's sake, don't ruffle any feathers.

To some -- like those who aren't that close to me -- I say if you don't like it, don't read it. I'm opinionated and I use real-life examples to back up my claims. It's just sound journalism. And except for a few recurring characters I'm not naming names. But things get a little more dicey with the people I care about. The last thing I want is to hurt them, even if they are being hypersensitive. I once read an interview with a celebrity whose mother used to shame her for being a timid child: "Why do you shy away from people? Do you really think they're that interested in you? Don't be so arrogant." It sounded like the most awful thing in the world when I read it, but it's sort of the point I'm trying to make: I don't think anyone is arrogant for taking my opinions personally, but they should bear in mind that what I write on this blog, it's not really about anyone but me, what I think, what I feel. I'm not going to drag the skeletons from anybody's closet or ruin anyone's life (except maybe my own). Nor will I tiptoe around every topic that has the potential to start a little fire. That would be dishonest, and incredibly dull.

So yeah, I've got some of juicy stuff I'm not sharing. I'll just have to save it for another time, another audience, another, more anonymous blog. Which is fine with me; The Internet is a big place, with plenty of room for everyone. And most of my opinions, too.

p.s.
If you're tempted to point out my hypocrisy, don't bother. I wear it on my sleeve.

2006-01-02T23:32:00.007-05:00

I was sifting through my archives tonight and noticed that October and November were especially fertile months. I was writing a lot, and a lot of what I wrote was (if I may toot my own horn) pretty darn good. Because I was feeling good. And then came December, and lo, the pickins, they got slim. It isn't just work or the holidays, it's me.

I am not out, but I am down. I am struggling to remain emotionally and socially present, to be a worthy sister, friend and child. I'm afraid I am failing miserably.

To the people in my life it probably looks like "Danielle's entered another one of her funks," which they'll tolerate until I tumble out the other end like I always do. Whenever that may be. I feel fortunate to have friends and family who stick around through my rough patches. Then again, I work pretty hard to make things look smooth. I don't think anyone realizes how hard I'm kicking just to stay afloat and participate, even minimally, in life. I realize others exhaust themselves treading water the same way I do (especially bloggers, such a sensitive bunch of navel-gazers we are), but it's an exercise in self-isolation so I may as well be the only one out here.

If you're frustrated with me, try to understand: It takes tremendous effort to break my routine (work-gym-dinner-write) and spend time with other human beings. That routine is my anesthetic. Even if you're not a hibernator you might be numbing yourself too -- those of you who are always running shopping talking driving going going gone. You know who you are. We all do what we must to evade our demons when we don't feel strong enough to face them. In all the time I've spent lately hunched over my Powerbook, starting dozens of essays I can't flesh out beyond the first few lines, I've said I feel emotionally constipated because I haven't been able to write. In truth I haven't been able to write because I'm so corked up.

I almost just apologized for posting such a downer, but hey -- this is my blog. I've lost sight of that lately. It's still my space in which to speak my mind, and this is what's on my mind today.

I've been accused before of caring too much what other people think. Well, I don't really care if airing these unhappy, unfunny sentiments makes you think me crazy or tragic or brave or pathetic. I do care that it makes you think about those who are bumming you out with their moping and withdrawn silence. Realize that they're treading water and help them stay afloat -- not by doing something but by just being there.

There is much more to say on this subject; A history with medication and therapy and what I still think was a sound decision to stop taking pills and manage my depression in other ways. I started an essay about it two months ago and I will post it when it's done. Whenever that may be. But I've got plenty else to blog about in the meantime. Writing, even writing I never finish, seems to be the best therapy.

2005-12-30T08:30:00.000-05:00

After a Christmas Day showing of "King Kong," my family lingers in the theater:

Dad: "How does Skull Island sound for vacation next summer?"

Offspring chuckle at the thought of our father hoisting Mom into the rainforest canopy as an offering to The Beast.

Dad: "Whaddaya think, guys? Would Kong would take her away?"

Me: "Sure. But after a couple days he'd probably be ready to give her back." Then I point a finger at my mother and warn, "You'd better watch your nagging if you want to be returned in the condition you were received."

My brother, in an uncanny imitation of Mom: "Look at this cave! You couldn't clean up for me a little bit?"

Me: "No salt? No garlic? Who eats this way?"

Dad: "It's enough already with the climbing! What can you do up there that you can't do down here?"

Mom ignores the fun-making and turns toward my father with a sweet smile. "Would you do that for me, honey? Climb to the top of the Empire State Building to save my life?"

Dad considers the question, scratching his chin, then shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so. As long as I don't have to schlep you down."

she's full of holiday spirits

2005-12-27T22:19:00.000-05:00

On Christmas Day/Hannukah Eve my grandmother called to wish me a happy holiday. While my half of the conversation was spare -- I generally loathe the phone and tend to clam up when forced to use it -- Grandma rambled on about the Hannukah party her friend was throwing for a new great-grandson that night. She was sort of sad that not all her friends could be there but she planned to go and enjoy herself anyway.

"Some people might sit around and mope, but I'm not the kind to become a shriveled old prune. I choose to be around people. I choose to have fun." This was what came out of her mouth; Her tone, on the other hand, sent a more pointed message: "Your mother told me you decided to skip the Matzo Ball last night. Nice going -- you just bought yourself another year without a man."

(Year after year the Matzo Ball has been at best a disappointment, at worst a spectacular nightmare. Ten years of ex-boyfriends and one-date disasters convene to haunt me on Christmas Eve, rattling about Lulu's bar like the Ghosts of J-Date Past.)

"You know, Grandma, some people can have fun without being party animals," I countered. "Look at me: I like company, but I also need a lot of time alone. And I prefer to be with only one or two people at a time. Crowds make me uncomfortable."

"Well, sure," she said, "that's your choice. You can find yourself one nice young man and be alone with him..."

"No, I was talking about friends. One or two friends, like to sit and have dinner. I'm just saying I don't always enjoy a big to-do."

"Well that's something different!" She was getting louder. "I'm talking about a boy. Why can't you meet someone, get married, have a family? I mean, let's face it--" and then she began to sing off-key -- "the clooooock is tiiiiiick-iiiiinnnnnng, la la la laaaa deeeee daaaaah..."

Had I been paying closer attention I might have realized sooner that I'd been drunk-dialed by my Grandma.

"Conversation over," I said. "Happy Hannukah." Click.

And then I thought, "Nice going -- you just bought yourself another month without a tedious phone call." Happy Hannukah indeed!

I love Christmas. No, really!

2005-12-24T00:11:00.001-05:00

It has come to my attention that the self-portrait I've painted here may not be entirely true to life. I realized it last week when a fellow blogger confessed, as if admitting to a puppy-killing spree or a career in telemarketing, that he is not Jewish. "You may hate me for this," he said, "but... well... I love bacon. There, I said it."

People, people, people... I am not some kind of uber-Jew. Jewish in culture and personality, yes, but my religious observance is spurred only by celebrations, funerals and rare instances of obligation or guilt. Holidays are an excuse to eat something naughty and wear something nice. My dating pool spans the breadth of the world's races and spiritual persuasions.

And I love bacon too.

I do write a lot about being Jewish, and I suppose my cultural identity is partly responsible, but mostly it's just good material. Let's face it: My people are like cartoons. The mothers, the grandmothers, the issues with food... You can't make this stuff up.

In fact -- and you may find this hard to believe in light of my Hannukah poem -- Christmas is my favorite holiday of all. There's something about the smells and the sounds and the warm fuzziness of it all that makes me feel like a small child in footie pajamas, wrapped in an oversized quilt.

Every year when I was a small child my Grandma escorted me to Santaland at Macy's department store in Manhattan. It was the pinnacle of my year. I was intoxicated by the smell of pine, the merry elves, the warm, glittering lights and ornaments and tinsel I'd never experienced at home. And candy -- there was always so much candy.

On my third Christmas -- 1978 -- we sat in the front of a mostly empty bus on our way from Queens to 34th Street. Maybe the driver liked my curls, or my wide-eyed excitement, or my Grandma (she was a real knockout back then)... Perhaps he was just having a long and lonely day. Whatever the reason, he was hell-bent on conversation.

"Are you going to visit Santa, little girl?" he asked me sweetly.

I sat silent and played with the rings on Grandma's hand.

"Have you been to the North Pole before?"

I tugged at my mittens and didn't answer.

"What are you going to ask Santa to bring you for Christmas?" He was a patient man, I'll give him that.

I stared out the window while we went on like this for a dozen blocks or so, the bus driver lobbing festive queries across the aisle and me playing deaf and dumb, until finally I leaned against my grandmother, cupped my little mitten around my mouth and whispered, "Grandma, I don't think he knows we're Jewish."

In December the following year, I came home from the small church where I attended nursery school (my Mom was the music teacher there; it made sense at the time) eager to share the story I'd learned in class that day: The Tale of Baby Cheeses. Throughout December and into the new year I recounted the miracle to anyone who would listen. Needless to say, my version was...a little off, but people seemed to find it entertaining still.

That was the year the Bensons moved into the white columned house up the street. They had one little girl the same age as me, and a boy about a year older than my baby brother. We were all fast friends. The Bensons were from Oklahoma; their traditions, canned chicken soup and charming Southern lilts opened up an exciting new world to me -- especially since I had yet to enter the public school system and shake my Forest Hills accent. When Jennifer caught sight of the menorah glowing in my kitchen it was the first time I'd heard the word "purdy." When I was greeted at the door by her cockerspaniel, Cookie, it was the first time she'd heard the word "dawg." One year my brother got antsy about his Hannukah presents and enlisted his buddy to investigate the scene: Little Stephen, slick as Bond, sauntered up to my mother and asked, "So, uh... what's Matthew getting for Jewish this year?"

I'll distract the Mommies; You start looking for the G.I. Joes.

Matt and I were always invited to help trim the Bensons' tree. Hour after blissful hour we lifted delicate baubles and figurines from their cardboard cradles and listened, rapt, to the sentimental history behind each one. While my family lit candles that burned in the kitchen for an hour or two, the Bensons' entire home twinkled and glowed from the moment the sun went down and long into the night. Their house smelled like eggnog, mine smelled like grease and potatoes. We had an eight-inch menorah, they had an eight-foot tree. At seven years old, where would you want to be? They had to kick me out each night when it was time to go to bed.

Since then I've developed a deeper fondness for the traditions of my own wintertime holiday. (Though it's not widely known that Hannukah is barely a blip on the radar in other countries around the world. American consumerism made a mountain out of that molehill.) But I will never shed my love for Christmas, and tomorrow morning I'll celebrate with special touches to my Sunday breakfast: a dash of cinnamon in my French toast; a dash of nutmeg in my French roast; and of course, a sweet, smoky slab of bacon to round out the meal.

Happy Holidays everyone.

if a mug falls in the kitchen and the grouchy man downstairs isn't around to hear it, does he still get pissed?

2005-12-22T16:57:00.000-05:00

This morning my favorite mug shattered all over the kitchen floor. (Because I dropped it; I should take ownership of that part. I'm the klutz.) It was more like a bowl with a handle, really; round, the color of cranberries, roughly the size of my head. It cradled my breakfast cereal every single morning for the last three years. I loved this mug because it understood that the average cereal bowl could not accomodate my morning appetite; It rose to this challenge day after day without ever losing its kiln-fired shine.

This is not a great tragedy. The mug had little sentimental value, just the merits of its perfect size and the fact that it took the guesswork out of breakfast. Usually my Weight Watchers®-brand OCD dictates that I measure every grain to be consumed. But the mug had rendered measuring cups nearly obsolete: When Special K crested the rim, the cereal was poured; When milk peeked through the flakes, it was time to dig in.

I've always been a believer in fate and omens. Maybe this incident is a wake-up call for me to examine the routines in my life. Or start wearing shoes in the kitchen. Or eat a little less at breakfast. Deciphering that hidden message will be a project for the weekend; In the meantime I'll simply count my blessings. The mug could have been full, after all, and while I'm not the type to cry over spilled milk, it would have been a real bitch to mop pottery shard soup from my kitchen floor. And the sight of a head-sized bowl of cereal going to waste -- delicious, nutritious, munchy, chewy cereal, my most favoritest thing in the whole wide world -- that might've been more than I could bear.

So my glass is half full. Because my mug was empty. And if I don't dredge up some decent blog material soon I'm going to have to start writing about my love life. Then we'll all have something to cry about.

(In memoriam: Faithful Cereal Mug, 2002 - 2005. Rest in Pieces, old friend.)

2005-12-22T00:22:00.000-05:00

I feel like I just spent three hours backstage at Lilith Fair.

What a treat to meet some new guys at the December blogger meetup, and to see again a couple more. But this one... this one was for the girls. I had the divine pleasure of schmoozing with some of the most delightful women, the most gifted writers, I may ever know. Ladies, you are all rock stars to me. (You too, even though you weren't there. Or were you.....?)

It was surreal, sublime and incredibly difficult to be surrounded by these women I've been so anxious to meet. I likened it to having a dozen browser windows open at once; So much information to take in, plus too much noise, activity and smoke (it drives me to distraction) to concentrate on anyone for more than a second at a time. A ladies' lunch may be in the works, which would thrill me to no end because there's so much I want to know about all of you and I just couldn't focus enough to ask the right questions tonight, let alone fully absorb your answers.

This feels a bit like the aftermath of a first date. Was I too awkward? Did I talk too much? Did I talk enough? Could they tell I was nervous? Was there a booger in my nose? Why can't we just skip this part and get to the comfort zone? God, I hope they call.

In related news, Sunday afternoon marked my sixth annual Girls' Nite holiday gathering. Every few months since 1999, six former co-workers have assembled to eat, drink and be our fabulous selves. The venue may change -- we take turns hosting -- but always there are cocktails, home-cooked meals and, at holiday time, an exchange of small, creative, meaningful gifts.

Grape juice and vodka: heaven in a martini glass.

The Girls were amazed by my bottomless capacity for love and Nicoise salad.

This year I made little Harry & David-inspired goodie boxes,

and wrapped them up with pretty bows. (Details, details!)

Guess who gave out this goodie. Go on, guess.

These Girls and I, we've seen each other through some major life changes; forces of growth and destruction, bliss and pain. All of us -- the wives, the mothers and the steadfastly single -- are powerfully independent. Conversations may touch on shopping and skincare but typically steer toward home improvement and retirement funds. From the outside we don't seem to have much in common: Our ages, backgrounds, lifestyles and personalities are all over the map. I'd say the same is true of the bloggers I met tonight. And yet we're all bonded, I think, by our love for womanhood and the affirmation we glean from being women together.

This is getting a little schmaltzy and I'm starting to make myself sick, like when I'm forced to watch "The View." I'll close with the lyrics of an appropriately nauseating ditty:

Thank you for being a friend.
Travel down the road and back again.
Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidant.
And if you threw a party
and invited everyone you kneeeewwwww,
you would see
the biggest gift would be from me
and the card attached would say,
"Thank you for bein' a frieeeennnnnd."
(do-do dooo doo doo dooooooo......)

There, I feel much better now.

2005-12-19T23:35:00.000-05:00

Did you catch Bush's address Sunday night? I happened to be watching CBS at that moment, so it was Bob Schieffer who delivered the intro on my TV. I don't know if it was just Schieffer's take on things or if all the networks came off this way, but I was not feeling the standard seriousness.

Usually the anchor barges in: "Oh, were you watching "The Simpsons"? TOUGH SHIT; The president's got something to say. And when he's done, we'll be back to beat the horse for TWO. MORE. HOURS. Don't make any plans."

But this time the tone was almost... apologetic. Schieffer seemed to sigh, "Look, he promised to keep it short this time. You won't miss your shows -- our schmaltzy Christmas movie starts in like 15 minutes, I swear. I'll be back later tonight if you wanna hear my take on the speech. But please, don't feel obligated."

"Look, I know he's an idiot. You know he's an idiot. We all know he's an idiot. Let's just get this over with, okay?"

About three minutes in I switched the channel to UPN, where "Boogie Nights" was in the middle of a scene that was, for all intents and purposes, soft-core porn. It was a long scene, and while there was a good deal of blurring I don't think any content had been cut. Just as my heart was starting to thaw for the ass-backwards, selectively-puritanical networks and their "tits-but-no-nipples / thongs-but-no-butt-cracks" censorship guidelines, they bleeped out the word "cum." Three hours of sex, drugs and bullet wounds, and they're afraid impressionable teens will get in trouble if they let a little "cum" slip by?

I mean... You know what I mean.

(If you laughed at that one, you're on the next bus to hell. I'll save you a seat.)

here's looking at me

2005-12-17T13:36:00.001-05:00

Last night I came home to a MySpace message from a man who rides my evening bus home.

"I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time," he wrote, "and today fate walked into my office." He went on to say one of his co-workers had been tooling around on this "MySpace" website he'd never heard of and suddenly my face was on the screen. So he set up a profile and sent me an e-mail. "It’s just that I’ve always believed how very nice it would be to know you as more than just the girl on the bus with the pretty red hair."

All this time I was minding my own business on the N2, shuffling through my iPod while I stewed in sweaty gym clothes, and somebody was keeping an eye on me. I should pay attention more; I never know who might be watching.

I've had my own secret crush (or five), most recently the disturbingly handsome man who frequents my favorite lunch joint on M Street. Who knows if I'd have seized an opportunity to reach him had I stumbled across his mug online; In real life, I failed to make the connection.

I think the expectation of privacy – especially among bloggers – has been stretched thin across the Internet. In public spaces like this one we fool ourselves into thinking strangers don't care enough to hunt down any more information than we've extended in our open palms. Or maybe we tell ourselves they're dying to know more when in fact they couldn't care less. Either way, we enjoy a sense of control, false as it may be, that's shaped by how much or how little anonymity we choose to forfeit on our blogs, our Friendster profiles, our MySpace pages and our dating sites.

We may do a lot of living here online, but we still have lives. I ride the elevator with my neighbors, run alongside other members at the gym, zone out on the bus with the same commuters every day. I meander through Whole Foods each week and almost always pass George Stephanopolous in the produce section, or wave to the girl with dreadlocks who works behind the bakery. Granted, Stephanopolous is a public figure, but he and the baker both help illustrate my point: A community is comprised of citizens, and if you live in a neighborhood long enough you're bound to start recognizing a few. Even those you don't see on TV.

A few months ago I was waiting for the bus after work. And waiting. And waiting.... And after a half hour or so I started to hoof it home. Several blocks along I realized someone was walking next to me, matching me stride for stride. We exchanged a knowing eye-roll -- "Ugh, doesn't DC public transportation suck?" -- and then he blurted, "Don't you work out at Gold's?"

"Ummm... I used to," I said, "but I moved to Washington Sports Club, like, a year ago."

"Oh, that would explain why I haven't seen you in the gym lately." Honest to God, I had no idea who this guy was. Which is not so unusual; I do tend to orbit on my own semi-conscious moon. But even for a space cadet like me -- or maybe particularly so -- it's a little jarring to meet a complete stranger who's familiar with both my face and some element of my life's routine.

We made small talk for a while, discovered we live on the same street and work a couple blocks from one another. We talked about blogging; He wasn't familiar with the medium and promised to give mine a read. By the time we arrived home three miles later we'd exchanged business cards.

The next day he e-mailed me at work: "It was nice to finally meet you last night and thanks for providing me with evening reading material... I must say that for as long as I have seen you around (year and a half I guess-from my Gold's time) I always took you to be quite shy..." As usual, I'd been engrossed in my own world, oblivious to the fact that I'd been, if not watched, at least seen. And also apparently judged with some accuracy -- from a distance, just by my expression and body language.

Later that day my boss called me into her office as I was on my way out the door. She grinned at me and said, "I think I saw you get picked up last night."

My left eyebrow shot up in surprise. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Tall blonde guy. Cute! You were walking and talking on your way up Mass Avenue while I was stuck in traffic, so I got to watch you for a good fifteen minutes or so. Looked like you were getting along famously."

"Ohmigod, I can't believe you saw that," I breathed.

She chuckled. "I got pretty bored sitting there in my car and I thought about honking, but I figured that was the sort of thing that would've made my kids want to kill me. I didn't want to ruin it for you."

"Thanks, I appreciate that," I said, smirking at the mental image of my own mother, who would have honked, pulled over and brewed coffee on the side of the road. ("So... Bobby, is it? What line of work are you in, Bobby? A lawyer, really... Here, have a cookie.")

This Wednesday there's another blogger happy hour at Pharaoh's Bar in Adams Morgan. It'll be my third. At the first I was nervous, and I met a few strangers. At the second I was... less nervous, and I made some acquaintances. This time, I'm excited to share a drink with people I feel are sort of friends. Whether or not I've met them before, they're part of my community; We see each other every day.

like a bowl full of jelly

2005-12-14T17:34:00.000-05:00

My weight has always been a complicated issue, but I think I've finally distilled it to a simple matter of choice: I can choose to lift weight, in the form of metal bars and dumbells, for an hour or two each week; or I can choose to wear it, like a subcutaneous snowsuit, every minute of every hour of every single day.

Most of the time -- like 90 percent, give or take -- I'm an obsessively healthy eater. Raw vegetables, lean protein and cereals from the whole-grain hippie aisle are my main dietary staples. While I adore all food and will discuss at great length the sweets and pastas and steaks and cheese that entice me from day to day, I go to great pains to keep them the hell away from my mouth. In theory indulgences are sweet rewards; in practice they breed bitter regret.

Still, lately I suspect... who am I kidding, I know some unsanctioned junk has been sneaking past the bouncer. 'Tis the season, after all, and on top of the usual holiday suspects my Jewish office has been gifted with Israeli chocolates (the best in the world), Zabar's babka (the best in New York), and fried dough in every size, shape and flavor (a tradition at Hannukah time).

A bite here, a nibble there, it adds up. So I've been running 15 miles a week to offset the expansive effects of this most delectable time of year. (Thank you Kayla, Patron Saint of Cardio, who materializes in my doorway each afternoon chirping at me to "Put those sneakers on! Gym's getting crowded! Don't give me the pouty face, I saw you with that muffin today.")

To some degree the strategy has worked... but here's where I hit a snag: My job has lately kept me from my weekly strength training class. Keep in mind, it takes only two weeks for muscles to start breaking down; In twice that time I've fallen victim to a phenomenon known as Sorority Girl Body, which was described to me by a gym instructor like this: "It's, you know, skinnyfat. Like when you look great in your clothes, but then you get naked and everything's just a fucking mess."

Yeah, I'm turning into that girl. Soft, lumpy, round-of-belly and dimpled-of-thigh. Her uniform of denim is more than just stylish; jeans conceal a multitude of sins.

Late nights at the office are done for now; Our big fat fundraiser has been a big fat success, and I'm back in the groove of squats, thrusts and curls. Lessons learned: 1. I can run like a hamster for miles and miles, and it's great for my heart and for burning off carrot cake with sweet glistening raisins and a paper-thin layer of the richest cream cheese icing I ever tasted, it was almost like a glaze, how do they get such intense flavor in there, is it lemon juice......? Sorry. I mean, jogging burns calories, but weight training wards off Cottage Cheese Disease; and 2. Gorgeous golden fried peanut butter-honey-and-banana sandwiches, and warm apple-cherry pie with vanilla bean ice cream and candied pecans, and steaming baskets of cheese fries smothered in five-alarm chili, and melty cheesy meaty doughy yummy yummy pizza... these are but siren songs wafting from the deep fat fryer in my subconscious mind. Resistance is tough, but not futile.

The holidays are here and temptation will chase me as sure as Santa's gonna skip over my chimney Christmas Eve. When willpower fizzles, muscles may triumph.

Failing that, I can always run away.

2005-12-07T23:37:00.000-05:00

This poem was the product of a slow day at work in 1998. My mother got her hands on a copy, and that copy begat many more copies, until they'd been spread all across the land, with enough left over for the guests a-gath'ring from far and from wide to bestow their pasta salads and swedish meatballs upon my family's annual Hannukah party buffet. And thus was born the Hannukah tradition in which the eldest child is humiliated before 50 of Mommy's nearest and dearest friends.

This year I think I'll beat her to the punch and embarrass myself; on a global scale, no less. Who's laughing now, Ma? Who's laughing now? (I believe this is what's known as "taking back the night.")

Here's my loving tribute to Christmas -- which is, believe it or not, my favorite holiday of all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

‘Twas the month before Christmas
in Oakton, V.A.
All Halloween costumes
had been stashed away.

Second grade students
sat eating their paste
while Mommies at home
prepared turkeys to baste.

In finest attire
the children were dressed,
with iron-on Rudolphs
adorning their sweats.

Their classroom -- it looked
like the North Pole exploded;
canned snow had been schpritzed
and the windows were coated.

Red and green bows
spiffed up macrame elves,
googly-eyed reindeer
wore cheap metal bells,

tinsel and popcorn
and twinkling lights
swirled 'round push-button Wise Men
that played “Silent Night.”

Trinkets were hung
on the tree by the door,
the branches so heavy
they sagged to the floor.

Boy, when it came to Christmas
they laid it on thick;
‘twas no end in sight
to this holiday schtick.

You'd find nary a dreidle
or latke in sight,
no homemade menorahs,
no candles to light,

just stockings that hung
o’er the blackboard and wall,
the names of the students
glued onto them all.

But one stocking was missing —
belonging to who?
It was little Danielle,
second grade’s only Jew.

Now I send out this message
to all fellow Yids
who felt a bit slighted
when you were just kids:

We Jews have a lot
that most goyim can’t claim --
stuff that puts doilies
and fruitcake to shame.

There are words like meshugenah
mieskeit and tuchas,
schlemiel and schlemazel,
farklempt and mishpucha.

We never pay retail,
we’re most of us smart,
we know from good food,
we have great taste in art,

our chicken soup heals,
our brisket’s delish,
it’s amazing the stuff
we can make out of fish.

So next time you fancy
a tree filled with chotchkes,
or you wonder if fruitcake
tastes better than latkes,

remember how wonderful
Jewish can be.
I’ve been to the other side;
take it from me.

I've got my muvs to keep me warm

2005-12-04T13:09:00.000-05:00

Several months ago my mother joined a local choral group -- a mixed bag of Washingtonians of all ages, walks of life and levels of... ability, united by their common love of song. Mom has been working hard to rope me into singing with them; So far I've resisted a variety of tactics including bribery ("I'll take you shopping after rehearsal..."), threats ("If you're too busy to sing with me once a week then maybe my laundry machines will be too busy to wash your clothes next weekend."), and guilt ("But there's another young woman who comes with her parents -- you're letting us all down!").

Joining wasn't going to happen but I did have an opportunity to listen yesterday afternoon, when the group sang an all-Haydn program at the First Baptist Church on 16th Street. Since I'd never been to a Baptist church or seen this chorus perform, I imagined my tiny blonde mother, clad in a satin robe, clapping enthusiastically like Forrest Gump amidst a throng of black gospel singers. (Once inside I realized I'd been way off base, but still I've tucked the mental picture away for future amusement.)

The rest of my family arrived a few minutes into the first number. My sister plopped down beside me in the polished wooden pew; I was happy to see her so I said a silent "hello" by tilting my head onto her shoulder, where I promptly fell asleep until intermission. A smarter girl would have left time to swing by Starbucks on the way to the church after running out of French Roast that morning. (I'm crippled without my second cup.) Or failing that, I might have spared a moment to pencil green irises on my eyelids so I could snooze through the concert unnoticed. But as usual, I didn't think ahead. (Mom, I was listening, and you sang beautifully. Please stop crying.)

After the performance, as we bundled back into our warm things, my brother looked down at my hands and asked, "What... are those?"

"I'm not sure if they have a name," I said. "I was thinking maybe glittens or muvs, or pawpaws... maybe camel toes? Oh -- no, scratch that one. Shut up, it's not that funny. Lately I've been calling them splittens."

"I see," he said, pressing his lips together.

I continued, "They're warm like mittens, but they allow a little more dexterity -- it's tough to a work an iPod with your all your fingers stuck together. Plus these match my new favorite hat."

My brother looked them over, nodding thoughtfully as he inspected my hands. After a long pause he said, "Interesting design. As far as I can see there's only one drawback." To which I raised my eyebrows -- Yes, and what is that?

"You look completely retarded."

"Josh, that's not true, don't tell her that," my father scolded. Always my hero. "She looks more like a circus freak. Like that Lobster Man we saw on The Learning Channel."

My brother shot me a wicked grin and sneered, "While we're on the subject... Well, I think you ought to be told there's a fuzzy tumor growing out of your head."

a brief commercial break

2005-12-02T23:30:00.000-05:00

Even if Frank Warren hadn't once done something really nice for me, I would still be plugging his book because it's just that good. "PostSecret: Extraordinary Confessions from Ordinary Lives" is finally available. Buy it. Read it. Read it again. Hold it at Starbucks and attractive strangers will approach you, intrigued. You could soon find yourself on a date with someone fabulous because of PostSecret. These things do happen.

Whatever you do with the book, bring it to Frank's exhibit in Georgetown this month and maybe he'll sign it for you. If you show up on the 14th you can help raise money for suicide hotline National Hopeline Network.

Frank has arrived. Congratulations, man; It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

Here's something else cool: JOYS – Just Organize Your Stuff -- makes it simple to keep track of all those pesky papers and bits of information collectively known as your life. How simple? I don't know exactly, but certainly more simple than my "pile on top of the desk" method. And a heck of a lot more attractive. These things are -- pardon the oxymoron -- inconspicuous eye candy. Which means they look pretty on the shelf, but not so flashy that a burglar would think to nab them.

my dog ate all my good material

2005-12-01T08:22:00.002-05:00

I realize that lately my blog has been a little lean, and also a bit lame. Since I don't usually talk about work here I've neglected to mention that this is my "busy season," and currently I'm juggling a workload that might be manageable for two and a half fully capable professional artists. But for a lone, self-taught designer with the attention span of a fruit fly, it's proving too much to handle. In the last few weeks I've devolved into a snarling bitch around the office and a zombie at home, so mentally exhausted at night I can scarcely form one complete sentence, let alone string a few together into a cohesive anecdote.

The pressure at work has been building and yesterday I snapped, just briefly, and spent four and a half cathartic minutes under my desk in the fetal position, weeping into the collar of my peacoat. (My desk is awesome for hiding -- the front panel goes all the way down to the floor.) Afterward I felt much better and went back about my business. Things should ease up after today.

On an unrelated note: I was watching "Nature" on PBS last night (as I often do, since I chose a gym membership over Cable TV and there's not a lot to see on the networks these days), and I think this year for Hannukah I'd like a capuchin monkey. They're just so precious. Also they seem intelligent and dexterous, and I could really use some help around the house. I bring this up because live monkeys are apparently unavailable on Amazon.com and thus cannot be added to my wishlist. (An Amazon search for "monkey" turned up, among other things, Donkey Kong Country 3 for Game Boy and Anti-Monkey Butt Powder Anti-Friction Plus Sweat Absorber. Personally I'm a Johnson's baby powder girl, but I find the banana-yellow package design quite appealing.)

Actually I understand monkeys are not so easy to come by: I've got a friend who traveled through India and Asia after college. When I ran into his mother at a holiday party she told a shocking tale in which my friend's neck was slashed by a broken bottle in a Nepalese bar fight. "They missed his artery by this much," she said with her fingers pinched together. A couple years later I repeated this to the slashee and he said, "Jesus, why does she always tell that story? She never mentions that I managed to buy a car and drive all the way to China with a monkey in the passenger seat. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a monkey?" Maybe it's just the way he said it, but every time I think about that conversation I laugh out loud. Indignation by itself is amusing; demanding respect for successful procurement of a primate -- to me, that's comedy.

2005-11-29T23:06:00.000-05:00

Although I am an American girl, I can honestly say I've never experienced a traditional American Thanksgiving. In my family there is no such thing as pumpkin pie. Giblets are a suburban myth. Stuffing belongs inside a teddy bear, not a turkey, and cranberries dance across our holiday table in a quivering ring my Grandma calls a "jelly mold." From our cornucopia spills a Jewish bounty of chopped liver, kasha varnishkes, brisket and cholent (that's my Grampa's legacy of beef, lima beans, potatoes, barley, garlic and schmaltz). Don't bother looking for recipes; They're all variations on a theme of meat, starch and fat. No fiber, no veggies. These foods were the building blocks of my culture. Literally: I think they used leftovers as bricks and spackle in the old country.

cholent will keep you warm at night, one way or another

One such meal is manageable, but after a couple days we're all suffering from... sort of a trade imbalance, if you will. Not to mention this stuff really fills your gas tank. The long ride home, uh, passed as it always does: argue, argue, gossip, argue -- “Alright, who did it?” -- bicker, complain, insult, chuckle -- “Damnit! Again?" -- joke, bicker, punchbuggy -- "Jesus Christ, open the goddamned window!” -- and finally a tripping, clawing race from the garage to my parents' downstairs bathroom. I promised not to point the finger at anyone in particular, but I will say this: I'll think twice before I bully a certain sibling of mine into the middle seat -- the one farthest from the window -- for another lengthy car ride. Payback is a bitch.

Every year I make this trip, and every year I moan that it's a pain in the ass with the driving and schlepping and missing a day of work. But I wouldn't skip it, not for all the stuffing in the world. After a few days of loving squabbles and gastrointestinal distress with the 15 crazy New Yorkers collectively known as "The Cousins," I leave with my gut heavy and my heart light, and I feel restored. Traditional Thanksgiving I can take or leave, but I'm definitely thankful for tradition.

some days in the life

2005-11-23T21:19:00.000-05:00

As I get older and years tick by, I notice that certain dates start to take on a personal significance, sort of like a holiday just for me. For example, on January 20th my first period started (at age 12), Dr. K cemented braces to my teeth (when I was 13), and he pried them off (exactly two years later). So I've come to associate the date with coming of age, and I find it comforting that the guiding force in my life seems to be on some kind of schedule.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is another one I've come to anticipate because history indicates that something exciting -- for better or for worse -- is a little more likely to happen on that day.

Seven years ago today was the first time I broke a bone (unless you count my nose when I was 17, but, um, that wasn't exactly an accident). I was living in my first post-college apartment, a three-bedroom duplex I shared with Ryan -- a rich kid who worked for his Dad and brought strippers home on the weekends -- and Anna -- a girl so dumb that when I told her my tale of breast reduction surgery to stop her complaining about her little mosquito bites, she nodded sympathetically and said, "Oh, right, I remember you mentioned you're lactose intolerant..." But my roommates weren't home that night, and my parents were already on their way to pick me up for the drive to New York, so after I tripped over my Thanksgiving suitcase and fell with my foot turned under I could only sit and wait, and turn the TV up loud enough to drown out the "crack" that had issued from my ankle and was now echoing inside my head. It still makes me shudder. My mother didn't want to take me to the hospital; We were already off to a late start and my ankle wasn't swollen to her satisfaction. But I put my (other) foot down and even though the ankle did turn out to be broken, the satisfaction of that irrefutable "I Told You So" really took the edge off the pain. For the next six weeks I told people I'd been injured wrestling in jello.

Three years later, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving 2001, was the first time I learned what it meant to make love. No, it wasn't the first time I'd had sex, but it was the first time I slept with the first man I loved, and I honestly felt so deliriously in over my head I couldn't even remember the person I'd been before we met. (Not so healthy, I know, but I was young and foolish and it was exhilirating at the time.) On Monday -- the day before -- we'd finally admitted we were head-over-heels crazy for one another. Tuesday was our first night together and I declared it the best sex I'd ever had simply because I was so damned happy. Wednesday morning I left for my annual pilgrimage to New York (pardon the pun) and on Thursday, just before Thanksgiving dinner, he called my cellphone to say, "I'm running out the door but I had to tell you that I love you and I miss you terribly." And seriously, I thought my heart would burst.

And finally, there's this: On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving two years ago, I moved into my condo. Not the first time I'd lived alone, but the first home I ever owned. (And so far the only one; I'm still here.) My relationship with S had ended a few months earlier, just before we were set to move into the apartment he'd bought for us. (This is an experience I liken to being kicked off the Titanic just before it left port.) I was between jobs then, so I'd spent a great deal of time making our new apartment feel like a home. I took particular care designing the kitchen. I love to cook, so I'd be spending a lot of time in there, plus I'd always wanted a black-and-white tile floor like a 1950s diner. Oh, the lengths I went to pulling that place together. I met with S's contractor, spent days tracking down the best tile store... It was a labor of love. For the apartment, really, not so much for him; I'm a sucker for a corner unit. And then we split up on the second day of my new job, and I -- emboldened employee of a women's empowerment organization, champion of economic security for chicks everywhere -- informed S that I was looking to buy a place of my own. To which he guffawed, "You're not buying shit."

Oops, look at the time! I'm running late so I'll let this picture tell the rest of the story for me:

Eat my glazed ceramic dust.

I'm off now to celebrate another Thanksgiving with my family in the (other) Land of the Jews, Flushing, New York. Since Grandma only just signed up for touch-tone dialing, I think it's safe to assume WiFi will be out of the question for the next three days. But I'll be back home on Saturday with a couple amusing anecdotes or at least photos of some Jewish holiday food that'll make you either drool on your keyboard or wretch in disgust, depending on your nutritional leanings. I should be finished digesting sometime next week.

Have a brilliant holiday, everyone. I'm really going to miss you.

2005-11-22T08:38:00.000-05:00

I took this picture on Sunday while one of my oldest friends was visiting from out of town. Huddled over my camera's tiny viewfinder -- just like we used to crouch over Jennifer's Easy-Bake Oven -- I declared that "We still look like a couple of kids," and promised to e-mail the image as soon as I got home.

An hour later I was staring at the picture on my 15-inch screen and my eyes were drawn to... my eyes. To creases I'd never noticed. Real, grown-up, been-around-the-block, I-know-how-to-walk-in-heels, let-me-show-you-how-to-work-that-power-drill, I-don't-need-a-boyfriend-but-I'll-take-you-as-my-lover creases. I was mesmerized. I adored them instantly.

Is this odd? Aren't women supposed to rue the day their wrinkles arrive? Is this my cue to toss the soap-n-sunscreen regimen and start using words like "collagen" and "peel"? I'm sure I'd feel differently if I'd noticed, say, a sagging neck or train tracks across my forehead (all in good time). But there's something about that crinkle in the corner of my eye that lends a deep, rich texture to my self-expression. It substantiates my stories. Punctuates my jokes. Implies all the empathy, passion, warmth, lust and joy I've always struggled to convey. A prism to refract the twinkle in my eye, an ornament that gilds the window to my soul... This, right here, is character, and it only deepens with age. What in the world is not beautiful about that?

2005-11-18T21:16:00.000-05:00

They're not even trying anymore.

mister, hide!

2005-11-17T14:00:00.000-05:00

To say that I become cranky the week before my period would be a gross understatement, like "Clive Owen is kinda cute, I guess" or "That Hitler, he had a little chip on his shoulder." This week I am a raving lunatic. An entirely different person from the self-assured, pulled-together, svelte, retiring creature that inhabits my body the other three weeks of the month. This week I cry when my coffee gets cold. I stomp my foot when the sushi bar runs out of spicy tuna. Not only do I hate everyone, I become convinced that everyone hates me; Friends who've waited more than a couple days to call me back/respond to my e-mails/acknowledge my existence in some way are dead to me! That's it -- kaput! Before they've had a chance to check their messages I've cut them loose. Of course, they never have a clue; For the sake of all involved I've learned to keep these rash decisions to myself, as I am always eager to scoop everyone back into my good graces once my hormones catch their balance and this goes much more smoothly when the innocent-accused are kept out of the loop.

But now, as in every month, my morning office greeting of "Hey girls!" or "Whoo, it's chilly! Who wants coffee?" has given way to a low grunt followed by an invitation to "Give me one good reason not to jump."

This week I crave everything that's bad for me -- salt, sugar, baked goods and selfish men -- and after mere moments of resistance I give in to temptation and binge on them all, then spend the next day or two beating myself up about it until I can get to a treadmill or worry the calories away.

I used to hope it was hormones that turned my eyes into funhouse mirrors; that the distorted reflection of a pouting pufferfish was just a figment of my pre-menstrual imagination. But even if my eyes can't be trusted, my wardrobe doesn't lie: Rings indent my swollen fingers and my jeans have temporarily ceased to fit... My body's soaked up water and it won't. let. go. I am SpongeBob FatPants.

Do me a favor, people: Open your calendars to four weeks from now and write "D: CRAZY/NEEDY" in red Sharpie ink. Then kindly make a point to send a little TLC my way. I may be too f**king pissed off to thank you at the time, but it'll really make my day.

The introvert went out

2005-11-16T22:55:00.000-05:00

...and made some friends.

There was another blogger happy hour at Pharaoh's in Adams Morgan tonight, and this time more than five people came. It was more like eight or ten or so -- I'm not sure exactly, I spent most of the night at one end of the bar clinging to Merujo, ostensibly because I don't like crowds but also because, well, she's cool as shit and tells awesome stories.

Frank was there -- I just adore Frank, such a sincere and interesting guy -- and he brought a copy of his new book. Buy it. It's beautiful.

And you were there. And you, and you -- who apparently work in my office building and ride the elevator with me from time to time. Small world.

I was talking with a friend the other day about how the Internet is growing simultaneously broader and more intimate, and I remarked that it's the natural progression of things for a space or an entity -- like the blogosphere -- to reach a certain size and then start to divide. And later that day AJ said something about bloggers tending to run in the same circles; After clicking around a bit beyond my usual haunts I'm inclined to say that's true. Our universe has become so vast that in order to manage it we've broken off into our own solar systems -- some defined by geography, others by interests, and others by a common readership that almost sorta makes us... friends. I'll drink to that. Actually, I just did.

See you at the next meetup.

2005-11-16T08:37:00.000-05:00

Mom was a little upset about my "free soup" post last week... She thought I crossed the line and she gave me an earful about it, though her criticism makes me wonder just how carefully she was reading.

"Jesus, Danielle," she was almost in tears, "I'm not saying there isn't a grain of truth in there, but you made me out to be some kind of criminal. I mean, you called me a pillager. How am I supposed to feel about that?"

"No, Mom, I said 'pilfer.' I said you pilfered pastries. It's not the same thing."

"Oh. Ok, that's not so bad."

rack 'n my brain

2005-11-13T08:29:00.000-05:00

Not long ago I was ribbing a friend with my typical knowitallism -- "Duh, don't you know you need a sponge to seal grout?" "It's nook-lee-ur, not nook-you-lur!" -- when he sighed deeply and said, "Sheesh, girl, you're not easy to impress."

Really, not true. Smart people -- like this friend -- dazzle me all the time; It's actually me who wants to impress. I have this awful habit of trying to prove I'm as intelligent as the company I keep. I'm afraid if I relax too much in conversation, if I let my A Game slide, someone might think me stupid.

Yeah, I know I'm neurotic, but in this case there's an explanation: Until I was 18 or so I didn't realize I was smart. I didn't think I wasn't smart, I knew I was bright enough, and I don't mean to suggest now that I'm some great undiscovered mind of my time... It's possible my Mensa card is lost in the mail, but for now let's assume I'm an average girl with a good head on my shoulders. Unfortunately I was in college before it occured to me that what I thought or said might be of interest to anyone not related to me or paid to listen.

Why so unsure? Two reasons: The breast on my left, and the breast on my right.

Stop laughing, boys, this is serious. I hope you glean a lesson from this story, one that informs both the way you interact with women and the way you teach your sons to do the same.

Excessively large breasts skipped a generation in my family -- skipped right over my mother and landed with all their crushing weight directly on top of me. By the time I was 15 I had my grandmother's bosom. Literally. Eight out of ten people would not have been able pick mine from a lineup of busty old maids. I didn't jog or booty-dance (as was the style in those days). I wore a tank top at the beach. Maintained a strict over-the-shirt policy when it came to second base. I wouldn’t even consider undressing for a boy, no matter how cute he was or now sweetly he wooed me. I could scarcely stand to be naked alone.

Boys my age sometimes teased but usually they avoided me or gawked from afar. On the other hand, older men made it their business to leer, approach, conduct entire conversations with my chest. The lack of eye contact stunted my self-esteem, I think. In my formative years -- a time when strangers' judgment trumped parents' pride in shaping my sense of self -- I was just learning what my assets were and how I was supposed to use them. I thought if my measurements were all anyone noticed, maybe they were all I had to offer. Eventually I replaced attempts at witty banter with tight shirts, short skirts, and longer, blonder hair; People expected a bimbo, so a bimbo I would be.

This charade served me for a while but still there was no denying my breasts were a problem. They spilled out of bras, bumped into strangers, knocked over water glasses and announced my presence by entering a room just before me. I tried not to be self-conscious but it was a losing battle: They were always a step ahead. I was always a step behind.

My back ached. My shoulders were strained. Physically, sexually, emotionally, my body was holding me back. I was fortunate to have options, and I think you can understand the choice I made:

Bound and wrapped like Yentl the morning after surgery, I took a few deep breaths and peeked beneath my hospital gown. My body felt light and it looked so small... It was the first time I’d seen my lap since I was 12. That was when it hit me how much my life was going to change.

Bit by bit I tasted sweet freedom: I strolled into Victoria's Secret and picked a bra straight off the rack. I auditioned for -- I danced in -- "A Chorus Line" with a community summer theater. When the cast went skinnydipping, I joined in the fun. At college parties with boys I showed off nothing but my wits, and to my surprise they listened and laughed when I made conversation. They saw me as smart. They saw me as funny. They saw me. And the first time one of them asked clumsily, "Are you wearing colored contacts or are those your real eyes?" I blushed and swooned and said, "Wow, that's the sweetest thing anyone ever said to me."

So you see, my smart friend who cannot pronounce "nuclear" but amazes me nonetheless, I'm pretty easy to impress. All you have to be is yourself.

free soup for you!

2005-11-07T22:18:00.005-05:00

Are you familiar with the term finagler? It's Yiddish, referring to a person who skirts the rules, circumvents the system to get what she wants. A person like -- come on, you know who I'm talking about -- a person like... my mother!

Oh, that Mom of mine. When she's not hatching a harebrained scheme she's seizing an opportunity to bamboozle and dupe. If I had a nickel for every time Dad declared she had some 'splainin to do... It's no coincidence my cellphone plays the theme from I Love Lucy whenever she calls.

My siblings and I still laugh about our trips to the multiplex when we were younger. It was always an exercise in sneaking in -- from the contraband popcorn and candy Mom would pour into the "feed bag" at home, to the Under-12 movie passes she continued to buy after our bar mitzvahs had long since passed. "I thought I told you to shave this morning," she'd scold my younger brother. "Now go stand behind that pole while I buy the tickets. Hello, one adult and two children, please."

For higher forms of art, my mother promises theater companies a "review" in her entertainment agency's client "newsletter" and widespread word of mouth (on which, I must admit, she has always delivered). Being in the business has paid off: In the last 20 years she's wangled press tickets to every play, concert, opera and ballet to pass through D.C. And for this I cannot criticize. I've been treated to dozens of shows, often seated in the center of the third or fourth row, and it cost me only a few paragraphs of critical acclaim pulled out of my ass, printed on letterhead and faxed with gratitude to the marketing office at the Kennedy Center. Better still, our press packet usually comes with an invitation to the opening-night cast party. That little bonus once led to a fling with a guy in the cast of STOMP.

As finagling relates to foodstuffs, it's pretty much what you'd expect: A bushel of bruised tomatoes from the farmer's market that my mother graciously offered to take off someone's hands ("They were just going throw them away! Can you believe that? Tomato soup for dinner!"); a platter of leftover desserts from the luncheon/wedding/fundraiser of the week; the obligatory dinner rolls wrapped in a napkin and stuffed in her purse "fuh lata"... My Mom is the patron saint of leftovers, rescuing orphaned pastries wherever she goes.

These tactics and behaviors were not developed late in life; over several decades my mother has collected an impressive CV of season tickets and seven-course meals. But I think it was this one encounter -- an inspiring (and admittedly innocent) orchestration of chutzpah and opportunism -- that finally earned her an honorary PhD in Stickin' It To The Man:

Last year during an afternoon at a local shopping mall, my mother stopped by the food court for a bite to eat. She stood before the Chinese buffet a while, contemplating which three entrees to choose for her lunch-deal combo meal. After a few minutes the man behind the counter grew impatient and offered a suggestion to speed things along.

"Here," he said, "you try taste. Orange Chicken." With a toothpick he speared a sticky nugget of fried batter and handed it across the sneeze guard. My mother popped it in her mouth and grimaced as if she'd bitten into a rancid lemon. (Now is a good time to mention that, while Mom's mental filter was never reliable, in recent years it's disintegrated completely, leaving behind a veritable waterslide for all her thoughts and expressions -- the good, the bad, the ugly.)

Understandably, the man was miffed. He turned to a woman ladling soup from a kettle and muttered something in an Asian language that made her chuckle. Which Asian language was anybody's guess; just because these two were selling Chinese food doesn't mean they were Chinese. You can be sure my mother had no idea.

But that didn't stop her from blurting, "You know what? I speak Chinese, and I know what you just said about me, and I don't appreciate it one. single. bit."

She planted her hands on her hips and stood there, unblinking, daring them to call her bluff.

Half a minute stretched into eternity while my mother stared down this quivering wisp of a man. There was no sound but air whistling through the vent overhead, no movement but the tiny bead of sweat that trickled down his forehead. The soup lady dropped her ladle and scurried to the kitchen through the swinging double doors, like she was runnin' from trouble at the O.K. Corral. I'm pretty sure a tumbleweed dusted by.

Finally the man crumpled; his jaw dropped open and out gushed a string of apologies in broken English. "So sorry lady!" he wailed over and over. "You take hot sour soup! No charge! On the house!" He shouted for the woman cowering behind the kitchen window and she filled a large container in one fell swoop.

"Well, okay..." my mother scowled. She grabbed the soup, slapped a few napkins on her tray -- extra hard, for emphasis -- and started to turn away from the counter.

And then, just as everyone started to relax and breathe again, my mother whipped back around and barked,

"Wait a minute -- YOU FORGOT THE CRISPY NOODLES!"

(and they say there's no such thing as a free lunch in this town...)

I've been blessed with good jeans

2005-11-02T19:58:00.000-05:00

Last week I visited bananarepublic.com and spent a disgusting amount of money on denim -- a purchase made only a bit less profane by the vanity sizing which allows me to wiggle into jeans a full size smaller than I usually wear and zip them without incident. ("Incidents" may include, but are not limited to, broken nail, bruised hipbone, ruptured spleen and/or collapsed fallopian tube.)

Vanity sizing is a bonus, but what made this purchase worth all my lunch money was the style: After years of searching, I had finally tracked down the elusive SAJs -- Spectacular Ass Jeans. (Triumphant sidenote: They don't look so hot on the model 'cause she doesn't fill them out.) I don't know what's in this denim -- maybe it's woven from magical fairy thread on an enchanted loom, or infused with the soul-essence of angels who drop by the Banana Republic manufacturing plant on their way to heaven -- but it creates the illusion of the keister of my dreams: Round and firm, more like a butt double in a J. Lo video than, say, a stand-in for the title character in "James and the Giant Peach."

Upon successful zipping of the new jeans I twisted around before the mirror, gasping at this sublime rear-end that resembled a distant, exotic cousin of my own. In that moment I was stirred by ambivalence -- part guilt, part glee -- which I later recognized as the simultaneous terror and exhiliration that comes from realizing you've just put one over on God. ("What tuchus? The one you bestowed upon me? I have no idea what you're talking about, you must have me confused with my sister. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed on the set and Ms. Lopez doesn't like to be kept waiting.")

Maybe God won't smite me for writing this post, but I wouldn't be shocked to wake up tomorrow with a few extra Pounds of Punishment upon my bum. But it's all good! I've got five pairs of SAJs in a size that, even if it isn't honest, makes me feel so very svelte. I plan to rotate them throughout the week again and again and again until the day I die, at which time you may bury me in one pair and line my coffin with the rest because in these jeans I have a Spectacular Ass, and ain't nobody gonna take that away from me.

a portrait of the artist as a young 'un

2005-10-28T08:33:00.004-04:00

Possible explanations for the Liberace suit: 1) Everyone looked like a gay musician in 1982; 2) I thought I'd try Christmas on for size; 3) I was preparing to run away and join the circus (not the first time, not the last); 4) this getup was a hand-me-down from one of the clowns who worked the birthday party circuit for my mother's entertainment agency. Really there's no excuse for this outfit; let's just throw it on the what-was-I-thinking pile and walk away. As for the haircut: My mother claimed it was "chic" and "French." She's always been obsessed with French stuff, I think that's why she named me Danielle. I still can't stand to hear my name issue from her mouth or my own, but enough men have cooed, growled and whispered it to dissuade me from becoming a Jennifer or Samantha.

But this is not about my French name or my red polyester jumpsuit or the haircut that necessitated daily earring wear until my breasts grew enough that people stopped mistaking me for a Daniel. It's about my relationship with the piano. Recently I was inspired to start playing again after a year-long hiatus, and I was relieved to discover that I've still got it, even if it's a little rusty. I guess after 23 years the music is embedded so deep in my subconscious, even if my brain forgets a few bars my fingers can pick up the slack.

I was seven years old when I first was plunked before the upright Wurlitzer in my parents' living room. At that age I was painfully aware of my differentness in the Northern Virginia community where we lived; I was the only Jew in my class, the only girl with cropped hair and strange green eyes and a bedtime ritual that often included falling asleep to the Puccini duets my mother and her opera friends rehearsed in the living room downstairs. Some part of me knew that embracing classical music in the second grade would widen the gap between my classmates and me, but my desire to fit in was not as great as my yearning to become a bona fide musician.

It took only a few lessons for the flashcards to sink in and pretty soon I was reading music and playing "Wheels" at breakneck speed. "Where's the fire?!" my mother would shout, stomping in from the kitchen to slow me down. She meant to scold but couldn't help grinning at the sight of me, brow furrowed in concentration, fingers dancing across the keys, little feet dangling inches above the pedals. After a year, once my legs had grown longer and my parents were sure it'd be worth the investment, a 1906 Steinway baby grand arrived in our house. It was beautiful like a movie star, all smooth curves and polished shine. Eighty-eight copper wires tensed precisely for the perfect pitch. Eighty-eight ivory keys, elegant as a string of pearls. It was the first time I fell in love.

The Steinway had what's called a "stiff action": The keys didn't feel loose like a new Yamaha, they demanded that my fingers work hard and responded with rich, resonant tones. Within a few months my hands had grown strong and nimble. "Look at those instruments!" gasped one new piano teacher, marveling at the long fingers that must have looked out of place on a little girl's arms.

Once I'd settled into my relationship with the Steinway my teacher began to introduce The Men: At age nine I discovered Bach and Mozart; by ten I was flirting with Handel; and then, finally, Chopin arrived in my life. Frederic Chopin, my beloved, my soul mate. I started with his simpler waltzes and worked up to the nocturnes. The concertos were out of my reach but I fantasized about them often (with full orchestra).

My grandmother always said I understood Chopin's music best because we were both Polish. "It's the passion," she would declare with her chin held high, and point out that the "Oriental" kids who won all my piano competitions didn't know from passion. "They play like machines." (Tact has never been my grandmother's strong suit. Her entire view of world is colored by stereotypes and she fails to see the irony.)

Year after year I was schlepped to a statewide piano competition at the Peabody Conservatory of Music in Baltimore. Year after year, through guilt and promises of extravagant Hanukah presents, I was made to play. And year after year I won the number-two spot, which was just fine by me. I hated to compete. Actually I hated to perform at all; I just wanted to make music. But the validation was important to my parents -- it was, after all, their investment that paid for my education and the stunning instrument that few other 12-year-olds had the privilege to call their own.

A different young pianist claimed first prize at each competition I entered. With the exception of one they were all Asian-American kids. I suppose it was a matter of culture: Their parents had instilled in them a discipline that just wasn't part of my family dynamic. They practiced two and three hours a day and turned out technically flawless performances for which they deserved nothing less than a true blue ribbon. Honestly I felt a little guilty; my performance was never perfect. It was sort of a travesty that I came in even a distant second after I'd practiced for 20 or 30 minutes each day before sliding quietly off the piano bench in pursuit of books or television or something to eat. My grandmother insisted that even though I missed a few notes here and there the judges took a shine to me because I could feel the music. "You play it from here," she'd say, pointing her tiny index finger into the middle of my chest. Be that as it may, I wasn't above learning from my peers. From my seat in that sterile conservatory classroom I admired my competitors' brand of passion -- more precise than mine but equally artful -- and it always inspired me to go home, plant myself in front of the keys and really get to work.

At least until snack time.

there's no assistive listening device for the selectively hearing-impaired

2005-10-19T23:21:00.000-04:00

Mom: So when is your article coming out in the Washington Post?

Me: What article?

Mom: The article about the cookies.

Me: I didn't write any article.

Mom: You said you were writing a review of that cookie recipe you made with B a couple weeks ago.

Me: I said we were testing the recipe.

Mom: But you were going to write about it. And it would be published. You said so.

Me: No, I said our names would be mentioned. All we had to do was tell the food people at the Post if the cookies tasted good.

Mom: I don't know why you're so afraid to promote yourself. Just tell them you'll write the article, I'll bet they're dying to have young people do some writing for them.

Me: It's a paragraph, Mom, not an article. And they already have people to do writing for them. They're a newspaper.

Mom: (deep sigh...) Fine. Just sit there and play with your blog all day. See where it gets you.

I cannot win.

Here's the recipe, not in the Post (don't know when that's coming out) but the one in Leite's Culinaria Update is the same, I recognized the photo. Sure, I could have iced mine to resemble precious little lime wedges like the ones in the cookbook, but honest to God people, who has the time? Do you own a piping bag? If you did, would you know how to use it? I didn't think so.

The cookies really are divine, with or without the icing. Don't try to roll the dough without parchment or wax paper, it's very sticky.

Enjoy, and save a couple for me.

2005-10-17T17:23:00.004-04:00

Most of today was spent designing a book for my organization's newest domestic abuse program, which included a section of quotes from battered Jewish women. None of them were terribly dramatic; actually they were quite concise and matter-of-fact, which somehow made them even more powerful. I've met most of these women before - spoken to them at the domestic violence conferences we run every couple years - but to see their stories in stark black and white, sitting alone in my office with no distractions, that brought it home for me.

At first I was sad. And then angry. And then I started to shake a little because I remembered how easily it could have been me.

Our first inclination is to shake a finger at these women and ask, "How could you let it happen? Why didn't you just walk out the door?" We don't understand that it's impossible to see a situation as a "situation" when you're looking at it from the inside. Good God, I thought again and again today, it could have been me. I am so strong, so aware, my take-no-crap policy is so firm... and still it could have been me.

All the times my ex-boyfriend S snapped at me for singing in the car, when he squeezed my arm too tight and pulled me too hard while we were crossing the street, when he put me down with subtle comments only someone tuned into my deepest insecurities would know to use... His explosive, hair-trigger temper with strangers in shops, at the movies, on the street. The way he pushed and manipulated me the first time we had sex - I never said "no," but I didn't really have a chance to say "yes." Even when he would tickle me too hard and too long until I couldn't breathe, until I was begging him to stop. And of course there was the biting. Beneath all his affectionate gestures was an undercurrent of resentment and anger that came up slowly as our relationship wore on. From the outside it was a clear pattern of aggression -- made worse, I think, by the fact that he was nearly twice my size -- but at the time, in the thick of it, I couldn't see the forest through the trees. I wanted so much to make us work.

S works in law enforcement, and while we were dating he was involved in prosecuting a man who brutally murdered his girlfriend. I saw the photos; it was horrific. In the months he spent preparing the case S would wonder aloud, over and over, "I just can't understand how a man could do a thing like that." The more I got to know him the more I could hear what he really was saying: "I understand how a man could do a thing like that. I could do a thing like that, and I hope to God I never will." I think he finally broke up with me because he realized what he was capable of and it terrified him.

So why didn't I leave? Why did I try harder and harder to make it right when I should have just walked out the door? The same reasons all women stay: We had as many good times as bad and he could be so sweet, so charming. My family adored him. I adored his family. I felt responsible for him, almost maternally so, and I thought that with enough nurturing I could lead him to the inner peace he so desperately wanted to find.

And there was his dream of this "perfect life": With his connections (he had many) and my...whatever he thought I brought to the table, he envisioned us as a team that would send poor kids to college, end world hunger, and be the D.C. Power Couple everyone expected us to become. "You'll be the brains of the operation," he used to say, "and I'll be the face." (This is the danger in socializing children to desire a lifestyle, instead of a life of their own creation.) Most of what he promised didn't much appeal to me, but his ambition was infectious and I eventually warmed to the idea of a number of things, most of them material, that I've since cleared from my vision of the future.

S is not an evil man, he has a big heart and a serious behavioral problem, not unlike a hyperactive child. Last winter I agreed to meet him for a drink but he canceled at the last minute saying it was too painful for him to be in the same room with me knowing we couldn't be together. Last spring I again agreed to see him for a few hours and things quickly became uncomfortable. (I know, you're wondering what the hell is wrong with me, but understand that it's very easy to want to make peace with an ex when you're 100 percent confident that you will never, ever, ever want him back. Ever.)

I curled up in a chair at Starbucks. S sat next to me with his hand resting on my foot. He ran down a list of all his friends and what was new in their lives: Engaged. Married. New House. New Baby.

"I'm going to be 39 this year," he said, tracing my ankle bone with his finger. It turned my stomach. "I want to have a family. I think about you a lot and I know nobody will ever take care of me the way you could." I couldn't bring myself to say 'You must be fucking kidding me' -- he looked so vulnerable it kind of broke my heart -- so I let my silence speak for itself.

He kept smiling but I could tell he was hurt, and on the way out the door, when nobody was around, he started to tickle me. The mean way. He dug his fist into my armpit and didn't stop until my eyes stung with tears. A half hour later at home, I sat down on my bed and touched the tender spot he'd knuckled into my side, wondering why I hadn't thrown my elbow into his ribs, crushed his toe with my heel, something. The answer is the difference between S and me: I may have a wicked temper, I may think nasty thoughts from time to time, but when it comes down to it I just don't have it in me to willfully damage another person.

S called last week to wish me a happy new year and ask if I'd like to have lunch. "No agenda this time," he swore, "I just thought it'd be nice to see your face." I told him I was busy, but of course that wasn't true. It's simply time to stop playing this game. He's no longer my responsibility and no longer my problem. And let's not forget -- let's not ever forget -- it could have been me.

this is why your browser comes with parental controls

2005-10-16T17:45:00.000-04:00

Mom: What's a bong?

Me: Where did you learn that word?

Mom: In the comments on your blog, from the squirrel story.

Me: It's something you use to smoke marijuana. You put water inside and hold your finger over the hole and... Never mind.

Mom: Oh, I thought it was a phallic thing. I got a little upset because I thought people were writing sex comments on your website.

Me: Nope. Just drug paraphernalia.

Mom: Okay then, that's fine.

2005-10-15T08:49:00.000-04:00

In my last year of college I shared a house with friends in a quiet College Park neighborhood near the University of Maryland. We didn't throw loud parties and we considerately limited our pot smoking to the interior of the house, so most of our neighbors -- families and a few elderly couples -- went about their lives as if we weren't there. But there was one fortyish man named Earle, living with his parents down the street, who would sometimes stop by and chat with us while we lazed on our porch swing on weekend afternoons. He was harmless, if a little odd, and he liked to talk about the squirrels in our yard -- particularly the albino that lived in the tree out front.

As the weather turned cold we'd watch the squirrel out there every day, working hard for his acorns -- find, dig, bury, dig, chew, chew, chew -- day in and day out. I don't know if it was his milky coat, his admirable work ethic or the fact that a snow-white squirrel is simply captivating when you're twenty-one, bored and high as a kite, but we took a shine to the little guy and adopted him as the unofficial mascot of our happy home.

Sometime in late winter the white squirrel up and disappeared. We noticed, it was briefly discussed, but we were too busy with our studies and social lives to give it much thought... until one day in February when a storm stranded us at home, classes cancelled, with nothing to do but get stoned and play in the snow. When Earle spotted us outside he walked over to ask if we'd noticed the squirrel was gone. We said yes, as a matter of fact we had noticed. Did he have any idea what had happened?

Earle's eyes got kinda shifty and he kicked at the snow a moment before confessing that he'd found it lying on the ground in our yard one day when no one was home. "Must've fallen from the treetop," he said.

We bowed our heads in silence but Earle continued, "Nothin' to be done, he was already dead, so I took him home and put him on ice."

"What do you mean you 'put him on ice'?"

"I stuck him in the freezer." He said it casually, as if he was talking about a steak he planned to thaw and grill up for supper next week.

"You mean our white squirrel is sitting in your freezer at home? Right now?"

"Yep."

"You're full of shit, Earle."

He shrugged and walked away, seemingly unfazed by this bizarre exchange.

Ten minutes later Earle came trudging back up our walkway holding a plastic bag with a fluffy white tail poking out the top.

"See?" he said, and when he dropped the bag on the porch it clattered against the floorboards like...well, like a frozen rodent falling on a two-by-four.

There it was, our little white mascot, now a squirrelsicle in a grocery bag shroud.

We cut back considerably on the dope after that, and stopped hanging out on the porch altogether. I wish I could say the squirrel is in a better place now, but Earle took him back to the freezer that day and for all I know he's still there, chillin' out, waiting for a new class of half-baked college brats to start playing in the snow.

If you want my opinion...

2005-10-11T22:15:00.002-04:00

I'm the girl to whom everyone comes for advice. Friends, relatives, colleagues, strangers... Everybody wants my opinion: "Does this need more garlic?" "Do I need weatherproof paint?" "Should I leave my husband?" "Does this mole look like cancer?"

I don't know why they do this. Maybe I have an honest face, or my glasses create the impression that I'm learned and wise - what my father calls an "optical illusion."

Lately I've been corresponding with a guy in another state who reads my blog. At first he said he'd gotten in touch with me because he'd seen a few of my posts about shyness and my chronic verbal paralysis and/or spastic flailing around some persons of the male persuasion. He told me, "I read those essays about the lunch place guy and I thought, Great! Another 30-year-old just like me who also has no idea how to talk to members of the opposite sex." (You know, I didn't think much about that remark at the time, but now I have to say it isn't exactly true. I know how to talk to them, I just avoid it sometimes because it makes me very uncomfortable. And it's not specific to men, it's all humans, plus some of the larger-breed dogs.)

The funny thing is that within a few days this guy shifted from relating to me as a socially dysfunctional kindred spirit to mining this wisdom he's projected onto me for advice on his love life -- specifically a budding relationship with a woman in his town. I was amused and flattered by his confidence in me, and began to dispense tips that seemed to make sense. Nothing too profound, just "You don't have to wait four days to call," or "Take her to dinner next time, it's enough with the sports already." At first I held my breath waiting for his social life to implode, but so far it seems to be going pretty well.

Of course, this guy seeks fairly basic guidance. But what of the others? When solicited for counsel I always have something to say, but what if I say the wrong thing? I don't know from painting a shed. Who am I to say if your marriage is doomed? Do I look like a dermatologist to you?

I want to be able to help these people. All of them, from the hypochondriac in my aerobics class to the drag queen at my bus stop who asks how I make my lashes look so feathery and long. So I'm thinking maybe I should start my own advice column to get some practice, hone my skills. Kind of a Dear-Abby-meets-Carolyn-Hax type deal. Come tell mama your problems; she'll make you feel better, even if the advice she pulls out of her ass ultimately ruins your life.

It'll take some time to iron out the details. For now I'm working on the look and feel. I'll need a headshot that portrays me as accessible but strong, maybe in the middle of a hearty laugh, or gazing off with my chin in my palm. And I'm playing with a few titles that'll capture the essence of the column -- let me know what you think: "Write On," sort of an affirmative high-five approach; "Always Something," which feels warm and commiserative; or -- actually I think this one really speaks to those who'd trust me with their major life decisions -- "Hey, It's Your Funeral."

2005-10-11T10:08:00.002-04:00

7:30 p.m. last night, my phone rings with my mother's cellphone number on the Caller ID.

me: "Hello?"

my grandma: "Hello?"

me: "Hello?"

grandma: "Hello? I can't hear anything. It's not working. Hello?!"

highway sounds. click. dial tone.

fifteen seconds later the phone rings again.

me, annoyed: "Hello?"

grandma: "Hello?! I still can't hear."

me, shouting: "Grandma! I'm here!"

grandma: "Helloooo? Are you there? Why can't I hear anything? Celia, something's wrong with the phone."

my father, in the background: "Did she push Send? Let me see it..."

rustling. click. dial tone.

ten seconds later the phone rings. again.

me: "WHAT?!?!"

my mother: "Hi honey, we're in the car with Grandma. She wants to talk to you."

rustling, fumbling.

grandma: "Okay. Hello?"

me: "Hi Grandma."

grandma: "Hello? Helloooo?!?! I don't understand what's wrong. Celia, your phone is broken. Fix the phone, Celia. HELLOOOO?!?!"

more rustling and fumbling, then my mother, in the background:

"Ma, you're holding it backward!"

2005-10-09T14:39:00.000-04:00

My parents are a lot like Abbott and Costello: My mother, short, round and impulsive, is always pulling some stunt that leads my taller, leaner, more sensible father to chastise her for the fine mess she's gotten them into this time.

Yesterday Dad recounted an incident from their summer trip to San Francisco: During dim sum in Chinatown they shared a table with an Italian couple visiting from Rome. An incurable eavesdropper and master of schmooze, my mother recognized their accents and began a conversation using the rudimentary Italian skills she picked up studying opera 40 years ago. Most people would have realized after 30 seconds or so that the couple's English was close to perfect, but my mother was on a roll. She pelted them with questions in English -- punctuating her slow, overenunciated shouting with the grotesque sign language that only confuses foreigners and makes them hate Americans that much more -- and met each of their increasingly nervous answers with "assolutamente!" or "molto buon!" Eventually they became so uncomfortable that they packed up their food and left. "I wanted to crawl under the table," my father said, shaking his head. "I kept kicking her foot but she just wouldn't take the hint."

At that moment my mother arrived and caught me cackling over the tail end of the story. "Oh, you're telling that one," she scowled. "I'll just leave you two alone to exaggerate about me some more," and she walked off in a huff. My father chuckled and shrugged. "There's nothing to make up here, she's totally self-exaggerating." It's so true; The woman is like a cartoon. She's not bad, she's just drawn that way.

I should explain that we were all together yesterday because we were working: My mother runs a small entertainment agency -- she hires music, magicians, clowns, etc. for parties and such. Whenever one of her commercial real estate clients asks her to orchestrate a seasonal event she turns it into a family affair, recruiting my father to set up the deejay equipment, my sister to play the music, and me to paint hearts, flowers and small woodland creatures on the cheeks of children who walk by. Cheap labor, I guess; We're like a low-budget Partridge Family. It's not a bad way to earn some fun money. I do it once or twice a season and get to play with paint and meet a few babies, which is never a bad thing.

When the event was finished my father left to run an errand while my mother, after handing me a check for my day's work, pulled her station wagon up to the curb. Predictably, she overestimated the turn and swiped the yellow concrete post that was probably placed there to protect pedestrians from drivers like her. (With my mother behind the wheel you're guaranteed the ride of your life. Possibly the last one.)

The scrape itself was less hilarious than the fact that Mom didn't even notice it and had to ask why my sister and I were cracking up when she stepped out of the car. When we told her what she'd done she insisted we were full of crap. "Look at the bumper!" we cried, and she glanced over and dismissed the blemish as a mark from a similar run-in two weeks earlier. "But there's yellow paint all over the place!" we screamed, now clutching each other to keep from falling down, we were laughing so hard. She bent down for a closer look and sucked air through her teeth ("whoops..."), looking only vaguely troubled until she discovered the yellow paint would rub off easily. Then it was okay. "Why would they put bumpers on my car if they weren't meant to be bumped?!" she exclaimed with wide eyes, as if it was the most obvious and logical question a person could ask. (And you know, it kind of is.)

Then she skulked over to me -- The Evil One, the one she thinks is always out to get her -- and she begged me, "Please don't tell Daddy. If I put one more dent in this car he's going to send me away." I smirked at her, remembering the last time I found myself in this position, and then I handed her the envelope with my check inside and said, "It's not too late to add another zero."

2005-10-08T19:13:00.000-04:00

My good friend B, of the unexpected birthday floral arrangement, either volunteered or was goaded into testing a soon-to-be-featured cookie recipe for the Washington Post. She invited me to join her because I know my way around a kitchen and she trusted me to do right by the recipe. More than she trusted herself, apparently, because I mixed, rolled, cut, baked and frosted the cookies and she washed the dishes. But it's all good; I got to lick the bowl.

We'll both be mentioned in the Food section next week or the week after; If you can find us, you win... I dunno, a picture of me licking the bowl. (It's not as hot as it sounds.)

one of these is in my tummy now

play date

2005-10-07T00:29:00.000-04:00

Act 1: Introduction
On my way out to lunch the handsome fortyish man who always smiles at me on the elevator crosses my path and says, "Hi. I always see you on this floor. I just wanted to introduce myself, my name is Jason. What's yours?" He's charming and a little bit goofy, so sure of himself in his cowboy boots and hands buried casually in the pockets of his jeans. He seems sweet. Genuine. Like he's sensed my shyness and made it his business to coax me out of my shell.

I answer with just my name. "Nice to meet you," he says, "I should warn you I'm terrible with names. I'll remember everything about you except what to call you. Don't get mad." "I won't take it personally," I say, and grin more broadly than I mean to.

Act 2: Drama
A week later I'm late for the bus when I dash past Jason in the empty lobby. I smile politely and half-wave.

"Do you have any idea how much it brightens my day when I see you?" he calls as I sprint by. It should sound trite since we've only met once before, but for some reason it doesn't. In fact it's not the words but the sincerity in his voice that makes me stop in my tracks, pluck out one of my earbuds and cock my head in his direction.

He raises his right palm in mock defense. "I'm not coming on to on you," he says through a grin. "You just should know that you have an incredible spirit about you. It's really amazing; You shine. And you always make my day."

For a moment we're locked there staring at one another -- me stunned by his brazen, possibly (but not definitely) romantic gesture and him waiting to see whether I'll step toward him or break and run. Then elevator doors open and the clack of heels on marble breaks the daze, and without taking his eyes off me he puts his finger to his lips and whispers, "Shhhh."

My face flushes, probably light pink but it feels like crimson. This time I don't grin, I beam, and say "thank you" before I run out the door. I smile and blush and tug on my lower lip (I do that when I like someone; it's my tell) all the way home.

Act 3: Finale
The next day I'm running again, this time to the gym. Jason is walking into the stairwell just as I turn the corner. He holds the door for me. "Going to exercise?"

He asks which office on our floor is mine and what we do there, where I'm from, if I was caught in the rain today, do I have anything fun planned for the weekend... It's that verbal hopscotch we all play while we're scheming, building nerve or making our way to the point. His gaze doesn't break for a single second; It's unnerving and entrancing. I'd like to learn to hold eye contact that way.

He adjusts the stack of papers he's carrying and something catches the light. Plain gold band, left hand; It's hidden again in half a second but there's no mistaking what it was. At this time yesterday all the blood was rushing to my face; It's amazing how fast the tide can turn.

I've been through this test before and I won't fail it again. My last few syllables -- "...nice weekend" -- are still on their way out when I turn on my heel and bolt down the stairs.

The End.

Dad, don't read this one

2005-10-06T23:54:00.000-04:00

Continuing the belated celebration of my 30th birthday, one of my girlfriends presented me with a bag of books. Grownup books. Immediately I reached for the candy: Life's Too Short for Tantric Sex: 50 Shortcuts to Sexual Ecstasy. Concisely written and stunningly illustrated (I was especially stunned by pages 41, 73 and 99), this little volume is a show and tell of everything -- and I mean everything -- you ever wanted to know (and a few things you didn't) about pleasing yourself and another in bed. Or in the kitchen, or the backyard, or the IMAX theater at the Air & Space Museum. Whatever launches your rocket.

Now all I need is a study partner to go with my new textbook. That's what the weekend is for. (Kidding! I don't pick up random men in bars. I pick them randomly from my little black book, that way I know what I'm getting. Kidding again! I have no such book. It's all digital. A joke! A joke! But it would be nice to have a few in the stable... Please, somebody stop me.)

This naughty birthday offering was no doubt inspired by my friend's own recent sexual awakening. On the cusp of her 38th year, still steadfastly single and loving every minute of it, she's arrived at this deliciously indulgent state of body and mind in which there are no substitutes or compromises to be made when it comes to great sex. If you are sleeping with my friend A, do not be selfish, do not be lazy and for God's sake do what you're told. You will give her what she needs or she will cut you loose. No discussion.

Now, I'm a bit younger and less experienced than A, so I tend to be more forgiving in this area. I believe in working on it (up to a point) because it's rarely as simple as good sex or bad.

Take, for example, my ex-boyfriend S. His skills were few but well-honed and he always followed the law of Ladies First. But he was only generous so he could be greedy: My satisfaction was something to sweep out of the way so he could focus on his own pleasure unencumbered by the pressure to make me happy while he was enjoying himself (which, really, is the point of sex, isn't it? to do it together?).

Of all the things I learned from S the most memorable was that foreplay can be dangerous. That was a lesson that stuck with me -- for a couple of weeks, in the form of a bite-shaped bruise on my right butt cheek. S had a little problem with self control and...well, he wasn't a leg man if you know what I mean, and he just got carried away once. Or twice. After the third time I stopped enjoying sex with him altogether because I was always on edge, waiting for the next time a playful nibble would escalate into a vigorous chomp. "This must be what people mean when they talk about using sex as a weapon," I thought. His empty apologies did nothing to console me; Teeth on the tushie is the sort of pain you don't easily forget.

Wow, I've aired some laundry before but this is by far the dirtiest. I wonder if I'll regret it in the morning. Whatever: As my friend A would say, "Check your inhibitions at the door or get the hell out of my bedroom." You have to respect a woman who doesn't mince words.

gut buster

2005-10-04T11:22:00.000-04:00

Three times in the last week I've eaten at my mother's house, and three times I've come home with a stomach ache.

Please understand, my mother is a gifted cook: Like Jackson Pollock she flings ingredients around the kitchen and somehow yields astounding culinary art. But as with all items of her creation -- children, macrame housewares, the "I'm Not Fat, I'm Pregnant" sweatshirt she wears to aerobics class -- she has a hard time letting go.

Leftovers enter my parents' refrigerator and ripen there until they literally grow their own vocal cords and beg to be returned to the earth whence they came. It's like orchestrating a prison break to throw away food: We need one person to distract my mother, one to guard the kitchen door in case she escapes, one to extract the plates and Tupperware from the back of the fridge, and one poor sucker to open the containers and sniff out the offending remains. Teamwork has been difficult lately, what with my father at work all day and only one kid still living at home, so the fridge has devolved into a petri dish teeming with microbes that wreak havoc on an unaccustomed gut.

At the heart of the matter is an ongoing debate about the definition of "edible": While my father's delicate palate favors what's fresh and healthy, my mother operates on the more basic principle that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, if a little queasy.

But I have to give the lady credit for being resourceful. Bananas gone black? Bake 'em into bread. Bruised peaches on sale at the farmer's market? I smell a cobbler... Cucumber rotted to a milky pulp? Hope you like gazpacho!

Okay, I exaggerate. A little.

The top five phrases uttered in my mother's kitchen:

"Just scrape if off."
"It's supposed to smell like that."
"I know it's not rotten because I had it for lunch today!"
"When did you make this brisket?" "Hannukah." "Which year?"
"(sniff sniff) Phew! I'll make this into soup."

You see, my Mom lives in an alternate reality; A world in which no food is ever past its prime, and there exists no foul flavor that cannot be vanquished with copious amounts of garlic and whichever herbs and spices are on hand. To her credit, she makes everything taste fantastic. But I've learned the hard way that it's my responsibility to eat around foods not fit for human consumption. So next time you notice me sniffing my soup, or inspecting my salad, or peeking between the layers of my lasagna, please don't think me odd or tell me to "just relax and eat it already." This is one habit I don't intend to break.

fortune garden

2005-10-01T10:15:00.000-04:00

Rosh Hashana starts a couple days from now. It's one of my favorite holidays: A time for self-reflection; for family; for gossiping in temple under the watchful eyes of God and Rabbi Gold.

So I was thinking, "What better way to mark the start of a new Jewish year than with a bit of life-affirming wisdom from the mystical scrolls of my people's most cherished cultural symbol, The Chinese Fortune Cookie?"

(I'm not kidding; Jews love Chinese food. You stay open on Christmas Eve, you make a friend for life.)

(Click to view at full size.)

I don't know why I hang on to these, let alone display them on my fridge; Aside from shoes and neuroses I'm not in the habit of collecting things. Most of the fortunes are silly ("A nice cake is waiting for you"), but there are one or two that, though they're kind of obvious, might kindle some deep thought or inspiration.
Peruse, reflect, enjoy.

I wish you all -- boys, girls, babies, puppies, kittens, goldfish and even squirrels -- a happy, safe and healthy year.

2005-09-30T16:03:00.000-04:00

Oh my God, you guys, I just found out my Mom's been reading my blog.

Hide the pot, take the porn out of the VCR, and everybody just act cool.

2005-09-30T10:43:00.000-04:00

From this month's Real Simple magazine:

Telling a secret of your own, whether to a friend, a loved one, or a virtual stranger, can be good for your health. "Self-disclosure has repeatedly been found to boost one's immune system and reduce shame and guilt," says James W. Pennebaker, Ph.D...

You see, naysayers? Blogging: It does a body good.

But to reap the the benefits, you must choose a discreet confidant...

Oops.

2005-09-29T16:30:00.000-04:00

It all started innocently enough. I was killing time at the mall during an oil change, wandering in and out of my usual rainy-day haunts -- Sephora, Apple store, the Gap Trifecta. I turned down the corridor that leads to Nordstrom, not paying much attention and kinda jonesning for an Iced Americano, when, as if by tractor beam, I was sucked into the overpriced optical shop between Victoria's Secret and the Build-a-Bear Workshop. I don't remember what happened next but when I came to these were on my face and I was asking if they came in green, and a gaunt German salesman was telling me I have a fabulous face for rectangles. Whatever that means.

Every couple years I get restless and start shopping around for new glasses. Invariably I pick the high-priced pretentious kind from Denmark or France. I don't know why I do this; Perhaps I'm bored because my hairstyle hasn't changed for 17 years. (Except once, the regrettable chin-length bob of 2004: As if Shirley Temple and Carrot Top punished their naughty baby with a humiliating haircut. May it never, ever happen again.)

Since college I've been through gold wire frames ("I've found my first job, but good taste continues to elude me"), oval tortoiseshells ("I'm intellectual with an edge; It's in my copywriter job description"), pewter rectangles ("I'm feigning sophistication because I date men too old for me"), and the red cat's eyes currently working a dent into the bridge of my nose ("Welcome to the Insatiable Sexpot. You must be at least this smart to ride").

So now I'm up to funky green rectangles that will cost me yet another $300 and be seen by no one because I only wear them to read and stare at the computer. Is this a waste of money? No more than, say, the four pairs of boots I bought myself for my birthday last month. Perhaps I'll consider it a reward for all the hard work I've been putting into my blog. Oh -- and that stuff I do between 9 and 5.

They'll be my "I don't need a reason to spend 300 bucks on myself because I'm 30 and I work hard and if you have a problem with that you can kiss my fabulous ass" frames.

2005-09-29T11:46:00.000-04:00

There is one sure-fire way to garner a compliment: Set the bar low.

I own two skirts. I wear one of them, maybe twice a year. Actually I've been planning to buy more because it's time I started dressing my age, and... well, I'm no Rockette, but I do sport a pretty decent set of gams.

Aside from my bi-annual skirtage, plus the occasional bar mitzvah or black-tie wedding, most of the time my dress is neither fancy nor terribly feminine. Jeans, boots, cozy sweaters. On weekends I all but sleep in my running shoes. I don't wear a lot of makeup, my hair has a mind of its own, and my nails are steadfastly short and bare. And just for emphasis I curse like a pissed-off sailor. (But only around my friends.)

Not that I don't know from sexy. I'm just sexy on my own f**king terms ;)

So today at the office, even though I showed up in an ill-fitting sweater and a skirt two sizes too big, a few of my co-workers cooed, "You look so pretty today! I love your skirt..." And while I felt compelled to explain that it was the only thing that fit around my swollen belly (I'm still working on the art of gracefully accepting praise) it still made me feel... a little less cranky.

Tomorrow it's back to jeans and t-shirts -- I don't want anyone to start expecting too much -- but it sure is nice to feel like a princess for one goddamned day.

2005-09-28T22:10:00.000-04:00

When was the last time you got a letter? A piece of paper (or two or three) with a series of complete, well-considered sentences written specifically for you by the hand of someone you know, maybe even someone you love, with a pen of his or her choosing, signed, carefully folded, addressed, stamped and delivered to your home by the U.S. Postal Service?

Yeah, I can't remember either.

2005-09-27T20:44:00.000-04:00

When one declines a last-minute date on account of searing menstrual cramps, and tactfully explains that she's "just not feeling well today," and her suitor inqures as to what exactly is wrong -- ostensibly to display concern like so many peacock feathers but more likely to ferret out a suspected lie -- and the woman again gracefully dodges the ugly truth by saying she "didn't sleep well last night and worked way too hard today," and the man presses the issue by suggesting she go home, rest up, take a shower and come meet him for a drink because he's really in the mood for company... is it then inappropriate to shriek, "There's a citrus juicer wringing the lifeblood from my uterus!!!"?

I probably should've stuck with "I'm tired."