High School Snoozical

I wanted to see what the hype was about. I wanted to hear the music all the kids are singing. I wanted to see if Zac Efron is as cute as they all say.


I want my hour and thirty eight minutes back.

The oldest person in the room

I've just returned home from a potluck dinner at an acquaintance's home. At one point in the evening, one of the other guests was telling a story, and she said, "Oh yeah, I don't think you know them. They're older. In their thirties."

I looked around the room and realized, yes, I am the oldest person in the room. My companions ranged in age from 18 months to about 26. You know what's interesting, though? It didn't make me feel old in that uncomfortable yucky way you sometimes feel old when spending time with people 5 to ten years younger. Rather, I felt like they were really young, inexperienced, and sorta silly. The 18 month old wasn't even the silliest...

Hot Hot Fuzz

I've just seen Hot Fuzz. Can anyone tell me if that Simon Pegg is single? And can you get me in touch with him? They roughed him up in Shaun of the Dead, but in this picture he is all that is lovely and stiff-upper-lippy about the Brits. He's about my age. I bet he'd love to meet a cute quirky Jewish girl from Baltimore, don't you think? Do you know--before I went to London I had fantasies that I'd meet a man named Simon while there? It's fate! It's destiny! He's my beshert!
***
Hey I just looked up his bio on IMDB--he's EXACTLY 6 years older than I. That's right, we share a birthday! That must mean something. I don't know what, but I'm sure it's significant. Please be sure to pass it on when you see Simon at the pub...

Thank you, Peaches!

This evening, I got home from work, changed into my running kit and went out for a jog on the Johns Hopkins University campus. Now for you marathoners reading this, I know that doesn't seem like a big deal. The thing is that I haven't jogged outdoors regularly since I left Oberlin. In 1998. I used to jog on the indoor track at the University of Chicago, and I've logged tens of miles on treadmills from Washington, DC to the north side of Chicago, but I haven't been an outdoor runner in a long time. Last week I tried, and made it about 12 minutes before I had to head home for a cold beer.

Today, however, 40 minutes of solid, slow jogging. And I know what the difference was: Peaches. No, not the fruit, the musical group. Their (her? I don't know how many chicks are in the band) "Impeach My Bush" set the pace and kept me moving. I love the way she sings about menage-a-trois and cunnilingus and any other naughty thing you can think of. And with such wonderfully catchy tunes, too.

Then I came home, plugged the iPod into the little speaker system and listened to my favorite song again ("Stick it to the Pimp"), had a good stretch, did some crunches, and then made myself a smoothie: banana, vanilla yogurt, frozen strawberries, apple juice, and some carrots. Is that weird? I just saw the carrots in the fridge and I thought, "carrots are good for me. They have beta carotene. They're a cool color. I think I'll put them in the blender, too." It tastes okay. It's a really cool shade of hot pink, too. Maybe everyone should put carrots in their smoothies...

Broadway Critters

I have had the most wonderful idea! (I think it's wonderful, you can keep it to yourself if you think otherwise.)

I want to take original cast recordings of some of the classics of musical theater, and recast furry animals in all of the roles. I'm thinking roughly drawn animated animals, but live would be funny, too. Can't you imagine a squirrel in a dress singing "I feel pretty" from "West Side Story"? I'm thinking the Jets are gray squirrels and the Sharks are red.

How about a hedgehog singing "I'm just a girl who cain't say no"? And my beloved, non-existant dachshund crooning "Luck be a lady"? I think it would be hysterical! I think it'd be a hit. Okay, only on YouTube, but what the hell do you want from me, a Tony?!

If anyone knows an animator who would be interested in such a project, please send them my way (also if you happen to own the rights to any broadway cast recordings and would be willing to let me use it, royalty free).

Love is...

I've been thinking a lot about love lately. With the outpouring of support and sympathy after the recent tragedies in my family, I've been reminded of all of the people out there whom I love, and who love me. I've been wondering, too, about my own capacity for love. Is my love conditional? Is it unconditional for some and conditional for others?

Certainly there are different kinds of love, I am only the bazillionth person to notice that. The love I feel for a significant other is different than the love for family is different than the love for the three or so professors who've touched my life is different from the love for my close girlfriends.

I recently learned that someone I love and admire is guilty of some less-than-moral behavior. It made me question my love for this person. It made me question myself. And then the questioning made me question love (or at least this kind of love). It is difficult when you discover a loved one's clay feet. I want to be the kind of person who can accept her friends, faults and all. I want to continue to love this person, clay feet or no, and I'm carefully, cautiously navigating my way through the feelings of dissapointment to get to acceptance.

I don't know if this friend knows that I love him. He knows I like him, knows I respect him. I've told him so, in so many words, and he responded in kind. I've never used the L-word (I don't mean "lesbians." Just making sure we're on same page). It's not something that friends often say to one another. My last boyfriend never said it to me if I didn't say it first. And he didn't like it if I said it too often. He felt that the word loses it's meaning if we throw it about as a farewell greeting: "Okay I'll pick up some milk. Yes I went to the dry cleaner. Love you, bye." I see his point, but I like to hear it. I had one boyfriend who could never just say it. He'd say, "Tracie, you know I love you, but you've got to stop listening to Cheryl Crow," or something like that. The boyfriend who dumped me all those years ago and hurt me so badly, he never said it. Of course, my family says it to each other all the time. It is a farewell greeting for my father.

But friends, not so much. I do have two girlfriends who regularly tell me they love me, and I them. I had a really close male friend in grad school with whom I used to occasionally exchange the phrase. (He and I lost touch when he got engaged. I guess I can understand his wife not wanting him to maintain a friendship with another woman to whom he occasionally says "I love you.") Some people get uncomfortable when they hear the word. I'm not sure why. That ex who didn't like to say it too often, he felt that the word placed some sort of obligation or duty on the person on the receiving end, the "you" in the equation. It's difficult for friends of different genders (unless one party is gay), because love and sex are so intimately connected.

It's a powerful word. I wonder if I use it too easily, not easily enough. I wonder if it means to others what it means to me. If when I say it it will be understood the way I mean it; when I hear it, if I will understand.

(For those of you keeping score, this is not a coded message to any reader, though it was influenced by a recent email conversation with one of you.)

9 holes

Yesterday I went with my stepdad to the driving range. It was my first time using a golf club (other than put-put). Bryon is teaching me a bit, and I hope to take lessons, and one day be able to play with him occasional weekends. I've never had an interest in golf, but he loves it, and it's always nice to have something to share with the parental units.

My impression of golf has always been that it's a boring leisure actiity of the bourgeousie. It doesn't appear to take to much effort on tv, and I've always held golfers in a certain amount of contempt. They're not real athletes, their game has a terrible social history in this country, they were funny clothes.

I haven't gotten over that social history thing, but I won't denigrate the athletic ability of golfers ever again. I only practiced with an iron for an hour and I am SO sore! my forearms, my shoulders, my biceps, even my abs!

(Speaking of abs, last night I went to a party (an invitation that came out of one of those Jewish social events I recently mentioned) and at some point it came out that one of my fellow party-goers has a picture of his abs on his phone. I don't know this dude, had never met him before, but I couldn't allow this fact to go by without comment: "You have a picture of your stomach on your phone?" (imagine this phrase dripping with incredulity). Another party-goer responds "Dave has really great abs." Me: "And so he wants to document them? I don't understand. Why do you need a picture of something you always have with you? If you want to show someone your stomach, why not just lift up your shirt?" (more incredulity). Another party-goer "Well, maybe there are times where it would be inappropriate to lift up his shirt." Me: "But showing a picture of his stomach is appropriate? Dude, that's just weird. 'You know, I've got a six-pack. Wanna see? Let me find it in the phone'" (as much incredulity as I could muster). Everyone laughed (except Dave) and someone else said "Well, you know, if he's wearing a suit, it'd get difficult." Me: "Oh yeah, all that untucking..." Yet another person: "or if there were a cummerbund."

(I feel a bit badly that I was laughing at this guy, and bringing most of the party with me, but then someone else, someone who knew this six-pack-picture-carrying dude from before that night, said "Dave, I want to see your abs. Not the picture, just lift up your shirt." Dave obliged, and, indeed, he does have a remarkable stomach. We were all dutifully impressed and the conversation ended. People are weird.)

Dig: Lenny Bruce was Jewish

I've been doing my best to meet people who actually live in this adopted city of my birth, and so I've been attending various social events planned and promoted by the synagogue to which my family has always belonged. Last night I joined a handful of other 20- and 30-something Jews at Red Emma's, in Baltimore's Mt. Vernon neighborhood, for a program called "Java Jews." We younguns were also joined by Rabbi Rex Perlmeter, the head rabbi at the congregation. I've known Rabbi Perlmeter for years, and actually quite like him, so I was looking forward to this get together.

The point was to engage in conversation between and among we Gen Y-Me-ers and the good rabbi. The topic, announced only at Red Emma's once we were all seated, was "What does it mean to be Jewish?" It was an interesting and lively conversation that I won't bore you with now. The rabbi (ha-shem bless him) brought a few texts to aid in the discussion. One of them was from the very funny Lenny Bruce. I'd like to share it with you here:

(NOTE: I do not condone the use of the word "goyish" in this way--it's sorta derogatory and ugly. But I am not presumptuous enough to edit the great Mr. Bruce, so just know that if I were to repeat this beautiful little taxonomy, I would use "not Jewish" in place of "goyish." Okay, disclaimer over, onto the good stuff.)

Jewish and Goyish

Dig: I'm Jewish. Count Basie's Jewish. Ray Charles is Jewish. Eddie Cantor's goyish. B'nai B'rith is goyish; Hadassah, Jewish.
If you live in New York or any other big city, you are Jewish. It doesn't matter even if you're Catholic; if you live in New York, you're Jewish. If you live in Butte, Montana, you're going to be goyish even if you're Jewish.

Kool-Aid is goyish. Evaporated milk is goyish even if the Jews invented it. Chocolate is Jewish and fudge is goyish. Fruit salad is Jewish. Lime Jello is goyish. Lime soda is very goyish.

All Drake's Cakes are goyish. Pumpernickel is Jewish and, as you know, white bread is very goyish. Instant potatoes, goyish. Black cherry soda's very Jewish, macaroons are very Jewish.

Negroes are all Jews. Italians are all Jews. Irishmen who have rejected their religion are Jews. Mouths are very Jewish. And bosoms. Baton-twirling is very goyish.

Underwear is definitely goyish. Balls are goyish. Titties are Jewish.

Celebrate is a goyish word. Observe is a Jewish word. Mr. and Mrs. Walsh are celebrating Christmas with Major Thomas Moreland, USAF (ret.), while Mr. and Mrs. Bromberg observed Hanukkah with Goldie and Arthur Schindler from Kiamesha, New York.

--Lenny Bruce

For the record, I've just got to remind those of you who knew my grandmother, Mrs. Ruth Berman (did any of you know my grandmother? No? That's a shame. She was a great lady.), that she used to tell me, with much vehemence, that I should never eat plain vanilla ice cream, because, "that's for gentiles!" Chocolate was the only fully approved Jewish flavor of ice cream, and other flavors (mint chocolate chip, butter pecan) would be tolerated, but never fully embraced.

Funniest Blog...EVER

Okay, so I don't know if it really is the funniest, but it sure had me laughing. Yesterday I was surfing on my friend h's blog Flapjam, when I followed her link to The Sneeze.

This dude, Steve, is possibly the funniest blogger I've ever read. He makes me feel as though perhaps I shouldn't bother blogging at all, since he's created the world's most perfect blog. I mean that stuff about the cereal mascots is sheer genius. Surf on over and enjoy.

Long-distance dating

Last night, Ryan and I went on a date. He saw Stardust at 3:30 PT and I saw it at 6:30 ET, and we spoke on the phone after the credits rolled. It was a lovely date, though absent the yawn-stretch-put-his-arm-around-me move that may or may not have accompanied a similar date that found us in the same theater. We both enjoy Neil Gaiman's storytelling, and "Stardust" lives up to Mr. Gaiman's talents. The movie has gotten mixed reviews, with criticism of Claire Danes' casting (one reviewer said she was too cranky) and of Robert DeNiro's cross-dressing pirate, but honestly, I loved it. It was fun and suspenseful and sweet. Well worth the $8.

Bad (Jewish) pick-up lines

Last night, my sister and mother and I went to synagogue. I wanted to go so that I could say Kaddish (the mourning prayer) for my aunt and cousin. My mom and sis wanted the same. After service, they have an Oneg Shabbat (literally, "joy of the sabbath," a little reception usually with food). I wasn't really present for the Oneg, and kept looking around. Once or twice, I looked up and this one guy made eye contact. I smiled, because when you make eye contact in synagogue, that's what you're supposted to do. Apparently, this fellow didn't realize that's what you do, and took my forced smiles as encouragment, because while I was standing alone at the fruit and cheese table he came up to me and, I kid you not, said "you come here often?" I couldn't believe it. I guess he thought he was at God's nightclub, and that that line actually was appropriate. "No," I lied, "this is my first time." My sister came up and, not realizing that this man, nearly old enough to be our father, was trying to pick me up, started chatting. That's what people do at these little receptions: chat. I told her that I thought our mom wanted to go. Luckily, she didn't argue with me.

Tonight, in an effort to get out of my shell, and to distract myself from myself, I went to a social event for twenty- and thirty-somethings organized by the synagogue. While sitting uncomfortably at a bar that is, so I am told, universally recognized as "Baltimore's trendiest," the young man next to me turned and asked "are your parents from outside the US?" "No," I replied, "they're actually both from Baltimore." "Oh," he said, "you have a very exotic look to you. I wondered if your parents might've been born somewhere else." Yep. You read that right. Exotic. Either this poor guy doesn't get out much, or that was the second worst line I've heard this weekend.

Tracie the turtle

Thanks to all who have sent messages or called with condolences since the last post. Chris and Valerie's funeral weekend was a tragic and ugly and surreal and horrifying and emotionally draining several days. It was spent in Grayson, Kentucky, where the countryside is beautiful if you can see it around the trailers and doublewides in various states of decay. The confederate flags and the dogs and chickens are everywhere. The people talk funny, and apparently everyone is somehow related to my grandmother, and therefore, me.

While in Kentucky, and since I've been back, I find that I just want to completely withdraw into myself. Free time is spent lying very still remembering time spent with Chris or Valerie or sometimes just not thinking about anything at all. I'm trying to force myself to seek out friends and family, but I don't actually want to see or speak with anyone. If I haven't called or responded to your message, please don't be offended.

Sad news

I just got a call from my father. My cousin and my aunt are both dead. I thought maybe typing it would make me less numb. It hasn't. I don't know what to say or think or do. This is a picture of Chris from December, with his daughter, Madison, sleeping on his chest. I can't believe he's gone. And his mom, my Aunt Valerie. Chris is just 10 months younger than I am. We were kids together. We used to pretend the floor was lava, and we'd have to jump from couch cushion to couch cushion to get around the house. We would make a point of sneaking around and listening to the grown-ups' conversation without letting them know we were there. They were never talking about anything interesting, it was just the thrill of trying to go undetected.

I last saw Chris & Valerie in 2005 at Chris' wedding. Now I'll never see them again.