the chutzpah files

While you were sleeping -- Day 7

2012-02-18T20:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom,

I spent all day at the gallery today. Duane and I worked on some strategies to let your customers know about what's going on and encourage them to come in and help. Not that it's much of a surprise, but people really love you. We didn't have a slow moment all day. It was great to see the gallery so busy, but it was a bit exhausting telling people over and over what happened.

I also set up a little fundraising campaign online where people can donate to a Recovery Fund for you. I'm not even sure how we'll use it, but I figure that given how long the doctors are saying you'll be out of commission, you and Bryon will certainly have use for it. It's here: https://www.wepay.com/x39u1o2/donations/recovery-fund-for-marian-berman.

By the time I got home this evening, I was afraid that I was too exhausted to see you at the hospital. I want to make sure that I'm only positive when I'm in your presence. I didn't think I could manage tonight.

Tomorrow I will come to see you early to make sure I can focus on you and not on my own exhaustion. For tonight I'm going to go to bed.

I love you,
Tracie

While you were sleeping day 6

2012-02-17T22:18:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom,

I didn't write yesterday because I had my last childbirth class in the evening, which has become my time to write you. It was a class on breastfeeding for just the moms (no husbands). We all held babydolls and talked about the difference between baby-led and mother-led latches and all kinds of details I'd never really thought about. I felt sort of silly with the doll--I'm sorta thinking this may not be the kind of thing you can actually book-learn. Still, I didn't have enough fears about parenting, so it was good for me to get a few more.

Today was a pretty long day, too. Dave was on duty, so his alarm rang at 4:45. Usually I just go back to sleep after he leaves for the day, but I knew I needed to get on the road to get up to see you and deal with some business during the workday, so I couldn't fall back to sleep. At 5:30 I got up. I got in the car around 6:30, but by the time I gassed up the car and ate some breakfast, I didn't really get on the road until 7.

I made great time, managing to avoid both Norfolk and DC rush hours, and arrived at the Gallery around 11. I spent the day with Bryon and Duane trying to sort out some of the business stuff sorting papers and making plans. We took a break in the middle of the day to talk to a reporter with the local paper. She's going to do a story on you and the gallery and the family. I'll be sure to clip it so you can read it when you wake up. It should run on Thursday.

Bryon and I didn't get back to the house until nearly 7 PM. I decided to go to the hospital to see you. I know that I won't be able to make it up to see you again for months, since the next month and half will be the very end of the pregnancy and then I'll have a newborn. I wanted to make sure that you heard my voice. Vernon came with me. I read a little more from your Walters book, and passed on some of the warm wishes of all of the people who've been calling and emailing.

I spoke to the current doctor for a few minutes, too. Your doctor changes with the shifts, so it wasn't Dr. Schwartz whom I liked so well last weekend. This doctor is a young woman, she seems very competent and straightforward, if disturbingly young (for some reason I always feel weird about doctors about my age). She had small pieces of good news for me--your vitals are very slowly improving. However, she was frank about your overall picture--which has not changed much and remains critical. Even though I knew that that was the case, it was hard to hear. I think I was hoping for a firmer answer of when I could expect for you to be awake, which was unrealistic of me.

Mom, I know that if anyone is strong enough to fight through this, it's you. In the evenings, though, I miss you so much the fear sets in. I maybe shouldn't have come to see you in the evening--it's my most vulnerable time. I just wanted to make sure that you knew I was here.

Paula is coming this week to sit with you and to help out as she can around the house. I think it will be good for your sister to be there. Ellen texted this evening to let me know that they said your name for misheberach at BHC, so your "spinster sister" is thinking and praying for you, too. She told me recently that you have always been her guardian angel. I think I know what she means.

With an acknowledgment of the irony that I type this on a computer, I pray that this shabbat brings you the rest of true healing. If you do have a shabbat neshamah, a sabbath soul, I hope her presence tonight and tomorrow helps bring your body what it needs to fight and bring you back to us.

My exhaustion insists that I end this letter and get some sleep. I will see you tomorrow and record it in tomorrow's letter.

Until then,
I love you,
Tracie

While you were sleeping day 4

2012-02-15T19:48:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom,

Today the doctors had to give you something to paralyze you while you're in the coma. They say it will actually make you more comfortable due to all of the tubes and dials and everything else. Bryon spoke with a specialist today (a pathologist, maybe?) who told him that you have had the textbook case of possible complications of pneumonia. However, she also told him that your care has been exactly right and you are responding to it appropriately. She left him with the impression that at this point it's no longer a question of if you make it, but when you're well enough to be taken out of the coma. You know Bryon's propensity for pessimism, so I'm taking the fact that he came away with that impression as a very encouraging sign.

As for me, I had a pretty typical day at work: ten hours, a number of meetings, not enough things scratched off my to-do list, a few frustrating moments. Totally typical. Throughout it all, the baby continues to flutter and tap and turn against my belly. Everyone keeps remarking how low I am carrying, especially the other pregnant girl at work, who seems almost jealous. I don't have anything to compare it to, but I'm not sure why low is better. It often feels like she's doing summersaults on my bladder, and I have the urge to literally hold up my belly with my hands while I walk down stairs. Still, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I just today remembered the crazy flurry of activity when I heard that bluesy singer, Ruthie Foster, in the car on my way to Baltimore for the showers two weekends ago. I am going to use part of the gift card your sisters gave me to buy the album. Hopefully the baby likes the music again and it wasn't just a fluke. While I'm in Baltimore this weekend, I'm going to talk to the hospital staff about getting you some music, too.

Tomorrow evening I have my final childbirth class, which is actually a breast-feeding class. As a result I may not be able to write your letter tomorrow. I'll write a double letter on Friday to make up for it, though. And at some point on Friday, I'll be in your hospital room to talk to you in person. I'll read more from the the Waters book we started last weekend.

I miss our nightly good night call. It's been replaced by daily calls with Bryon, Paula, Emily, and Dad. As much as I like talking to each of them daily, I still really miss hearing your voice.

All my love,
Tracie

While you were sleeping--Day 3

2012-02-14T19:44:00.003-05:00

Before the letter to my mom, a quick note of thanks to everyone out there for your outpouring of concern and love -- and birthday wishes. Many of you have been offering to help--you want to know what you can do. Believe me, I know how horribly frustrating it is to feel helpless. Unfortunately, there isn't much any of us can *do* at the moment. She and the doctors have to do the work at this point. Please do keep her in your thoughts and prayers. She's the one who taught me of the power of positive thinking. As a sullen teenager she used to force me to nod my head "yes." "Be open to the possibilities of the universe" she used to tell me. So now I'm asking you to keep your thoughts and prayers positive and help us envision her speedy and complete recovery. Please do not send gifts or flowers, and please don't plan to visit her in the hospital any time soon. I know it's hard to hear that, but really, as long as she is in the ICU, the gifts will not make it to her and the visitors must be kept to a minimum. Your positive thinking is all that you can do for her at this point. I will keep you updated as the situation improves, and please keep in mind that, especially at this stage, no news is good news. Thank you for understanding.

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

Dear Mom,

My birthday wasn't the same without you. Emily and I decided we would celebrate my half birthday this year when you're better. She told me I could stay 35 for another 6 months. I figured that was a good deal.

A member of my staff brought me a birhtday gift of a handmade scarf his mother had knit. It's in the pinks and purples and fucsias that you love. The thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes as I pulled the scarf from the gift bag. At this point when I well up with tears, I don't know if it's because of the pregnancy hormones or the underlying worry for you.

Bryon called around noon to tell me that because they had needed to turn you in the bed yesterday, your vital signs declined a little today. He seemed sure that the decline was the direct result of your having been moved, and that it was not a sign of a true downturn. I liked that explanation and have decided to hold onto it. He told me they had to do the same thing today, so I am expecting the same report tomorrow.

Today I heard from both Rabbi Sacks-Kohen at BHC and Rabbi Mandelberg down here in Norfolk. They both reached out to offer support and prayer and concerns. Your name is on the misheberach list at more synagogues than I can name--I guess that's what happens when you work in the Jewish communal world. You always taught me of the power of prayer. It's out there for you now.

I've been keeping very busy at work, which is both good and bad. Good because I'm distracted from my new hobby of worrying about you. Bad because I find that I spend too much time chained to my desk. I hardly have time for the hobby that had been my favorite prior to your illness: decorating the baby's room. I should note that my co-workers have all been very supportive, which is a comfort.

Your grandbaby has become fond of pressing on the top of her dark world. It sort of makes that spot on my belly fall asleep--like the way your butt feels when you get assatosis from sitting for too long. It doesn't hurt, it just feels weird. I've realized I spend a lot of time rubbing that spot: in meetings, when I'm driving, while watching tv. Last night she was pressing hard against the belly--it felt like a foot or maybe a tiny femur. Dave was even able to feel the edges of it, which was sort of cool.

I'm working my way through a book about welcoming new Jewish daughters as I try to plan the naming ceremony. I've decided that we'll postpone it as long as we need to so that you can be there. You know we were originally thinking of holding it on the first Sunday *after* her 8th day of life, but we've decided (well, I've decided and Dave is smart enough not to argue with me) to postpone for 3 months or longer to make sure you can be there. I like to imagine you hold my daughter in your arms. It's a beautiful sight--just you wait.

As my birthday comes to a close I'll just say thank you for giving birth to me 36 years ago. The only present I want this year is for you to come back to us, healthy and whole.

Until then, I love you,
Tracie

While you were sleeping #2

2012-02-13T18:41:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom,

Today, back in Norfolk, I went to work as usual. My email was full of messages from people who love you. It was great to see so many people express their love for you. Ellen Needle Berman called this afternoon to let me know that she was thinking and praying about you and to let her know if there's anything she can do. It was a welcome surprise to hear her voice on my phone. I understand that she's been in touch with your sisters, too. I've also heard from so many people saying the same thing "Let me know if there's anything I can do": your business acquaintances, the Careys, Allison, my friends, Emily's friends, you name it. Everyone loves you! (How could they not?) I think Bryon was a little shocked when so many folks started calling saying that they'd read my blog. I hope that he liked to hear people's concern, too.

When I spoke to Bryon around 12:30, he told me that your vital signs were all up today, with your oxygen saturation levels in the high nineties and blood pressure in normal ranges. He was headed home because they were going to turn you, and he knew that would negatively affect those vitals temporarily. He decided to leave with the numbers up. I told him to be sure to eat something.

He and I are both encouraged by the small signs of progress in the numbers that blink above your head. They are babysteps at this point, but babysteps in the right direction. I imagine you trapped inside that coma, climbing Mount Everest. I know you can do it.

I also worked today to try to get access to the store bank account so that I can help the guys keep things running. Step one is accomplished, I confirmed that I'm a signer on the account. Unfortunately, you're not as predictable as I thought with your online banking login, so that may take a little longer. I spoke to Deb at the bank, and she told me to tell you she asked after you. I did get access to your email account (I changed the password), so I'm going to monitor that to make sure I address anything urgent.

Emily and I spoke several times today. For each of us, you're the person we call when we feel out of sorts--you're our anchor. Now that we can't speak to you, we're reaching out to each other. Sadly, it seems neither of us is as good for the other as you are for both of us. Still, it's good to have one another.

Evenings are hardest--when the other distractions of the day have dropped off and I'm left with the weight of how much I miss you, how much I still need you. I'm trying to stay busy and keep active, though your granddaughter insists that I rest a lot of the time. She's very active--sometimes it feels like there must be more than one in there!

I'm praying for the day that you two meet. Until then, I know you will stay strong and keep doing the important work of getting well.

I love you,
Tracie

While you're sleeping #1

2012-02-12T19:53:00.000-05:00

Today is Sunday. A week ago, my mother and sister threw me a baby shower. Mom was healthy, up and about. On Tuesday last, she started complaining of extremem fatigue and a high fever. On Thursday, my stepdad took her to the ER, where they quickly admitted her to the ICU with acute pneumonia. She was put on a respirator mask. Overnight Thursday into Friday, apparently the situation worsened, and the hospital staff needed to induce a coma so that they could intubate her and put her on a ventilator with 100% Oxygen. The pneumonia (caused by the strep bacteria) led to sepsis (infection in the blood), which led to ARDS (Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome). Since that time I've been reading more about ARDS, and one of the things that the experts recommend to families is that they keep a journal of what happens while their loved one is sleeping. I am going to use this venue for that journal as letters to my mom, the first of which is below. Please feel free to read along to stay updated if you care to. Thank you for all of your concern and well-wishes already expressed. Please do not take it personally if I do not get back to you quickly.

***********

Dear Mom,

Probably the last thing that you remember is Thursday evening at the hospital when Bry left you for the night. He tells me you were unable to speak because of the respirator, but you were awake and alert. He called me that evening to let me know what was going on. Dave and I were actually in the middle of our next-to-last childbirth class. Of course my phone said it was you calling, since he was calling from the home line. At first I hit ignore, but then something tickled my brain and told me I'd better take the call. I stepped into the hallway and called him back.

Needless to say his news was shocking--after all we had just seen each other not 4 days prior and you were fine, and now he was telling me the Emergency Room doctor told him that if you had waited one more day you'd be dead. I asked if he wanted me to come up to Baltimore, and he said that he didn't think it was necessary because there wasn't anything I could do. I returned to class, but could hardly concentrate. When it was clear that the substantive information about labor had been replaced by a counselor trying to prep the expectant mothers to recognize post-partum depression, I signalled to Dave it was time to leave.

The next day I went to work as usual, but I kept my phone on my person at all times. I was waiting for a call from Bry with an update on your status. I thought I'd hear from him in the morning, but hours and meetings and to-do-list items passed and no call. To be honest, I was kind of a wreck. I thought about calling the hospital to get an update myself, but was afraid to because if the worst were true, I didn't want to hear it from a stranger.

At 7:30 Bryon called. He was choked up. He left you awake and alert and returned to find you in the induced coma with 9 tubes and wires hooked up to your mouth, neck, arms, and even your left ear. Apparently he sat in your hospital room for 11 hours and spiraled down into a pit of despair and certainty that he would lose you. I asked again if I should come. He said he didn't want to decide for me because he couldn't live with the guilt if he told me not to come and I didn't get the chance to say goodbye. I decided to come. I was sure he was overreacting--or at least that he was jumping the gun.

On Saturday morning, Dave and I got up early and dropped your granddogs off at boarding. You'll be glad to know Pixie was actually really glad to be there. She likes the people and other dogs there. We stopped at Dunkin Donuts and got on the road. I had done some basic internet research online the night before. From what I saw the acute pneumonia is highly survivable with (according to wikipedia) only a 10% mortality rate. The real danger, I had read, was with sepsis and its complications. "Don't let it be sepsis. Don't let it be sepsis." I kept thinking, like a mantra.

About halfway through the drive, I got a call from Uncle Avrahm. Bry had given the intensivist permission to call him. He had just spoken with your doctor and was calling to tell me what was going on. It was sepsis. And ARDS. I didn't know what that meant from the google research I'd done, but it didn't sound good. He was very matter of fact. "What's the prognosis?" I asked. "Well, it's hard to say for sure. Her age is on our side. I think it's about 50/50." I thanked him for calling and hung up. Then I started to cry. I tried to tell Dave what he'd said. He didn't react enough to my liking. I cried quietly in the passenger seat, baffled that the world seemed to be going on, oblivious.

For much of the rest of the ride I feigned sleep so I didn't have to talk. I think I called Em. I was terrified. Every time I felt the baby kick, I thought, "how am I going to do this without Mom?" I prayed, addressing HaShem, hypocrite that I am. I also sent thoughts out to you. Did you get them? "Don't go, yet," I thought, "it's not your time. You still have work here. I still need you. Please stay and meet your granddaughter. Stay and help us raise her. I want her to know you the way I knew my Grandma." I cried off and on for the next 2 hours. To be honest, I'm crying now as I tell you about it.

We arrived at your house and met Bry around 1 PM on Saturday. I had a PB& J sandwich and then Bry and I came to see you at the hospital. We thought we had to put on masks and stuff because you were in ICU, so we stood outside your room donning disposable gowns, masks, and gloves. The nurse said you'd been taken off isolation, and we didn't have to wear the stuff just as we were starting to enter, so I forwent the gloves so I could hold your hand.

I greeted you as we came in and took your left hand. The ventilator made your chest rise and fall in an eerie mechanical way, and forced your mouth open in an unnatural, sideways grimace. Your hands and feet were swollen. I had planned to bring your hand to the belly and remind you of the grandbaby on the way, but your hand was so swollen, and there were so many IVs and bands and everything, I was afraid I'd break you. I pulled a chair up close and sat holding your hand and talking to you. Bryon sat in the other chair and was pretty quiet.

The nurse came in at some point and we talked about what some of the numbers on your monitor meant. I asked her about everything that she did, from changing one of your medicine bags to checking stuff on the computer. After about a half hour or so, I decided it was time we spoke to a doctor, and went looking for him or her.

Dr. Schwartz was on duty. A tall man in his late forties or early fifties, I found him instantly trustworthy. He invited Bry and me to come into a little office so we could discuss things not in front of you. He's actually a Hopkins doctor who only does one weekend a month out in the county. I admit that the fact that he's usually at Hopkins was heartening to me. If that makes me a snob, I can live with that.

He explained some of what was going on. Your second blood culture had come back clean, which meant the sepsis had been adressed, which I took as a positive sign. He said that it was really serious, but that he had had patients survive your current condition. He told us that we had to be realistic about how long your recovery would take. Best case, he told us, you'd be in the coma on the ventilator for a week to 10 days. He assured us that time was on our side since you are so young. He convinced me that absolutely everything that could be done was being done. He told us that, for what it's worth, he's been doing this for 20 years and he did not have a bad feeling about you. (Later Bryon told me it was the longest and best conversation with a doctor he'd had since you arrived. He'd spoken to the nighttime attending earlier in the day, but said she had only answered the questions he'd asked, and he didn't know what to ask.)

I asked the doc if it was ok for Dave and Vern to come visit. Bry was under the impression that only immediate family were allowed in (I think because of something the emergency room doc had said). He said that it would be fine for them to come, so we decided to give them a call. While we waited for them to arrive, we realized it was snowing. We watched big flakes fall slantwise toward the pavement, and Bry actually spotted Dave driving my car as it pulled up. He went down to meet them (it's pretty confusing to get to the room you were in), and I waited with you.

Once I was alone with you, I kind of lost it again. I held your hand and I told you in person the things I'd been thinking in your direction from the car. I hope that it wasn't too negative for you trapped inside that medical coma. When the guys got up to the room, I grabbed Dave in a hug and tried to get ahold of myself. I think Bry was a bit surprised because I'd stayed so collected while we spoke to Dr. Schwartz.

We sat with you and talked and laughed a little with each other for an hour or two. Around 5 or 5:30 we decided to go get something to eat. As we walked toward the elevators we passed Dr. Schwartz. I said we were going to go get some food and come back. He said "go home." And then he turned to Dave and said "take her home." He told me that I wasn't doing you any good and that I needed to take care of myself and the baby. We got our coats and went down to the lobby. We ate in the cafeteria. I got the salad bar. The guys all got the catfish.

We drove home in 2 cars. I sat with our iPad and did more wikipedia level research. This time I was investigating ARDS. Today, it looks like mortality rates are around 40%, though as recently as 15 years ago it was closer to 70%. I realized that the ARDS is what the doc meant when he said the damage had already been done from the sepsis. I also learned that you may have some shortness of breath and other pulmonary limitations for the rest of your life. On the bright side, it said that patients who recover recover close to full lung function within 6-12 months. Also, the highest mortality rates are for the very old and the very sick (like AIDS patients).

ARDSNet.org has a bunch of information for families, including things you can do to help the patients both while they're in the coma and after. It recommended reading to coma patients, brushing their hair, massaging lotion into feet and hands, bringing in family photos, and even playing favorite music. This morning when I came to see you I brought some framed photos to put on your windowsill. I wanted the nurses to see you in happier times, and when you do wake up, I want smiling familiar faces to greet you. I also brought a Minette Waters book I found on your bookshelf. I wanted to bring in a CD player so we could put on Bing Crosby and Michael Buble and Eric Clapton. Bryon may still do that. I rubbed lotion on your hands and feet when I got there. I read to you from the Waters book--it was pretty gruesome, but I know you're into those murder mysteries, especially Waters, so hopefully that overcame the negativity of the storyline.

I spoke with Dr. Schwartz again, too, and there were some encouraging signs he had to report. Your oxygen saturation levels were up in the high nineties, which is exactly where they need to be (you'd been in the mid to high eighties the whole time I was there the previous day). And, in fact, while we were there, the doc and his respiratory specialist decided to reduce the concentration of the oxygen you were receiving. (You'd been on 100% and they took it down to 80%. When I left you were responding well, with only a minor drop in your saturation levels.)

Your stomach was working better today (yesterday you weren't moving the feeding tube food at all, and the nurse asked for a medication to help with that. Apparently it worked). Your blood pressure remained where it needed to be, too (with the help of the meds). Doc said that your kidney function was still only fair, but he said that the lung function was most important and that since that was making small improvements, he was encouraged. He said they'd do what they needed to help the kidneys, and as long as the lungs continue to improve, so would your overall outlook.

Dave and I left the hospital around noon today and drove home to Norfolk. From here, I'm going to try to figure out how I can help with the gallery (since I'm a signer on the checking account), and I plan to come back to see you next weekend. I'll take Friday off of work so that I can be there for part of the workday on Friday in case the bank or anyone else need to see me in person. I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe, they'll be able to take you out of the coma before then, because I'm afraid I won't be able to come up for too much longer--I don't think it's a great idea for me to be driving so far from my doctors once I'm another few weeks along in the pregnancy.

Bry has promised to update me tomorrow once he's seen you, and I'll pass on the news to Emily and Paula, etc. In the meantime, you are in my thoughts and prayers always.

I love you,
Tracie

Sticks and stones

2012-01-10T20:15:00.001-05:00

My first childbirth class was much easier than I'd feared. They talked about nutrition, showed some exercises we should be doing to prepare for childbirth, arranged some icebreakers. I managed to stay dry-eyed throughout. It was what happened after that was a bit upsetting.

On my way from the highway to my home, I pass under a railroad bridge. On Thursday night, as I drove under the underpass, a startling BANG made me jump. At first I thought I'd struck something, but as the car continued its forward motion, it quickly became clear that something struck me. Sure enough, when I got home and checked the car's roof, three large dents marred the surface, with gashes in the paint that expose bare metal. At the time, I felt sure that the bridge itself was crumbling, raining down cement.

First I called David who was visiting his parents in Missouri. I must have sounded hysterical, because he asked me if I was ok at least five times (I was fine). I hung up with him so that I could call the police--someone needed to go check the bridge and make sure no one else would be struck. I imagined another driver not as lucky as I, who faced cement in the windshield instead of the roof.

I called the non-emergency police line and the dispatcher asked where I was.
"No, I'm fine. Please send an officer to the bridge."
She had to send someone to me to file an incident report she said. That was at 9:45 PM.

Still thinking that bridge was collapsing that very instant, I decided to try to get one of the local tv stations to get the word out. I spoke with a young man in the news room at News Channel 3, and was transferred to a reporter.

"Where are you?" the reporter asked.
Again, I protested it was the bridge and not me that was newsworthy. Again, my questioner insisted. I agreed to let the news crew come film the car on condition that I would not go on camera. That was around 10:15PM.

I called David again to tell him what was happening. He suggested I should put on a bathroom and go on camera from the front door of our home resting an open beer bottle on my pregnant belly. He also told me he'd read online that my crumbling bridge was renovated only three years ago at a multi-million dollar cost to the city. So maybe it wasn't collapsing.

The news crew arrived around 10:45PM. They filmed the dents in the car. Not me. The cop finally arrived at 11:45PM (a full two and one half hours past my bed time!). He looked at the dents and asked if I thought something fell on me or was thrown. If something fell, he explained, it's not the kind of event for which they do an incident report.

"Look, I don't know if it fell or was thrown, but as I told your dispatcher, I'm mostly worried about other drivers." He promised he would leave my place and check out the bridge. He did not do a report.

The next day, I got a call from the reporter. Apparently, she'd gone to the bridge and interviewed the neighbors. Several folks reported regularly seeing kids throw rocks and bottles from the bridge at the traffic below. The side of the road is littered with baseball-sized (and larger) rocks, apparently hurtled at cars by teenagers.

She asked again if I'd be willing to go on camera. She would come to me.

And that is how I came to be featured on the 6 o-clock news, and why I've changed my regular route home from the office.

Watch the video

Hormones vs. Organization

2012-01-02T20:24:00.002-05:00

I like to think of myself as a fairly together person. I am organized and professional in the office. I keep a relatively neat and clean home. I aim to be a compassionate and caring friend and family member. I get overly emotional only at socially appropriate moments or behind closed doors.

Now that I'm -- at most -- 14 weeks from delivering our first child, my together, organized self insists that I make preparations. I painted this elephant family so that I could have a personalized thank you card for baby gifts. My mom came to visit last week, and helped me hang some pictures in her granddaughter's room.

So my togetherness is surviving pregnancy hormones. Except for one thing: I'm afraid I can't claim to limit my expressions of extreme emotion to socially acceptable and/or private moments any longer.

The logical, prepared me insists that I read the many pregnancy books that have accumulated on my bedside. Every time, my prepared self is blindsided by hot, unbidden tears rolling down my her cheeks. It seems I have discovered a direct, causal relationship between uncontrollable crying and reading about childbirth, infant parenting, or the preparation for either. Apparently my tear ducts are as fat as my belly, only they aren't waiting for full term delivery.

The idea of choosing a pediatrician, learning about the possible complications of breastfeeding, and the details of newborn sleep schedules turn me into a tear-stained, snot-nosed pile of pregnancy hormones. Just typing the phrase "birth plan," puts a lump in my throat.

What's most curious to me about the whole phenomenon is that I can't even say for certain what is causing my tears. I mean, sure, there's the fear of screwing up, the uncertainty of what to expect, the guilt and anxiety I never seem to escape (c.f. earlier posts in this blog about pregnancy). On the other hand, most of the time, I can think and talk about and fantasize about it without tears. There's something about the authority of the pregnancy books that leads me to sit on the couch and blubber. Sometimes I accost poor David for comfort and hugs, and he takes the books away and hides them for a couple of days. And I am grateful for his intervention.

I'm thinking I'd better carry tissues to my first childbirth class later this week.

The view from inside

2011-12-11T18:06:00.001-05:00

About three weeks ago now, David and I went to the doctor for what will be our last ultrasound of the kid (assuming nothing goes wrong, but of course, nothing will go wrong). They recorded the scan for us, and now I share it with you. I warn you, there's no audio, just 12 minutes of Rohrschach blots that dance and dissolve into vaguely baby-shaped ink stains now and then. Sometimes it seems to stop. That's where the tech was taking a measurement or pointing something out. I was there for the sonographer to tell me that this is a kidney and that is a foot and I still am not sure of what I'm looking at. Still, those few moments of clarity are pretty magical for this mom-to-be.

A mere days after this video was recorded, I began to feel her moving, and since then it seems she hasn't stopped. She does a regular jig inside my ever-growing belly at least daily to remind me that she's there (as if I could forget). I love the daily hellos from her, tapped out on my body wall, and yet, because it's me, those little flutters tap out a morse code of not just joy and anticipation but terror, inadequacy, and guilt.

I imagine that all mothers-to-be who've been paying attention have at least moments of terror and fears of inadequacy. After all, every parent, parenting book, and hallmark card I've met, read, or received in the last 5 and a half months tells me that my life will never be the same, and I have no idea what I'm in for. Surely that repeated message takes its toll on people besides me.

And yet, there's more to it than that. About the same time that I learned that she was really and truly on her way, I accepted a new job. It was a period of great anticipation and hope--hoped-for baby, new job, everything was going my way. This was the job I'd been looking for since I walked away from a PhD program seven years ago. I had given up on being an academician studying Judaism and decided to make a living as a marketer. The new job made me a director of marketing for a Jewish non-profit. My two selves, professional and personal, were to find single purpose in the new position. And to have the offer at the same time that the pregnancy was confirmed: truly it must be beshert, intended.

And here we are three and a half months later, and my relationship with my dream job can only be described as strained. I'm working harder than I ever have (and I've always been a hard worker), and despite lovely coworkers, a supportive boss, and a mission I can believe in, I go to work most days feeling the way I imagine Sisyphus must have felt watching that boulder roll down the mountain, again. The organization cannot provide me with the resources to do the job the way I would like it to be done, but I have a difficult time not blaming myself for the discrepancy.

I'm unhappy a lot of the time. And then I feel a little kick in the abdomen. A little morse code message from inside that says "Mama, I'm here!" And I think at her as loud as I know how (sometimes actually speaking it), "Oh baby! Please don't think this unhappiness is because of you! Please know only how wanted and loved you are." And then I think, "When you arrive, I promise I will learn to let this go, and will no longer wake up at three in the morning worrying about the office."

And then I feel guilty. I feel guilty that she isn't enough. I feel guilty that my "dream" job is making me feel like Sisyphus. I feel guilty that I'm not doing more, that I don't write in this blog more often, that it's been months since I last touched the collection of essays I am (was) writing.

I often fantasize about being a stay-at-home-mom, like my sister the SAHMnambulist, and then I feel guilty because I know we can't afford to lose my income.

The guilt leads to worry and fear that the guilt and unhappiness is poisoning my perfect little tapper, that she will be an anxious and unhappy person because she is growing inside an anxious and unhappy person.

And so I watch this Rohrschach-baby video again. And I see hands, and a baby foot. She emerges from the ink blot a yogi in plow position, legs over head, and I relax a little. She's ok. She's oblivious to my trivial snivelings. The flutters and taps I feel against my belly aren't the taps of anxiety and unhappiness. They are the exuberance of newness, the movement of discovery, the dance of growth. They are the proof of the miracle of a baby--our baby--doing exactly what she is supposed to be doing.

For a moment, at least, I know I will be able to keep my promise: when she comes, I may be awake at three in the morning, but it will not be with worry about the office.

This changes everything

2011-10-02T18:30:00.001-04:00

Some days you just can't catch a break. You finally manage to break away from a grueling workday to go to lunch with a co-worker and the service takes forever. While in the restaurant, you get a call from your husband. The petty officer who is supposed to relieve him on watch so that he can come with you to your doctor's appointment has pinkeye. She's not allowed to come in, so he won't be able to meet you at the doctor as expected. After the waitress FINALLY brings your check, you rush out to your car to try to make your appointment, and somehow the parking garage thwarts you, showing you your vehicle but putting fences and railings in your path. It taunts you until you finally go back to the NORTH elevator (you came up on the Southern variety) and ride it one floor to your waiting chariot. You drive as fast as you safely can on the interstate to your waiting doctor's appointment, but you're still 15 minutes late. You get to the doctor's office and they tell you you're on the wrong floor. It's only one flight down, so you try to take the stairs--following a serpentine path to the stairwell--only to greet the bright red warning "No re-entry. Exit on ground floor only." You go back to the elevator, ride it one floor to the correct doctors' office. The pleasant receptionist tells you your doctor will still see you, even though you're so late, but it may be a bit of a wait.

So you wait. And you wait. They call you back. You sit with your doctor for about 5 minutes and the nurse knocks on the door to say Sue is ready. Your doctor tells you to go see Sue and then come back. You return to the elevator, go back up to the original office to see Sue. Sue has you lie on the table and reveal your belly. She squirts a cold, gooey clear gel on your exposed abdomen and directs you to look at a tv screen mounted to the wall on your left.

And then the world changes.

A ghostly, baby-shaped silhouette instantly melts away all of the pent up stress of the past several hours. The baby stretches, arches a tiny back and seems to wave at you. Before your eyes the grainy, black and white image yawns. Seriously, an open-mouthed, honest-to-goodness yawn with both arms stretched out in front. You feel yourself start to cry, the day's frustration completely transformed into joy.

Some days, everything seems to just go your way.

Nes katan yihyeh po

2011-09-24T19:30:00.005-04:00

I usually think of dramatic displays of divine power when I hear the word "miracle." I imagine laws-of-physics defying feats like the parting of the Red Sea or arresting the sun in the sky at Jericho. But Jewish liturgy reminds me, even keeping the lights on can be a miracle in the right context: of the Chanukah story we say nes gadol hayah sham "a great miracle happened there," because our ancestors managed to stretch lamp oil days longer than expected.

My own version of the ancient Hebrew sentence is now on permanent loop in my brain: nes katan yihyeh po "a small miracle will happen here."

For more than 18 months, David and I tried to get pregnant. Finally we went to a clinic where we learned that without intervention, it is, for all intents and purposes, impossible for us to get pregnant together. After some consternation, we opted for intervention, and once we got past a few false starts, it worked.

Nearly two and a half years after we decided to start a family, we are now expecting our first child, and though I regularly want to pinch myself in disbelief, my expanding waistline and some fuzzy ultrasound pictures of what looks vaguely owl-like reiterate: nes katan yihyeh po.

I alternate between euphoria and utter panic approximately hourly, but even in the moments of panic there is a strong undertow of gratitude pulling me back to nes katan. It is difficult for me to embrace the idea of divine intervention. I cannot believe I am worthy of such attention when so many suffer the worst indignities being human has to offer. And yet I know, divine intervention or not, gratitude remains in order. Gratitude for the medicine that made it possible, for my family and friends who supported the painful journey, and most especially for my David who didn't give up on our desire for a family though the road was as rocky for him as it was for me. Yihyeh po.

Before we started trying to conceive, I didn't believe in bargaining with God. In part it was because I have strong doubts whether there is a consciousness in God that could accept a bargain. But mostly, it just seems inappropriate to try to barter with the divine.

At some point in our travels and travails, I re-read the story of Hannah in the book of Samuel. Hannah, who is barren, makes an impassioned plea at the Temple in Jerusalem in which she promises that if God gives her a son she will dedicate the boy to the Temple and a life of service. Apparently God hears and accepts Hannah's bargain, because she conceives and gives birth to Samuel (whose name means "God heard"). Once Samuel is weaned, Hannah keeps her end of the deal and literally gives her son to the priest Eli.

After re-reading Hannah's story, I began to permit myself some bargaining: "HaShem, if you help us become pregnant, we will raise that child in as Jewish a home as we can create. We will raise him or her to know Judaism and to know you in a way I never have."

I said the shehechiaynu, the Jewish prayer of thanksgiving and joy, when my pee finally produced two blue lines instead of one. Nes katan. It was the start of me keeping my end of the deal.

And yet even as the pregnancy progresses, my discomfort with God persists. David and I are thinking of hiring a doula to help with labor and delivery. I found the website of a practice that seemed to be the perfect balance between professional and caring. I had my hand on the phone to call for an interview when I got to the line on the site about how "our classes proclaim God’s wisdom and His design for your pregnancy, labor, delivery, postpartum, and breastfeeding." I froze, hung up the phone, and scratched that practice off the list. yihyeh po?

In my defense, this practice was clearly Christian (one of their testimonials refers to what they do as a "ministry"), and so perhaps my discomfort is with Christianity, not God, per se. But maybe, even though nes katan yihyeh po, I'm the only one allowed to say it. I just hope that is enough to fulfill my end of the bargain.

Finding my sea legs: Redux

2011-03-13T11:19:00.002-04:00

This weekend, David was on the committee that put together a ball for sailors in his particular community of expertise. Luckily for me (and you) they had another cake-cutting ceremony, with a sword, and this time, the party was in a hotel, so cameras were completely kosher. Unluckily for us, I can't seem to properly use even the little point-and-shoot job that fits into my purse. So there are pictures, but you may have to squint. Take my word for it, those Captains and Admirals are cutting a sheet cake WITH A SWORD.

Does this garment come in maternity sizes?

2011-01-30T19:40:00.005-05:00

In House of Leaves, I first read a definition of “uncanny” as the German “unheimlich,” “not-at-home.” I’m not sure it’s true, but according to House of Leaves, Heidegger wrote of this notion of not-at-home in Being and Time. I took a course in Heidegger in graduate school, but I remember this idea of feeling not-at-home from Danielewski. For whatever reason, in the context of the novel, the word, the notion, unheimlich, resonated with me.

I find that I often return to the word when trying to characterize my own Jewish identity. As a non-orthodox Jewish American (or American Jew – I struggle to decide which is modifier, which the modified), I liken myself to the American-born child of immigrant parents. Not unlike those first-generation Americans, I belong to two worlds but fit nowhere: in the secular world I’m perceived as exotic and “other,” yet I’m painfully aware that I speak the Jewish idiom with a thick American accent. I live my life not-at-home, and it often leaves me feeling inauthentic, or worse, inadequate.

I have recently decided that Judaism is not unlike a beautiful and ancient garment that I have inherited. I am afraid to tailor it—-unsure if I have the skill—-or indeed the right-—to re-vision it. I see in it the most beautiful layers of wisdom and meaning—-truths that give me goosebumps. But it does not fit me (or I do not fit it). All of my study and struggle is an attempt to learn to wear it comfortably, to feel at home in it—-or at least to manage not to trip on it when I walk.

Perhaps not surprisingly, my insecurities about my own Jewish identity/observance/expression make me incredibly sensitive when I feel I must defend that identity-—whether or not my defensive posture is truly warranted.

David and I are currently taking the Florence Melton mini-school course at the Virginia Beach JCC. This course (2 actually) consists of local rabbis and Jewish educators teaching adults through a text-based curriculum created at Hebrew University Jerusalem. I really pushed Dave to take this course with me. I have spent a good deal of time (half my life a friend recently pointed out) thinking about and studying Jewish texts. David has not. I thought this course would be a useful way for us to establish a sort of shared vocabulary, so that we could make decisions about what halacha (Jewish law) we want to incorporate into our home.

Since I have spent so much time studying, I often have a lot I’d like to contribute. I do try to give my classmates a chance, but sometimes I’m sure I offer too much or too quickly. On a recent evening, the rabbi leading class told me to give it a rest. His message was not uncalled for, but he addressed me in front of the whole class, in the middle of class, leaving me feeling exceedingly embarrassed and not unlike a small child scolded by her teacher.

It was, I can assure you, not the first time a teacher, professor, or instructor told me I ought to give my classmates a chance. I’ve been a loud-mouthed know-it-all my whole life. I’m used to being told to “can it” now and then. However, perhaps because it was a rabbi (see above) doing the scolding, or perhaps because it was done in a public, and therefore less-than kind, way (though I do not believe the rabbi to be less-than kind), it stung. I interrupted his message with an assurance that I understood (interrupted to shorten the discomfort of the scolding) and clamped my teeth around any comments that might threaten to bubble to the surface.

The conversation that night surrounded miracles, and by extension, God’s will. I do not believe in miracles—-at least not in the biblical, suspension-of-the-laws-of-nature variety, though interestingly several of my classmates, including an obstetrician who apparently handles high-risk and complicated pregnancies and births, claim to believe in miracles-as-intervention. Since the obstetrician was one of the ones arguing for miracles, the conversation, of course, turned to the miracle of birth. My classmates pulled on a thread of conversation suggesting that the difference between a successful pregnancy and a family’s tragedy was God’s will while I sat doodling with my jaw locked closed.

About two weeks prior to that class period, David and I learned that any biological children of ours would, indeed, be miracles--in the truest, suspension-of-the-laws-of-nature sense of the word. And so I sat with my pride stinging from the scolding and my heart aching from the conversation. It was too much for me.

At first, I took deep breaths to push down the lump in my throat. I went to the ladies room to get a hold of myself. I was ok. I returned to class. The conversation continued down the same vein. I felt accused. The demon that lives in my heart, already emboldened by my embarrassment that evening, told me if only I prayed harder, if only I lived a more Jewish life, God’s will would be in line with mine; if I weren’t so inadequate, I would be a mother. I tried to push that demon back with reason and self-love, but that night, I was not strong enough. As class ended, Rabbi approached to smooth things over. I guess he knew that I was stung. I lost it. I was not ok. I made a quick excuse and got the hell out of there.

After class, I stood in the parking lot, sobbing my heartache and embarrassment into David’s chest. Heartache for the longed-for children, embarrassment for the tears I managed to hide from no one. As David comforted me, another classmate came up to tell me how much she appreciates my comments in class, to assure me that regardless of the evening's events, she’s glad I’m in the class. Her kind words only fueled the cruel sting of embarrassment. I thanked her, trying to smile through my tears. I assured her that I was ok. She politely pretended to believe me.

I did eventually stop crying (though I admit to a few tears in the retelling). In the morning, the demon of self-loathing was returned to its normal, manageable strength. At the next class, the rabbi went out of his way to praise the one comment I allowed myself to make. Equilibrium was restored.

Our Western medical doctors are recommending some very unpleasant and invasive next steps, so David and I are instead exploring acupuncture in the quest toward biological parenthood. My acupuncturist is optimistic that through her ministering we will get there, and from what I read on the interwebs, acupuncture is the best hope for our particular diagnosis. In the meantime, I am doing what I can to be thankful for the wonderful life that I have. Children will come when it is their time (when it is God’s will?), but until then, I love the life I’m living.

(Take that, demon!)

Finding my sea legs: observations of a Navy wife

2011-01-25T20:41:00.003-05:00

**Note: this piece was written in draft form many months ago.

For Armed Forces Week, David’s command conducts various activities, including a gala banquet to which the whole command—enlisted, officer and civilian—are invited.

David put on his dress whites, and I bought a new dress. We drove to the base through the “employees only” entrance. The stern looking marine at the gate checked David’s badge and confirmed my name was on the list, and soon my too-high heels were clicking the entryway of a building whose secrets are closely guarded.

A photographer was set up at the back of the room (no civilian cameras are allowed in the building) and I quickly realize I am attending a military prom. Men in tuxedos or suits or dress uniforms and women with up-dos and gowns (or dress uniforms) mill around the ballroom, drinks in hand.

Eventually, the assembled are invited to find their places, and we all sit. There’s the usual small talk and pleasantries and then the program begins. A young Airman serves as Emcee, introducing his superiors and peers as they address the group. A wizened Master Chief with gold bars from his wrist to his shoulder (each represents 4 years of service) warms up the crowd with silly jokes. I am startled when he suddenly grunts (remarkably loudly) into the microphone “OORAH!” and it is echoed from various sailors around the room.

(David told me later that each branch has it’s own version (the Marines say “hooyah” I think), and the word means pretty much anything except “no.” I imagine conversations around ships all over the fleet: “Sailor, go swab the deck!” “Oorah!” “Navy beat Army!” “Oorah!” “It’s time for dinner.” “Oorah!” Then I imagine that it is kind of like the word “smurf,” and it really can mean anything: “What the oorah is going on in here?!” Or “Oh, doesn’t that look oorah! I just love it!” But I digress.)

The awards and speeches drag on and I eye my salad hungrily when the Emcee announces it is time for the cake-cutting ceremony. Oorah for cake! I learn that it is a tradition (or at least unsurprising to the rest of my dinner companions) that the cake be cut by the oldest person and the youngest person in uniform. At our gala that means the multi-star General who is the head of the command and a fresh-faced, 20-year-old Petty Officer have the honor.

At the very beginning of the evening, the color guard had presented the flags of all of the relevant commands. Four of them now return, one member from each of the branches, to present the cake. With chests high, and all the pomp they have been highly-trained to execute, the Soldier, Sailor, Marine, and Coastie escort the cake into the room. Each marches at one of the 4 corners of a tablecloth-draped cart on which sits… a sheet cake? Holy crap, for all of this oorah I expected an Ace of Cakes masterpiece, perhaps shaped like an eagle or a gun or something. Imagine my surprise when a humble sheet cake with white icing stares back from among the color guard's color.

I’m starting to giggle at the thought of the Safeway cake box that must be hidden under the cart’s draping when an Airman marches in with an honest-to-god sword held before him. With much precision, the Airman flips his sword around and presents the hilt to the General.

I’m trying to hide my laughter behind my hand as the General and the young Sailor together use this three-foot sword to cut a sheet cake. They line it up -- exactly in the center, lengthwise -- and press the sharp blade through the layers of buttercream and chocolatey goodness. The General then hands the sword back to the Airman who holds it with as much reverence as before, despite the icing that now clings to it. The straight line of the icing-stained steel bisects his severe face exactly in half as he executes his turn and marches toward the back of the room.

I look around to share the joke with the other guests, but no one else is laughing. I school my face as the color guard retreats with the cake cart, slowly and in-step. The sheet cake, with dignity and solemnity, surrenders itself to the barbarism of the kitchen staff who deftly divide its deliciousness for the assembled.

After dinner, I receive my slice of the cake that served its country so bravely. Chocolate with white icing. Oorah.

The day after my nephew's bris

2010-09-13T19:32:00.002-04:00

The alarm rang at 3:30 AM.
I struggled to get out of the air mattress on the floor, blearily deflated it, folded it, and shoved it into my suitcase. I dressed in my pencil skirt and blazer (no nylons) for my 3:30 business meeting.
I packed the rental car (a Ford Focus), and set out to the airport for a 6 AM flight.
I struggled to find a radio station worth listening to for 45 minutes, finally discovering the NPR affiliate (playing a BBC feed since Morning Edition doesn't start until 5) right before the traffic on the highway came to a complete stop.
I put the automatic into park and pulled up the emergency break.
I rubbed my eyes. I listened to the BBC until Morning Edition came on.
I watched the minutes build on the Ford's clock.
I felt the anxiety build in my throat.
At 5:15 I decided that I would miss my flight.
At 5:20 the traffic started moving again.
If I ran I could still make the flight, right?
I worked my way over to the right, to exit for the airport (it was the next exit, after all).
I followed the signs to the rental car return, entered the turn around and looked for Enterprise. Thrifty, Alamo, Dollar, the end of the rental area. THE END OF THE RENTAL AREA.
5:35 SHIT! FUCK! SHIT! FUCK! FUCK! ASS! SHIT!
5:40 I circle around again to the rental car return. Enterprise is the first turn. I pull the Ford up in the line, grab my suitcase from the trunk, drop the key in the after-hours key drop and run.
5:45 My ear sort of itches. I scratch it and my fingers come away with a little blood. Seriously? The soreness inside my ear that's been bugging me for the past couple of days is a pimple that's just decided to open.
5:47 tissue in my ear, I arrive at the self-service counter for US Airways. The lady next to me is told she's missed her 6 AM flight.
I've missed my 6 AM flight.
They re-route me through Philly. I'll be an hour later than I had planned, but still on time for my 3:30.
I wander through the Indianapolis airport with a tissue blotting my bleeding ear, and I'm cold. I decide to buy some pantyhose. I find 2 rows of pantyhose amid the magazines and candy snacks at the Hudson News. They're at the bottom of a rack of pharmacy materials. There are 2 sizes: Queen Size, and One Size. I know I'm not Queen Size, so I pick up the no size, purchase it, and make my way to the restroom.
Locked in the handicapped stall, I work my way into the nylons. I guess they just called them "one size" and not "one size fits all" to avoid that whole "false advertising" thing. I trade in my now blood polka-dotted tissue for a clean one.

I walk toward my gate with the newly-purchased nylons wrinkling by my ankles, but at least I'm not so cold anymore.

I sleep on the first plane to Philly, and decide to read on the short hop from Philly to Norfolk.

When I get to Norfolk, I make my way to the baggage claim and wait for my luggage with an odd assortment of soldiers, sailors, prissy girls, and grandmothers. My bag finally makes its way around the conveyor belt.

I don't remember where I left my car, but luckily I had the forethought to write its position on the parking ticket, still tucked in my wallet. I get to my car and realize, I don't actually know how to get home from the airport. I've only driven to the airport the once, and I used the GPS.

I plug in the GPS. "Searching for valid GPS signal." SHIT
I start heading toward the airport exit.
Still searching for signal.
FUCK.
I follow the traffic around the circle.
Luckily it's a pretty straight shot to my home.
I made it to my 3:30 meeting.

My remarks at my nephew's bris

2010-09-13T19:13:00.002-04:00

For some reason, since I first held little A in my arms, my mind keeps returning to my high school physics class. A vague memory keeps surfacing in my brain: the difference between potential energy -- the ball poised at the top of the ramp, kinetic energy -- the ball as it makes its gravity-powered descent, and spent energy -- when the whole thing is over.

We huddle around this tiny child -- son, grandson, nephew, friend -- and we revel in the perfection of his tiny baby feet and hands and face and everything. We celebrate the power of his potential energy.

Potential energy is calculated through mass, gravity, and height. A's potential is a similar combination of factors. It is a formula made up of genetics, environment (like gravity, we have little control over it), and love.

Luckily, A will never be lacking in the latter. We few have gathered today on his behalf, but if all those who have anticipated his arrival were here, we'd fill the house and spill from the doorways like the Marx Brothers from a ship's stateroom.

A, you have been blessed with an abundance of people -- Mommy and Daddy, of course. There's me and Uncle Dave, Auntie Diane and Uncle Mark. There are great aunts and uncles all over the country, and even the world. There are cousins, friends, and even a great great aunt. And perhaps best of all (after the aunts, of course), you have an embarrassment of grandparents. They are the best present-givers, and you, my boy, have six: Grandpa Jim and Bubbe Helen, Saba John and Savta Roberta, and Grandma Marian and Grandad Bryon.

We adults are at varying stages of spent, kinetic, and potential energy. You are nearly 100% potential, and we celebrate all that you are and all that you will be. Your path will not be frictionless, though we will do our best to protect you from those bumps along the way. You will make choices in your life. Most, we hope, will be good, and some, inevitably, will be less so. Regardless of where you are on the journey, you will always have loving hands and hearts to guide you, strong shoulders to cry on, and sympathetic ears to listen. That overflowing stateroom of love will always be there to prop you up, even when it seems the room is empty.

In traditional Jewish custom, when someone arrives to a destination, those already there greet them with a joyful "baruch haba!" Literally, this translates "blessed is the one who comes." It sounds stilted in English, but in Hebrew, those 2 words carry with them a welcome full of joy in the newcomer's presence and eagerness for the imminent time spent together. With all of that in mind, I want to say to A, "baruch haba." Blessed are you -- blessed and loved.

On becoming an Aunt

2010-09-05T20:17:00.002-04:00

I often dream of my maternal grandmother. Several times in the past 8 years, I have dreamed that someone made a mistake, and she is not really dead. In the dream, we never discuss her death and funeral, we just know that it was in error, and that she is alive and well. She speaks with me with affection but no urgency, as she did before she died, not in some sort of fraught message-from-beyond, but casually, as if she had all the time in the world.

In the waking world, I long for a daughter whom I might name after her. For 15 months now, David and I have been trying to conceive.

David, amazingly considerate and brutally callous by turns, sometimes seems an unlikely life partner for me. The same man who regularly thanks me “just for being me,” argues with a derisive chuckle that Native Americans have no right to be offended by sports teams called “Indians.” Exceedingly kind and infuriatingly jingoistic he is the companion I’d always hoped for: always there, loving me, unconditionally. I adore his goofy smile and even his sometimes inarticulate ruminations on life and love. And yet I secretly celebrate when he does not vote because I don’t like the choice he might make in the ballot box.

And now, implausible a couple as we may be, we two struggle to procreate. Initially, we were trying by simply not trying not to conceive. But about 6 months ago, I dove in in earnest. I have become a woman obsessed, doing everything I can to increase my chances, from vitamins to herbs to exercises to inverted yoga poses after sex that reduce us both to giggles as I struggle to keep my naked hips above my head.

I watch the rhythm of my basal body temperature march across the days, and it doesn’t look the way it should. The temperature doesn’t spike the way it ought to, or it spikes at the wrong time. I pour over the chart and words float to the surface: “luteal phase defect,” “kidney yang deficiency.” Each of these phrases (and so many others) is a small knife in my heart, a tiny indignity society tells me I may not discuss with anyone but a health practitioner. Each one pushes my hopes a bit further from my grasp. But I carry on.

I snub his advances except every other day during the week I expect to ovulate, and dutifully record every time we make love. I watch the chart for any sign that the miracle has happened, that my own Ruthie is on her way. Yet every month the temperature drops, right when it’s supposed to — it’s the only part of the chart that matches the expected pattern. And every month, my period comes with its dark stain of disappointment and frustration.

On the second or third day of my cycle, I count on my fingers what month she’ll be born if we conceive this month. I do my best to shake off disappointment and replace it with optimism. I know that stress and despair will not bring me my grandmother-daughter. And so I endeavor to relax, to be happy, to be grateful.

I share the chart with my acupuncturist in my weekly treatments, and I watch her face anxiously, watching for a flicker of recognition or approval or pity that might help me decode the jagged lines that pile up month after month. I eagerly submit to her ministering, feeling the qi move in hands and feet, willing the yin and yang to balance and make way for her, the grandmother-daughter.

Today I sit in the belly of an airplane bringing me to my sister, her husband, my mother, and my 5-day old nephew. The evening he was born, David and I sat together in front of my computer looking at pictures of him, tiny and pink and squirmy, and together we melted. “I want one,” David said longingly, and for the first time I saw through my own pain in our infertility, and into his. Most of the time I assume that he wants this because I want it, not for his own sake. In that moment, huddled over my laptop with my husband, the reality and legitimacy of his quest for fatherhood struck me.

I worry about the ways in which my baby will change me, change us, when she finally comes. I worry that David doesn’t know what he’s wishing for, that he will be overwhelmed by the responsibility of it all. I worry that she will inherit his jingoism, or his bad teeth, my pretensions, or my wonky eye. I worry that worry is thwarting my fertility, and so I feel guilty for worrying so much. I try again to relax, to be happy, to be grateful.

Of late I have begun trying to imagine her, to hold her in my mind’s eye, soft and fleshy and pink. She has a full head of light brown hair, and those dimples in knees and elbows that babies have. Her tiny fingers and toes are perfect and wriggly, and she is warm and safe in my arms. The weight and warmth of her are comforting, holding within them the essence of “home.” When I perform this mental exercise, a small quarter smile creeps to my face.

Baby A will help give my fantasy details. Unfortunately, David isn’t with me on this pilgrimage to pay homage to the miracle of new life. I wish David could have come, too, to feel the beauty and the miracle in 7 lbs of newborn babyflesh. In a few short hours, I will hold my nephew close and let his warm body show my own baby the way to my arms.

propa-grand gestures

2010-07-26T12:20:00.002-04:00

I have recently fallen into some freelance writing work. A direct marketing agency in my new neighborhood has hired me twice now to write copy for fund-raising efforts they're undertaking on behalf of left-leaning political organizations. The agency seems happy with me. "Tracie - you are a master of the written word" was the response to my most recent submission.

Obviously, this praise was well-received. Who doesn't want to be a master of the written word? At the same time, I suddenly felt the weight of the work for which I was being praised. "We want the opponents to seem mean and underhanded," had been my instructions, and I followed through with copy that bristled with emotional appeals and party politics. (I actually used the word "diabolical"!) "Propagandist!" My idealist-writer voice accuses. "Mercenary pen!" She mutters at me.

At the same time, I've been filling my long commutes with recorded lectures. I've just finished a course on James Joyce's Ulysses. Again and again in Ulysses, Stephen Daedalus (the portrait of the artist as a young man)turns down opportunities to make money (either through writing for others or through singing) in order to protect his literary ambition. Unlike Joyce's Stephen, I don't think I've ever really thought I might "forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race." Nevertheless, there's a quiet yearning that lives in the back of my skull. I imagine it sitting near my brain stem, tugging my sleeve now and then, reminding me of my unrealized potential, reminding me that I ought to use what little literary talent I've been blessed with to create something worthwhile to society.

Instead, I find myself honing my skills on copy that is not only either intentionally anonymous or outright attributed to someone else but also by its nature transient. The average direct marketing fund-raising appeal has a lifespan of 3 to 6 months. I'm writing for the recycling bin.

On Friday last, this realization pushed me to distraction. Leading me to feelings of guilt for having taken the couple of gigs that have come my way, and even guiltier about my excitement over the huge hourly fee I'm charging. Before I knew what I was doing I was reviewing the requirements for an MFA in writing at the University near my home (of course the University for which I work and could take classes for free doesn't offer one!). I've landed on this notion that if I were also writing work of literary merit that my lucrative propaganda jobs would be more forgivable.

What's interesting to me in hindsight is that my guilt pushed me to consider such a grand gesture. It didn't make me rededicate myself to my journaling, nor elicit the decision to write that novel I've been thinking about for some time, nor even to take a writing class. No, this guilt, this sense that I was missing something, not living up to my potential, said to me "get a degree."

Intellectually, I do not believe that a degree is equivalent to potential fulfillment. Do I believe it emotionally? Am I looking to make up for having walked away from the PhD program at Chicago? Am I somehow hoping to redeem myself of that unfinished business by seeking out other degrees? When I told him that I was thinking of applying for the MFA program, my husband said simply "why don't you just take a writing class?" Why indeed.

Memory and Oxygen

2010-07-20T12:24:00.003-04:00

On Friday, my new office took a field trip to the Virginia Institute for Marine Science (VIMS). VIMS is a part of the College of William and Mary, so the Development office, as a group, took a tour. We saw the oyster hatchery (lots of cool colored algae!), the Zooplankton lab, the Discovery lab for kids, and also the Chem lab, where they analyze water and fish and whatever else comes their way for toxic particulates. It was really cool. As I said to one of my co-workers at the time, science is neat.

At some point in the demonstration in the chem lab, our scientist-presenter asked if anyone knew the weight of oxygen. I don't know why, but I said "eight." He said "It's 16" and moved on.

About 20 minutes later, after we'd left the chem lab, our tour guide got a call on her cell phone. It was the oxygen scientist calling to say that the person who had said "eight," i.e. *me*, was right.

"Wow," I thought. "How the cuss did I know that?"
"Wow," said my new co-workers (remember this was my fifth day on the job), "How the cuss did you know that?"
"High School Chemistry?" I said, shrugging.

It turns out that I was only part right. Oxygen's atomic number is, indeed, eight. It's weight is closer to 16. Still. When the question was asked, the answer just surfaced in my brain like an air bubble. I honestly don't remember learning it. But when I pressed on the knowledge, I also pulled out that Hydrogen is 1, and Helium 2. Where did the periodic table come from in my brain?! It's only 3 elements from the table, I know, but still. I haven't even looked at the Periodic Table since 1992.

This amazing little air bubble of knowledge is especially remarkable to me when I think of all the things I forget. One of my best friends in the world, Leah, came to visit me at my parents' house in Maryland while we were in graduate school. I know that she came to visit because I have pictures of us together, both shaved-headed, me in plaid pants, standing on the street in Washington, DC. When I've asked her about the trip before she recalls things we did, places we went. I, on the other hand, have no recollection of the trip at all.

There's a degree to which, in our culture, we believe that the level of memory a person has about something is directly correlated to how much they care about that thing or event. And to a certain extent that's accurate: when you really care about something, you spend time learning and relearning, making sure that you remember.

But what about those things, like the Oxygen's atomic number, that I don't care about at all? It doesn't affect my life, I don't need it in my day-to-day, I certainly don't care about Oxygen the way I care about Leah (regardless of how essential it may be to my continued existence). I don't spend any time *trying* to remember the atomic number. And yet, when someone asks about it, the number pops into the front of my head with the rapid-fire of word association.

It makes me wonder what other little pieces of word association are in there waiting to be pulled out by the right question. Do I know the polarity of free electrons? Do I know the year of Czar Nicholas' assassination? Do I know the rules of entropy? Or the martyrdom story of St. Agatha? Was there even a saint Agatha? If I do know all of those things, what good does it do me? Does everyone remember these things, they just don't trust their word association? Or is mine special? If I am special in this recall, why? Is it something inherent in the way my neurons fire, or is it something about the way that I learned those things? Is it something I can cultivate? Would I even want to?

Of fibromyalgia and flora

2010-06-06T07:47:00.006-04:00

As regular readers of The Files know, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia about ten and a half years ago. My symptoms come and go, and they have included physical, emotional, and cognitive dysfunctions. In more than a decade of dealing with the disorder, I've tried therapies from the mundane (physical therapy) to the bizarre (autonomic testing) to the mundane-outside-of-the-West (acupuncture). I've tried orthotics in my shoes and an orthotic in my mouth. I've taken anti-inflammatory drugs, anti-depressant drugs, and every vitamin or mineral that gets turned into a tablet. Regular readers will know that I've even brewed my own herbal tonic from sticks and roots. Many of these various treatments have given me some relief, at least at first. None of them have completely alleviated my pain. Until now.

About 3 months ago, within my list of symptoms, I mentioned to my herbal practitioners that I believed I had a yeast infection. They were more interested in this small fact than I had anticipated. How often did I have them, they wanted to know. How long had I been getting them? Based on the way yeast infection cures are advertised, I thought that my 6 to 8 infections a year was normal. Television ads for yeast cures appear nearly as regularly as those for menstrual products. Surely other women experience them as frequently as I. Actually not. These herbal practitioners, acupuncturists all, suddenly had a knowing look and a new level of sympathy (pity?) in their eyes. "Yeast overgrowth" said the head guy. They all nodded. "You're going to need to be on probiotics for a long time." "You'll also need to stop feeding the yeast with what you eat."

That sounded reasonable in the abstract: stop feeding the flora that are making me sick. Duh. But even cursory research quickly revealed that this little yeast-starvation adventure was going to be a difficult exercise in self-denial. Yeast eat sugar. To starve the yeast properly, I was not to eat any sugar, not even fruit. Other carbohydrates that are converted to sugars by my digestive process are also on the no-no list: bread, alcohol, pasta.

I bought The Yeast Connection, one of the first books written on this phenomenon. It suggested that in addition to yeast-tasty foods, I should cut out all other possible triggers for feeling bad, like corn, soy and dairy. I read the book in about 2 days. I think I stopped crying on the 3rd or 4th day. I started the diet on the 7th day.

After the first week I began to experience what those in the know refer to as "die-off." The little yeasties were dying in my gut and their microscopic dead bodies were acting as a toxin. I felt worse than before I started the diet. My pain redoubled itself, attacking especially my shoulders and low back. In the midst of this "die-off," a vigorous session at the gym got me really sweating, and suddenly I felt a lot better. A little more cursory research suggested sweating was a good way to get the yeast corpses out of my system. I made the acquaintance of the sauna room at my local YMCA.

I felt better. A lot better. Pain-free, actually. For the first time in more than a decade, I was totally pain free. It was a remarkable feeling. In about the 6th week of my diet, Passover started. You'd think Passover, with it's kibosh on leavening, would be make keeping an anti-yeast diet easier. You'd be wrong. Matzo's in freaking everything. Also, my kitchen-savvy husband made amazing desserts from flourless chocolate nut bars to baked apple crisps.

My willpower was not up to the task. I was able to limit myself to one cheat per day, though, and hey, I was still feeling good. Still no pain. Woohoo! Maybe I'd been on the diet long enough to return the yeast/bacteria ratio in my system to the proper balance. I became careless. What started as up to one cheat per day turned into "sure I'll have a second slice of pie, Ellen doesn't retire every day!"

My first clue that all was not well came with the telltale itch, the all-too-familiar discomfort, appropriate only for conversations with my doctor. The old bodyaches came next, slinking back into my muscles and settling in like a dog in its favorite spot.

I put down my ice cream spoon and picked up another bottle of acidophilus. I'm heartened by the fact that I know what's wrong, and have the power to affect change. At the same time, I'm having a hard time not feeling sorry for myself. My co-workers are planning a going away party for me in two weeks. It will be a party in my honor at which I shouldn't eat anything. They're trying -- looking into sugar-free dessert options, but just because something doesn't have added sugars doesn't mean it isn't a feast for yeast. I find the sugar cravings sometimes blind me to the amazing fact of my new found control over the dysfunctions that have haunted me for a decade.

Herbal Update

2010-03-07T20:28:00.002-05:00

I didn't feel like there was much difference when I drank the herbal "tonic" (or "gravy" as I tend to call it). I maybe slept a little better, but not much. But I dutifully drank it twice a day for 2 weeks. Then came Snowpocalypse, and I missed my second appointment with the Herb Guys. Two weeks after that, I finally got back to see them. I was miserable. I was in a lot of pain (especially in my shoulders and hips), and I felt exhausted and overwhelmed by life. They decided to try halving the level of herbs, and adding one for pain. They also told me that they think I have a "yeast overgrowth," like a yeast infection, but in my whole body, instead of just the va-jay-jay. I was completely overwhelmed and really saddened by this diagnosis. Overwhelmed because the treatment includes a very strict diet that precludes all sugars--even fruits--and saddened because I feel like I've been working really hard, especially in the last year, to make healthy choices and take care of myself, and it turns out that I've been hurting myself based on what I eat and drink. I cried most of the day when I left the Herb Guys, and some of the next couple of days.

But then the gravy started to work. My pain levels went down, my energy went up. I was sleeping through the night and waking up refreshed. I decided that I *would* try the diet. I bought an anti-yeast-diet cookbook, and planned my week's meals. I went grocery shopping and spent two-weeks grocery money in a single day.

I started the diet on Monday. By Wednesday I felt like hell. The literature on the internet calls it "die-off." The little yeast organisms in your body start to die because they have nothing to eat, and their microscopic bodies are toxic. Your liver and lymph can't move these toxic corpses out quickly enough and so you start to feel bad. For me it was more-or-less the symptoms that made me think I had yeast overgrowth in the first place: pain, fatigue, deflated mood.

I usually aim to work out on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday. On Thursday, I made my way to the gym late -- around 8 PM. I had read on the internet that one way to help get rid of the excess toxins caused by the die off is to sweat. I decided to ramp up my workout intensity to try to get at that effect. I did 30 minutes of high intensity cardio on the elliptical machine (while I watched Spongebob). I finished my workout and did my regular stretches. Walking away from the gym, I realized something was missing -- I was pain-free, or almost.

The next morning I returned to the gym before work, and added a 10 minute schvitz in the sauna to my workout routine. I've been back to the gym (and sauna) every day since then. My pain levels remain MUCH better. I ordinarily have about a 4 (on a 10 point scale) with spikes up to 6 or 7. Now I seem to be operating around a 2 with spikes to 4. My mood and energy are also better, though they seem to be more directly tied to food than they used to be.

I hadn't had any sugar, even fruit, for week. This evening I got a craving, and I decided to cheat a little. I had a girl scout samoa. Yum. So far I don't feel worse as a result, but I'm sure that the little yeasties are feasting.

Initially I expected to need this diet for about 3 weeks. Now, based on what I've read online, I realize it may be as long as 6 months. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by the prospect of sustaining this for that long. I miss bananas and apples and pears. And donuts. I feel certain I will cheat again, but on the whole I've been really good. I've eaten meat and vegetables and nuts for a week. No dairy, no soy, no corn, no baked goods of any kind, including and especially bread. For breakfast I've been eating hot cereals like cream of buckwheat or grits with stevia and cinnamon (thank God for stevia, btw, before I discovered it, breakfast was unbearable). For mid-morning snacks when I usually eat an apple, I have sliced vegetables and a handful of raw nuts.

I've lost about 5 pounds in the past week. It was about a pound a day for the first 4 and then it slowed down. I worked out every day for the past 4. I figure I'll take tomorrow off from the gym and then get back to it. It's really nice to feel like I have control over feeling better. Lack of control has been a consistently depressing part of this syndrome since before I was diagnosed. I hope I can remember it even when things get really tough.

Experiments with herbs

2010-02-02T20:45:00.011-05:00

I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia about 10 years ago. The syndrome is characterized by chronic fatigue and widespread non-degenerative pain in the joints and muscles.

Over the years, I've tried many different "alternative" therapies, from ayurveda to feldenkreis. I always come back to acupuncture. Its kookiness is somehow mitigated with centuries of success and documentation. It also tends to help me. So, when my acupuncturist asked if I'd be willing to be a patient in the Chinese herb clinic she's taking at the Tai Sophia institute, I agreed.

I agreed to meet with her and her class at least three times. I will further take the herbs she and her cohorts put together for me, cook them, as per provided directions, and drink the resulting "tea" twice a day. I meet with them every two weeks, so basically this is a six week herbal trial. I'm on week 2. I don't feel particularly better, yet, though my mood has been better.

What I really wanted to share, though, was the experience of cooking and drinking this stuff. The herb clinic class and instructor sent me home from my first consultation with two big ziploc bags full of sticks and dirt. Seriously, this stuff looks like you collected it out of your back yard. Each bag makes one week's worth of the tonic.

To turn the sticks and dirt into tea, I dumped a whole bag into my crock pot, added 10 cups of water, and cooked, overnight, on low.

In the morning, the whole apartment was filled with a smell vaguely reminiscent of chimney smoke and tree bark. The steamy stew in the crock-pot looked totally different than what I'd put in there the night before: it was wet sticks and dirt.

Using a ladle and a strainer, I moved the tonic from the slow cooker to a glass pitcher (it has to be glass, by the way, as the liquid will interact with plastic or metal). I dumped the wet sticks into the trashcan. It looked like Swamp Thing threw up in my there.

I'm supposed to drink 1/2 cup a day on an empty stomach. It's better if you drink it warm. It has a complicated flavor. It starts off like beef gravy, then moves into wood smoke, with a finish of molasses. Less than delicious but also not as disgusting as I expected.

I have another consultation on Sunday.

Stay tuned.

More adventures in crafting

2010-02-02T20:33:00.003-05:00

I just finished a binding a blank book. It took me about 5 hours of work and about 12 or 14 weeks of procrastination. At this rate, I can start a business selling hand-bound books in around 2222. Wish me luck in my resolution to spend more time in the studio.

Adventures in Crafting

2010-01-04T21:19:00.004-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was perusing Martha Stewart's website (I was bored, and she's got some awesome stuff. Don't judge), when I found this. I was so tickled by that little stuffed dog that I printed out the directions and vowed to make one.

Over Christmas "break" this year, Dave and I went to visit his parents in Missouri. As a gift, they gave me a scarf, hat, and glove set. The scarf and hat are striped (hooray for stripes!) but the gloves are (were) just black. I decided to make the little (g)love dog with my Christmukkah gloves.

I sat down this evening after dinner, around 6:30 PM. At approximately 9:15 PM I was putting the finishing touches on my creation. I'm not sure I have the right to call it a dog, but my deformed dog-bunny is a start. (Etsy here I come!!)

I call him Lester.

Now accepting commissions.

Look at that f***ing hipster!

2009-12-04T20:46:00.003-05:00

On Tuesday night of this week, I drove to Washington, DC, with my friend Sarah, to see the Pixies on their Doolittle 20-year anniversary tour. It was an awesome show. I'm so glad that I decided to go, even though it was in DC on a Tuesday.

With the above positive endorsement in mind, I have some small complaints. The show was not general admission. As odd as this seemed, I actually am not complaining. I know that this makes me old, but I liked having a seat. It was the other people with seats that weirded me out. When I got to my seat, a woman sat in the one adjacent. She had reddish hair pulled back into a single braid on the back of her head. She was reading. Yes, reading a novel, while waiting for the show to start. And she was wearing a black cotton surgical mask. She looks up at me over her book and the surgical mask and I don't know if I should smile or recoil in (not-so) mock horror. She continued to read while the other concert-goers found their seats and then the freaky surrealist movie "La Chien Andaluse" began to play on the large video screen behind the stage. She only put the book down once the house lights went down. At the end of the show, she had her bag in hand, ready to squeeze past me before the first encore (there were three). Honestly, I just don't know what to say about that.

Some things I'm thinking about

2009-10-30T09:02:00.002-04:00

Vaseline:
I have this image in my head of miners all grimy and dirty with soft, soft hands on which the scars of every day simply fade away.

Band-aids:
People are less demonstrably curious about an inch long gash above your eyebrow than they are about a band-aid covering said gash.

Wandering the apartment at night:
Doorways have a tendency to jump out at you when you're not looking.

Gashes above your eyebrow:
Bleed A LOT!

Lots of blood running down your face and dripping off your nose:
Just might make you puke.

Anybody got some glue? Maybe a bandaid?

2009-10-14T07:31:00.001-04:00

I feel broken today. I went to gym class this morning, and I did all of the shoulder exercises without the resistance. My right shoulder is still painful. My shoulder and thigh feel as though the rubberband holding them together has a knot in it. I can feel the knot moving when I do my exercises. Sometimes when I move in a certain way, it feels as if the knot is pressed on two sides by the rest of the body part. I feel sad and weepy because of it. I don’t know if I should press on and ignore it, go to the doctor (who will likely say there’s nothing physiologically wrong), or just crawl into a ball and cry about it. I must say, the latter seems particularly appealing at the moment. I’m tired of being broken. Every time I think I’ve discovered the fix, I break again. I’m starting to think the Cymbalta was helping with the pain more than I realized (nearly 4 weeks without Cymbalta).

The Lotus-Eaters

2009-09-15T07:38:00.004-04:00

I'm reading concurrently Homer's The Odyssey and James Joyce's Ulysees. I'm also skimming Stuart Gilbert's work on Ulysses, chapter by chapter. Last night I read book 5 in each work, "The Lotus-Eaters." I'm struck, every time, by Joyce's capacity to capture the random, streaming thoughts of his characters and translate them into words on paper. I'm particularly intrigued by the way in which that inner monologue integrates into a third-person narrative of how events are taking place. My last post experimented with the stream of consciousness stuff. I could've gone on and on in that vein, but I realized that nothing was happening. It was just thinking. The difference in Joyce is the presence of that third person omniscient narrator with whose words the first person musings fit together. It's mundane, but there is action in the novel. My experiment had none--just me remembering earlier action and thinking about it. Spoiler alert: I'll probably try again before this Odyssey/Ulysses experiment is over.

Stuart Gilbert leaves me cold. He somehow manages to inject antisemitism into his commentary where I see none in Joyce (in the novel, for sure, but not from the author). It's not an overt sort of Third Reich kind of antisemitism, more of a sort of quiet curtness when referring to Bloom's father as "that old Jew." It's possible I'm being unfair to Mr. Gilbert, but he leaves me with an unpleasant taste. I may seek out a different commentator.

For Homer, I'm reading a fairly recent translation, published by my employer. A translation in verse, it feeds me beautiful phrases. Last night I read, regarding a huge storm at sea, "a night was roused from the heavens." In cases like that, I'm not sure if I'm enjoying Homer or his translator. In moments where we're told, regarding Calypso (Kalupso per my translator) "THe Nymph was a pleasure/ no longer, he slept with her nights because he was forced to / in hollow caves, unwilling, although the Goddess was willing," I'm pretty sure I'm reacting to Homer himself. I guess this is supposed to make us feel better about god-like Odysseus. We've seen his wife and son suffering in his absence. Poor Penelope doing everything she can to avoid sleeping with another man--though they line up at her door for the chance--I guess since we've seen that already by the time we get to this book 5, Homer has to tell us that even though Odysseus was unfaithful to Penelope with Calypso, he didn't enjoy it, and he cried about it every day. Feh. I don't get it. I mean, he thought he'd never get home to "the well-loved land of his fathers," what's the big deal that he took up with a god's daughter? I mean, really, ten years away from home with little hope of returning, and some half god or goddess made themselves available, who wouldn't? I guess that's why Homer doesn't claim that he didn't. I guess it just feels like the hero "doth protest too much" on the whole sleeping with a goddess thing.

Detox anyone?

2009-09-13T21:38:00.003-04:00

I saw Julie and Julia yesterday with my aunt. It was a nice little flick. I enjoyed the relationship between Julia and Paul Child. Mainly, though, it made me want to write more. Julie of the movie's title is feeling lost and unfocused. She finds some solace in cooking, so comes to decide to cook her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year and blog about the results. The movie is about how Julie comes to be a better, more self-aware person through her relationship with Julia. My take-away? Writing every day helps get the poison out of a person and onto the page (virtual though it may be). The movie intensified an itch to create--to write, paint, whatever.

I feel full of poison lately. My grandmother, my father's mother, passed away ten days ago. She was literally full of poison. 60 years of smoking opened the door for a cancer that made itself painfully at home throughout her thin frame. She was never larger than thin, but the day before she died I sat at her bedside and couldn't help but see echos of concentration camp victims. Her sternum visibly protruded so that I could see where her ribs met to form the cage in which her breath labored. I stroked her cheek and forehead, and felt the angles of her skull below her soft, wrinkled skin. She was in a lot of pain. I'm grateful the pain is over, but I miss her.

The death of a grandparent has sufficient pathos on its own to sustain sadness, but life is never simple. Grandma left behind her son (my dad), and a daughter (the aunt mentioned above). My aunt has cerebral palsy, and has all of her life. Her condition is fairly severe, and has sentenced her to a wheelchair for most of her life. She has use of her left arm and some use of her right. Her legs are completely out of her control. My grandmother was her primary care-giver. My aunt is afraid there won't be enough money--or perhaps compassion--for her to stay in the home she shared with her mother. We're working on finding help with money from the government and other public and private agencies. The compassion won't be a problem as long as my father is alive. His wife, however, takes every opportunity to remind her handicapped sister-in-law that it is not the grace of god for which Robin should pray.

*****

Hot Vinyasa yoga class this afternoon. Strenuous. Good. The end of the class, face, belly and palms to the ceiling, damp with sweat, "I think I'm going to cry." Saw a play, once, something about crying in downward dog "sometimes a breakdown is really a breakthrough." Thought to hide my eyes below my towel. Room full of people, all of them face, belly, palms to the ceiling, damp with sweat. Teacher's voice low, sweet, "focus on your third eye." Crying silently, wondered what my face looks like from above, corners of mouth downturned, eyes squinched closed, tears falling down the sides of my face into my ears. Gave myself permission only for a moment. Pull it together for final "Namastay," mat rolling, walk to car. Worked out six days this week. Five days last week. Five the week before. Have to remember to note in iTouch. I like the blue squares filling the blocks of days. Jolt from the cymbalta withdrawal. Wrong time to get off anti-depressant? Below therapeutic dose for months. Fibromyalgia. FDA-approved. Not pregnancy-approved. Will we ever get pregnant? Tears in my throat again. Workouts good for fibromyalgia and tears. Cardio Blast 6:15 AM. Tomorrow. Get up 5:30. Dress in gym clothes. Already laid out. Dogs out. Must find new home for Wally. Poor Wally. He's no Pixie. Little Pixie. Cold wet nose. Amber eyes. Velvet ears. Pets are good for fibromyalgia. And tears. Read Joyce tonight? Maybe too late. Homer's turn, anyway. Odyssey, Ulysses, Odyssey, Ulysses. Read about Leopold's shit. Funny. Obscene. Matt says no question it was obscene. Question is it gratuitous? Court case helped Lenny Bruce. Obscenity covered by 1st amendment. No other gods before me. No, free speech.

An imaginary conversation

2009-07-06T09:09:00.003-04:00

B: Are those vitamins in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
Me: I AM happy to see you, but yes, I have vitamins in my pocket.
B: Wow, that's a lot of pills. How come they're in your pocket?
Me: Yeah, I know it's a lot. I don't know if they help or not, but I figure they aren't hurting, and I have been in less pain since I started taking them. Problem is the multi-vitamins make me puke if I take them on an empty stomach.
B: Didn't you eat breakfast?
Me: Yeah, but it was like 2 hours ago now.
B: That's still an empty stomach?
Me: Apparently... Hey, should I be taking prenatal vitamins if I'm only thinking about getting pregnant?
B: I have no idea. I thought those were for when you actually ARE pregnant.
Me: Yeah, me too. The acupuncturist gave me these when I asked for a refill. I didn't notice that they were prenatal until I got them home.
B: Maybe your acupuncturist knows something you don't.
Me: No, I'm not preggers, yet. But she knows that we're sorta kinda trying.
B: How do you sorta kinda try?
Me: Well, you know, I'm not taking the anti-baby pill every day any more. But we're not, like, tracking my ovulation or anything. So, we're not trying NOT to get pregnant, but we're not actively TRYING to get pregnant, either.
B: Oh, okay, I get it. Hey, wait, weren't you thinking of having that surgery on your eye this summer? You can't do that if you've got a bun in the oven, can you?
Me: No, I don't think I can. I haven't scheduled it yet. I think maybe I'll just schedule it and see what happens. They'll do a pregnancy test before they let me into surgery.
B: Shouldn't you plan it a little? I mean, isn't your husband going to get new orders in a little over a year?
Me: Yeah, he is. We might end up in Norfolk or Jacksonville, or possibly Hawaii. I guess we should plan it a bit. I mean, I don't want to be due to give birth at the same time that we're meant to move.
B: Weren't you going to try to take a trip to Israel before you report to the next duty station, too?
Me: Well, yeah, we talked about it.
B: Sounds to me like you should sit down with a calendar.
Me: Well, yeah. I guess. I'm afraid if I think about this whole thing too much I'll chicken out altogether.

Things that are satisfying

2009-05-26T10:14:00.003-04:00

In no particular order:

1. forcing a pimple to give up its disgusting prize.
2. going to make coffee in the office and finding it's already done.
3. peeling a banana.
4. accelerating up to 6th gear on open road.
5. interpreting a bit of Torah and then reading a respected exegete who read it the same way.
6. throwing a strike in bowling.
7. plucking eyebrows.
8. chocolate.
9. comparing myself to Sei Shonagon by making a list.
10. eating a really sweet cherry.
11. water when you're thirsty.
12. receiving the results of a marketing campaign that has made money.
13. finishing a workout.
14. waking up anxious, but realizing there are several hours left before it's time to get up.
15. the sound of a golf-ball falling into the hole.
16. climbing into clean sheets.

SL, UT (that's Salt Lake, Utah, to you).

2009-05-01T16:18:00.005-04:00

I was in Utah recently. I went for a conference on a software I use regularly for work. We stayed at Silver Lake, 10,000 feet above what I now think of as "beloved" sea-level. Baltimore was a dreamy 80 degrees when I boarded Delta flight 1203 to Salt Lake City. It was 36 degrees and snowing when I deplaned.

My coworker drove the rented Chevy Impala up the impossibly steep mountain roads through blowing, swirling, drifting snow. I closed my eyes on the hairpin turns.

That night, I discovered I have a relatively reliable sense of direction, unlike the Impala driver. We went to Whole Foods--much better than the ones I'm familiar with--and I bought apples from Washington (Pacific Rose, delish), and a bunch of bananas, some cookies, a protein shake. Lucky for my coworker, I was in the car on the way back to the resort hotel, navigating our way through unfamiliar mountain roads.

The next day, after doodling through sessions about unique file output names and special rate cards for product centers, the high altitude punched me in the stomach. The celery root soup from the high-toned restaurant tasted better going down.

I slinked back to my ski-resort hotel room, switched on the fireplace and collapsed into bed. I missed my husband. It was exactly 4 weeks and 1 day since our tuxedo wedding. I remembered feeling beautiful and loved and happy and scooched further under the covers. I watched Sabrina (the new one with Harrison Ford). I wished my hair looked as good as Julia Ormand's, I cried. I called my husband. I asked him to say "poor baby." He did. He googled "altitude sickness," and read me my symptoms from his computer screen, 1800 miles away and 2 hours later. He mentioned that the sleeping pill I take every night can make symptoms worse.

I turned out the lights without taking my sleeping pill. I turned over. Again. I thought about how crappy I felt. I started running numbers for our new budget. I wondered about Mormon Undergarments. I decided if there were Jewish Sacred Undergarments, I would at least consider wearing them. I got up. Again. I took a bath. I ate some cookies. I wished I hadn't. I turned out the lights. Again. I decided WTF, I can live with worsened altitude sickness symptoms, as long as I get some fucking sleep. I took my sleeping pill. I slept.

I woke up exhausted, but better. More sessions, more doodling, another drive. This time we went to an "Indo-Persian" restaurant that was neither Indian nor Persian. I had the Saag Panir. It looked vaguely like Saag Panir I've had before, but tasted nothing like it. On the way to the restaurant, a bird flew remarkably close to the car. A big bird. Really big. Well, not as big as Big Bird, but still, a good 2 feet tall. It was black and white. It had a really long tail. It was pretty, but disconcerting because it was so close. I was particularly impressed when, another mile or two down the road, another one landed a few feet from the car. At the bookstore that evening (an independent that will surely be closed in the next two years), we looked it up in the bird manual by the front door. A black-billed Magpie. Non-migratory. They have remarkable ability to mock dogs and cats and even human voices. These seemingly fearless birds just chill at 9000 feet all the time. They're no snow birds, no fair-weather occupants of the mountain-top. No sir. Non-migratory. I wonder if they would find the air too heavy in Baltimore? Perhaps their avian lungs would balk at all of the extra oxygen.

More likely a neighborhood kid would use them for practice, with slingshot or .38, a magpie might make a good target. I wonder what a magpie might say if allowed to learn the lingo on the streets of Charm City. Then again, what do they say now, on those mountains with skiers and Mormons?

A few vignettes from recent days (in no particular order)

2009-04-21T08:38:00.004-04:00

Missing the point:

I went to the gym on Sunday, looked at the elliptical machine and thought "Aww man, I really want to sit down for this." I rode a bike. A reclined bike.

********
Surreal:

Standing at the corner of 33rd and Charles, waiting for the light to change, I watched a starling drop down into the middle of the intersection. In that eye of the traffic storm, the little cannibalistic bird pecked meat from a chicken bone discarded by a wing-munching pedestrian.

********
Realizing I'm getting old:

Walking south on St. Paul to my apartment, I was forced to navigate around several undergrads out celebrating homecoming. Two of the young men wore no shirts. They were well-built, with defined abdominal, pectoral, and upper arm muscles. I thought to myself "Put a shirt on for God's sake!"

********
I chose the right one:

An orthodox friend asked me, a la Newlywed game, what my husband of 3 weeks would pray for if he could only pray for one thing. I answered that he would probably pray for a good duty station for his next assignment, or perhaps for the children he seems eager to father. My husband said quietly, "no. I would pray for your health."

********
I am a narcissist:

The professional photographer from our wedding posted all of the pictures he took online. There are nearly 500 images. Probably 50% of those have me in them. I've spent hours looking at them and sighing.

********
You can't go home again:

While Dave was out of town attending a funeral, I rented Ren and Stimpy cartoons. I remember loving the show when I was a tween. I remember lines from it "Not the history eraser button, you idiot!" and songs "It's log, log, it's big it's heavy it's wood." When I was 12, Ren & Stimpy was hysterical.

It just isn't funny anymore.

It's not you, it's me

2008-11-25T20:33:00.002-05:00

Have you ever been dumped by a platonic friend? I've dropped girlfriends who were toxic to me or themselves. One woman I dumped after she went back to an abusive boyfriend. Some former friends became former because I just didn't have the energy for their negativity any longer. I've never been the dumpee before now.

I have (well, had) this friend. We've known each other for years, and we weren't super close, but you know, sort of email friends, but lately he seems to be avoiding me. I'm not sure what I did wrong. I know that individuals rarely can tell when they themselves are being annoying, and I'm open to the possibility that I am abhorrently annoying to this former friend. I wonder, though, if what I've done wrong is to meet and fall in love with David. My friend doesn't know Dave, and wasn't interested in me himself, it's not that. It's that I think I may have been more interesting when I was looking for love. I say this in part because I have another friend (they don't know each other) who recently got a girlfriend, and I find him SO boring now, I hardy want to chat. He was much more interesting when he was lonely. Now all he wants to talk about is his girlfriend and how good the sex is. It's not that I don't want him to be happy--I do, it's just that he's less fun to talk to when he is. It's the classic indie rock star phenomenon: Liz Phair was fascinating and compelling when she sang "Fuck and Run," this whole happy pop song shit since she got married is just plain boring.

Is that my problem? Am I too happy? Is that why I've been dumped? Because honestly, I don't feel too happy. Part of me says I should contact my former friend and ask what's up, but if I'm right, he'll never admit it. I wouldn't.

Writing Assignment #3

2008-11-24T10:48:00.001-05:00

The Kotel

In the late eighteenth century, the Jews of Europe were poised to receive full citizenship in the countries in which they lived. For the first time, they were allowed to practice any trade they chose, fraternize with non-Jewish neighbors, and live outside the walls of the ghetto. For the first time, their non-Jewish neighbors thought maybe, just maybe, Jews could be countrymen. This possibility was intoxicating. Men and women embraced secular learning, styles, and occupations with the passion and hunger of generations of denial. They longed for the full acceptance citizenship would signal. They wanted desperately to be a part of the Enlightenment that surrounded them.

Out of this context of learning and acceptance grew a movement known as the Haskalah (“Enlightenment” in Hebrew). Proponents of the Haskalah, maskalim, were advocates for their coreligionists, urging them to move toward integration. They lived by and promoted a simple motto. They asked of themselves and other Jews that they be a “Jew at home and a mensch (person) on the street.” This motto pointed toward the maskalim’s desire to transition Judaism, or Jewish-ness, from what it was in the middle ages—a civilization, nationality, and ethnicity—to what they believed it could be—a religion like other religions. The maskalim dreamed of a day when Jews and non-Jews would live as neighbors and friends, equal in every way, save which house of worship they attended.

In some ways, my life has epitomized the dream of the Haskalah. I attended public schools with Jews and non-Jews, played and learned and grew up with people of all different religious and ethnic backgrounds. I never worried as a child about things I could or couldn’t do because my family was Jewish. But something happened in this post-Enlightenment reality that the maskalim could not have foreseen: I have lived the inverse of their motto, as a mensch at home and a Jew on the street.

Despite the promise of the Enlightenment (the same Enlightenment that informed the United States’ “All Men are Created Equal”), contemporary American culture has a decidedly Christian bias. The house of worship is not, in fact, the only differentiator between religions, nor could it be. Different faiths observe different holidays, consider different things sacrosanct, and sometimes even eat, dress, or speak distinctly. My best friend when I was 11 years old was Catholic. She attended religious school, she called it “CCD,” on Wednesday evenings. Sometime that year, her CCD teacher must have taught a unit on other religions. My friend came to me one day and told me that she knew I was Jewish, but that she loved me. She said that she would pray for me. The details of the conversation have become fuzzy with age, but more than two decades later I remember understanding that in her mind she and I were different, and that different was bad.

That first recognition of perceived difference would blossom over the coming decades into first a sensitivity and then what I can only describe as a defiance. As a graduate student I complained bitterly to the dean when classes were held on the Jewish high holidays and no accommodation was made for Jewish students to make up the work. As a young professional, I would set my jaw and fume with frustration at the company “Holiday” party where the meal was a Christmas ham (forbidden in Jewish kosher laws), the decorations lacked any Jewish (or even non-Christian) symbols, and the entertainment was karaoke Christmas Carols.

I became obsessed with the ways in which secular America was in fact Christian. I felt the need to let strangers know that I was Jewish, as if it were some sort of badge of courage or honor or perhaps entitlement. But I did not live a Jewish life. I was a mensch—not a Jew—at home. I gave minimal attention to Jewish holidays, customs, and laws. I felt I had to tell people I was Jewish. Perhaps I had to tell them because my word was the only evidence of the fact.

In 2001 I went to Israel. I was a graduate student in Religious Studies. I had a great deal of book-learning about Judaism, though I was still just a mensch at home. I knew all about the second Temple and its destruction in 70 CE. I had read the Hebrew Bible, its commentaries, and supplemental stories. I came to Israel with an academic, historical expectation. I knew how to say, “the King’s horse is black” in Hebrew, but not how to ask for the bathroom.

Jerusalem surprised me. It looked like an American city with Hebrew-language billboards (none of them mentioned the king’s horse). The people mainly looked like Americans—fashionable Americans. There were fast food restaurants and boutique shops. And almost to a person, everyone was Jewish. There was no need for me to tell people I was Jewish—they already assumed it. My definition of my own Jewishness—that is, “not Christian”—wasn’t enough anymore; everyone was a Jew on the street.

On a trip to the old city—the remains of the Biblical, walled city of Jerusalem—I visited the kotel. The kotel, or Western Wall, is all that remains of the Temple compound. The rest was destroyed by the Romans in 70 C.E. An Orthodox woman stood near the modern-day entry to the wall, handing out large pieces of fabric to be wrapped around women’s bared legs—or even pants—to serve as a skirt, for smi’chut, modesty. The length of the wall was divided into two unequal halves with a mechitza, or partition, that keeps the men on one side and the women on the other. Pilgrims come to the wall with their prayers written on a slip of paper. They work the prayer into the spaces between the giant sandstone blocks that make up the wall. In the absence of the literal sound of God’s voice (according to the ancient rabbis, prophecy ended thousands of years ago), the kotel silently receives pilgrims and penitents, their hopes and fears pushed into its very structure—scraps of paper between ancient stones.

Though I was with a group of friends, acquaintances, and strangers, I felt as if I made this trip alone. I wrapped the provided skirt around my waist, hiding my shorts and legs to the ankles in the dry desert heat. I covered my shoulders with a scarf. I walked down the slight cobble-paved incline along the roped off women’s path. The wall is huge, about 60 feet tall. Above about 6 feet—a human being’s reach—caper bushes grow haphazardly from the cracks in the wall. From the mountain to the west, you can see the golden dome of the Al Aqsa mosque on the level above. From the ground where I was, there is only a giant pale dirt-colored wall with green bushes sprouting from it, an Israeli flag flying out front, and a random collection of people standing with their faces nearly pressed against the stone.

As I got closer to the wall there were tables and chairs scattered on the ancient stone pavement. The tables held prayerbooks. The chairs were mostly empty. There were other women approaching, leaving, praying at the wall. I barely noticed them. I found a spot near the wall and stood as close to it as I could; my toes were touching stone. I placed my palms flat on the wall. It was cooler than I expected, shaded from the sun by the hillside and another wall to my right. I knew that millions of Jews had stood in this spot and hoped and prayed. I knew that thousands of Palestinian Arabs became refugees when Israel reoccupied the area after the 1967 war. I knew that this spot, this wall, was special. I wanted desperately to touch the divine that my coreligionists identified with this wall. I wanted to be a Jew at home, and I knew I needed help to get there.

I leaned in and filled my vision with the ivory past. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of sand and prayer. I literally touched others’ prayers as I pressed my palms against the stone blocks with their mortar of notes. I remembered my note and pulled it from my pocket. I unfolded the paper and reread it: “Hineini” in Hebrew. The combination of the words “Behold” and “Me,” “Hineini” is usually translated into English “Here I am.” It is the answer the patriarchs and prophets give when God speaks their name. With some difficulty, I managed to shove my “Hineini” among the rainbow of folded paper already present in the wall. I took a deep breath. I turned and walked away.

In America, I was busy being defiant, being a Jew on the street. Israel made me realize the maskalim and I were both wrong. With the haskalim, Jews stepped forward and said to the world, ‘I am a person.’ With my contemporary secular-American Judaism, I said to the world, ‘I am a Jew.’ In Israel, I learned to say simply, ‘I am.’

Writing Assignment #2 (Commentary on Modern Life)

2008-10-19T18:40:00.002-04:00

More than a hundred stars

Franz Rosenzweig wrote most of his masterpiece, The Star of Redemption, on postcards mailed to his mother from the Macedonian front in WWI. I can only imagine what it was like for Frau Rosenzweig, sporadically receiving scraps of genius from her son. I expect that she hoped, even prayed, for every postcard she received. I imagine her daily trip to the mailbox. It must have been filled with hope and anxiety—that one chance a day to learn if Franz was, for now, alive and well.

My fiancée is in Baghdad. Petty Officer Decker is stationed in the Green Zone. He’s a computer specialist, on an assignment whose details I’m not allowed to know. Unlike Frau Rosenzweig, I don’t have to hold my breath for the contents of the mailbox every day. Unlike Macedonia, Baghdad’s Green Zone is equipped with Internet connections. There are those who decry contemporary technology. They claim that by connecting to the Internet we are in danger of disconnecting from real, in-person relationships. Currently, that threat to personal relationships is my surest connection to the most real relationship I’ve ever known.

Almost every day, David logs onto gmail.com around 3:30 PM Baltimore time (10:30 PM in Baghdad), and we “chat.” It’s not as good as having him here, obviously, but gmail chat is real-time communication. He tells me about what he’s been working on, I tell him about my day. Recently, he spent some time typing about how much he misses our dog and our daily trips to the park with her. (The dog park serves as our workday decompression time. Every day we three trot off to the Wyman Park Dells where the dog runs and wrestles and we gossip with the other dog parents. We got engaged there. It is a comfortable place. It misses him.) That evening I took a camera in addition to the regular water, dog treats, and tennis ball. The next day, photos of the dog romping with her friends greeted him from his email inbox.

David uses photography to express observations for which he can’t always find the words. I accepted his first dinner invitation in part because of the depth and sensitivity I saw in his photos on myspace.com. He recently posted a few photographs he’s taken in and around Baghdad. I was struck by the beauty and nuance he captured in his images of destruction. Being able to see those photos from my living room, and to share them with friends and family, made the distance between us easier to bear.

Before he deployed, David kept me in flowers. There were always fresh flowers on my bedside table, and as soon as one bunch started to fade, he replaced them. Recently, I mentioned in a chat that I had bought myself some flowers, because they reminded me of him. About a week later, a florist’s truck stopped at our door. The card on the bouquet read “A little something to brighten our home. Love, Your David.”

Franz Rosenzweig could not have sent his mother flowers from the front. I wonder if he would have written the Star, if he had access to myspace.com and gmail.com, or even a telephone. I wonder if the scraps and postcards written in trenches during stolen moments were somehow integral to the creation of the masterpiece. The Star is a remarkable piece of Jewish theology, influential to nearly every Jewish thinker to follow. Could it have been written if Franz had, as David does, a comfortable room with air conditioning and a television? Is David’s ease of communication denying the world some great artistic or philosophical masterpiece? I don’t care. I wouldn’t give up the Internet for a hundred Stars. The Talmud teaches that to save one life, it is as if you save the world. If that is the case, then this life, my life, is equal to the world. The World be damned, this world needs David more.

My childhood bedroom at night (Writing Assignment #1, Part 3)

2008-10-12T18:35:00.001-04:00

The big-girl bed in my childhood bedroom was a double mattress and box-spring on the floor. The bed was in one corner of the room. The high windows were to my left when I rested on my back in bed. Diagonally across the room was my desk. It was triangular, specially made for a corner. Dressers butted each side, with bookshelves sitting on the surface. In the weak illumination from the street the whole set looked gray and black, though in light of day they were clearly yellow drawers in orange shells.
Lying in bed I could clearly hear the infrequent car on the road outside. I liked to watch the headlights move across the room from the wall behind my head across the bifold closet doors on my right, the mostly-shut door to the room, the shelves of books and toys, and onto the wall opposite me. The mirror over the dresser reversed that path so every headlight had intersecting paths across my room. I really loved the combination of the traveling light with the crescendo Doppler effect, shhhhh-oom, of tires on asphalt. I would press my special pillow to my nose, lingering in its bouquet of down, detergent, and drool. I felt safe snuggled up in the covers, the sound of a television faintly drifting in from my mother’s room across the hall.

On Nothing (Writing Assignment #1, Part 2)

2008-10-12T18:09:00.000-04:00

I fretted. I agonized. I despaired. I was a graduate student, studying for my PhD comprehensive exams. I disliked what I was studying. I mistrusted my colleagues. I found it difficult to force myself to stick to my reading schedule. If I didn’t keep my schedule, I wouldn’t be ready to sit the exams when I had planned. If I didn’t sit the exams, I wouldn’t become ABD—all but dissertation. If I wasn’t ABD when my current funding expired, it would be much harder to find more funding. Without more funding, I would have to borrow even more money than I already had. I was miserable.

I had an epiphany. I woke from a fitful night of sleep and said out loud “what happens if I don’t finish?” It was a question I hadn’t yet asked. But the answer was easy: nothing. Nothing bad would happen if I didn’t finish this degree. Nothing was a relief. Nothing gave me permission to walk away from nearly 5 years at the university.

I didn’t finish the degree. Nothing bad happened.

The Aged Giant (Writing Assignment #1)

2008-10-12T18:08:00.000-04:00

Before I went to Italy, my mother’s Zia Yawnee loomed large in my consciousness. In the late Fifties, Yawnee (actually, Ioni, I would later learn), a non-Jew, dared to marry my great-uncle Paul. I was raised on stories of the elegant Italian woman my mother called Zia because the family refused her the honor of “aunt” in English.

Ioni returned to Italy after Paul’s death in the late Sixties. In the mid Nineties, I convinced my college roommate we should route our Spring Break trip through Verona so that I could meet this giant of my (mother’s) memory.

We got to Ioni’s gated condominium community after dark. An old woman’s voice answered our buzz in thickly-accented English. Jenny and I found our way to the elevator. When the doors opened a tiny, withered woman jumped in fright at the sight of us. “Oh Marian,” she exclaimed, calling me by my mother’s name, “you scared me.”
I reminded her that I was Marian’s daughter, and that she and I had spoken on the phone. I called her Zia and kissed her cheek. She was short, the top of her head lower than my shoulders, and smelled the way old women smell--of talc, medicine, and old-fashioned perfume.

I tried to reconcile my mental picture of Zia Yawnee with the bent, teetering Zia Ioni before me. “Come on,” she encouraged as she shuffled into her apartment, “I want to show you something.” Jenny and I smiled at each other as we followed, and I knew I was about to see some of the spunk I expected.

Stay tuned for more frequent posts

2008-10-04T19:32:00.002-04:00

Regular readers no doubt gave up on me weeks ago, and for good reason. However, I'm here to say--fear not dear reader! Soon there will be much more to read. Starting on Monday 10/6, I will be taking a non-credit course called "Writing from Personal Experience." The course description reads:

Memories, observations, and analyses are the writer's raw materials. In this course, participants transform their personal experiences into memoirs, humorous social commentaries, and narrative story essays as they read and discuss published writing by established authors. Class sessions introduce techniques for developing and strengthening the writer's voice; selecting details that provide clarity, interest, and meaning; and creating effective essay/story structures. Such nonfiction techniques as setting, character, narrative tension, and resolution are also put to use. Participants share their writing in a creative, supportive environment.

I figure that you, most patient of friends, relatives, and perfect strangers, deserve to read whatever comes out of my tortured keyboard. I expect to post assignments (and any comments they receive) here.

I'll do my best to keep it interesting.

Thank you, we're very proud of him.

2008-10-04T19:05:00.002-04:00

Being the betrothed of a military man is an odd experience for me. Not only do I have to navigate my ambivalence toward the military writ large, the war in Iraq in particular, and the prospect of moving every three years until he retires, I have to figure out what to say when people thank me for his service (or sometimes they thank me for my sacrifice). The first time someone said it to me, I had no idea what to say. "Umm, thanks?" was the response, I think. Now that we're marking nearly three weeks of him being in Baghdad, I've figured out what to say, but somehow my ambivalence has grown. The Navy is offering him a TON of money (tax-free!) to re-enlist, and so we, together, decided that it would be for the best for him to re-up for 4 more years. If he makes chief in this enlistment, he says he'll want to stay in until retirement. He'll probably make chief. Who knew when I was a supremely self-confident bleeding heart college student that my future would have a U.S. Military ID card in it? And yet this sailor is the kindest, most considerate, most compassionate man I have ever met. As far as I can tell, his only faults are poor spelling and a tendency to horde stuff. (Of course, any accusations of pack-rat-ism from me would be complete and utter hypocrisy, so perhaps I should strike that last.)

Last night I was looking on cafe press for a holiday card we could send. On a whim I searched for "Navy," and I found a ton of tee-shirt designs for Navy wives & girlfriends. One said "Navy Wife: You try doing this shit." For some reason, knowing that there are enough other people in my shoes to warrant a tee-shirt made me feel better. It's been less than 3 weeks since he deployed, and I'm having a hard time making the bed every day. If it weren't for the dog needing to go out, I wonder if I'd leave the house on the weekends. (Work has been really shitty lately, too, but perhaps it's best to save that for another post.)

I'm not sure why I'm posting this, except to tell those few of you who read: next time you meet a service person, or especially their spouse, take a second to thank them. It doesn't matter what your politics are. My military man dislikes the current administration as much as that self-confident bleeding heart student I once was. Even if he didn't, as long as people like him continue to volunteer for this shitty existence, the rest of us aren't forced to do it.

Madame President

2008-08-05T13:33:00.001-04:00

My mother always told me I could be whatever I wanted...

A Poem of Tu B'Shvat

2008-07-22T06:45:00.002-04:00

For David

This winter, thinking of trees,
I ate a fig.
I savored its sweetness,
Its skin and seeds
Both crunched in my teeth.

In my gut, a seed sprouted.
I was uncomfortable at first,
Wished to shed its roots and sprigs.
I visited old friends,
Tried to talk it from inside.

But then I realized
Its roots are my veins,
Its shoots, my nerves.
Without it, I am less.
My fig tree makes me whole.

Of absent husbands and mothers-in-law

2008-07-14T05:51:00.002-04:00

My groom-to-be is a Navy man. He's proud to be a sailor, though he has agreed to leave active duty once this current assignment is complete in 2010, mainly because I am not interested in traveling every three years. In the interim, however, he has been recruited for a voluntary assignment in Iraq. It's a four month deployment for which he was specifically approached due to his prized skill-set and experience. His current assignment is loaning him out to the war-effort from September through early January of this year.

He's excited about the opportunity. Frankly, I'm terrified.

Last weekend, he and I were in TheMiddleofNowhere, MO, to visit his parents. It was the first time I'd met them in person, though we had spoken on the phone. I made the mistake of mentioning something about this upcoming deployment to his mother, assuming (wrongly) that he had told her the orders had, indeed, come through. (We'd known it was possible for several weeks, but had heard for sure a day or two before we left Baltimore for T.M.O.N., MO). She started to cry. He started to repeat in this odd voice I hadn't heard before "Mom, mom, don't cry. Don't cry." I wanted the earth to swallow me up.

Going to the chapel...

2008-06-17T21:06:00.001-04:00

That's right. I'm going to tie the knot.

Something's Fishy

2008-06-03T07:23:00.002-04:00

My acupuncturist recommends fish oil supplements. He claims the capsules don't do any good, because they send the good Omega3s into your gut, where they have to go through the whole digestive system to get to where you're having problems. He recommends instead that you hold a teaspoon of oil in your mouth for 1 to 3 minutes, allowing the skin in your cheeks and gums to absorb the good stuff. (It sounds disgusting, I know, but the truth is that the oil doesn't smell (or taste) "fishy" until it is exposed to oxygen. It doesn't taste like much of anything to be honest.)

My acupuncturist seems to be a good doctor, so I decided to try this fish oil thing. I've been taking it for several months. About a month ago, I spilled some on the kitchen counter. I try hard NOT to use paper towels in my place, preferring rags that can be reused. The rag that mopped up the spilled fish oil was tossed into the dirty clothes hamper like any other dirty rag.

The next evening, my wonderful boyfriend (who lives with me now), did laundry.

The morning after that, Dave turned to me and said "does the apartment sort of smell fishy to you?"
"Yes," I replied, "I noticed that too. It seems to be coming from our office."
We then followed our noses to a basket full of "clean" laundry that smelled like a rotting cod carcass.

In the past month, we have washed those two loads literally 10 times. We've soaked them in vinegar, in Mr. Clean, in baking soda. We've replaced detergent with vinegar, and put baking soda in the rinse cycle. I even went online and purchased Zero Odor . Zero Odor actually works okay, but you have to really soak the clothes in it, and it's sort of expensive. With a couple of exceptions, both loads of laundry remain fishy smelling. We've decided to select the pieces that are worth saving and trashing the rest.

To make a painfully long story shorter, I will simply say DO NOT LET FISH OIL GET INTO YOUR LAUNDRY. EVER.

Barely time to breathe

2008-04-10T19:39:00.003-04:00

I can hardly believe how busy I have been. Work has been absolutely insane. I have four direct mail pieces out and three getting ready to go to print. I'm trying to force a database to do something it really doesn't want to do, and it seems as if there's always more to do than I have time.

I decided to take a business course. Marketing Strategy. I don't want to say it blows, but let's just say I decided my time in the classroom would be better spent blogging than actually paying attention.

I've started a small side business. I'm copyediting. I have one client. He's my ophthalmologist. I'm currently working on a 40 page article called "Focal venous hypertension as the cause of port-wine stains, tissue hypertrophy, and the Sturge-Weber, Cobb, Klippel-Trénaunay, Fegeler, and Parkes Weber syndromes." I think it's doable. A run-on sentence is a run-on sentence. The problem is that what started as basic editing has turned into more-or-less ghost writing. I'm actually restructure the argument. It's a bit more difficult than run-on sentences. And very time-consuming. He seems really happy with me. I'll be happier with him when he pays the invoices I've given him for the first two editorials we worked on together.

From the last post, you may have deduced that I abandoned the War Horse. It's true. She was a wonderful friend. She was an amazing companion for sixteen long years, and I traded her in for a younger, sexier girl, and don't think I haven't had my guilt pangs. But damn is the new girl hot! A 2006 Chrysler Crossfire. I call her Chutzpah Jones. Her mom is Jewish and her dad is American, hence the multicultural name.

And then there's Dave. A few posts ago I wrote about worries of an intellectual coming along and turning my head from my sweet sailor. I have to admit that I was thinking of a specific intellectual asshole when I wrote that post. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my attraction to that particular intellectual asshole was really an excuse to not fall in love with a man who absolutely adores me.

In Chicago, I had an epiphany in the middle of the night. I realized that the things for whose absence I was mentally criticizing Dave are the very things that make him NOT an asshole. I realized that every man I've ever loved, almost every one to whom I've been attracted, was an egotistical asshole. (You few who fit that description--don't be too bent out of shape. You know how I feel about you.) But seriously, I've always loved intellectuals. Many of them over-educated. Let's face it, intellectuals tend to be ego-driven, are occasionally fiercely competitive, often hide criticism in biting sarcasm, and are sometimes condescending (before you think I'm attacking you, note that I include myself in all of the above descriptions). It can sometimes be crowded when two intellectuals' egos have to fit in the same relationship. Somehow Dave manages to have self-esteem without having ego. He adores me without competing with me. It's weird. It's wonderful. It just may keep me happy for the rest of my life.

Dave effectively moved in not long after I returned from Chicago. We've decided to make it official. He's keeping his apartment for a month or two, but he hasn't slept there in about a month. He does the dishes. He walks the dog when she has to go in the middle of the night. He buys me flowers and leaves them on the bedside table. He even bakes banana bread. Oh, and did I mention he looks handsome in his uniform? He does.

I DID IT!

2008-03-21T16:06:00.003-04:00

She's mine. Oh yes, she's mine.

My kind of town

2008-03-13T22:36:00.006-04:00

Have you ever moved to a new town (even if it's really an old town) and found that you go home to your dog every night and feel lonely and sad, and maybe a little like a loser, (or maybe a lot like a loser) because you don't have any friends, and then you go back to the town where you used to live for a visit, and you have lots of friends and you realize, "hey, I'm not a loser, it's just that all of my friends live somewhere else"? Yeah, me too.

I was in Chicago last week. I saw people I haven't seen in a year. I visited restaurants I hadn't patronized in even longer. I laughed. I cried. I had real friends.

The friends I made in grad school are some of the best I've ever known. Maybe it's because when we met we had all the time for which a person could ask. Sure, we had papers to write and chapters to read, but mainly we talked, laughed, and gossiped. We went out for brunch every Sunday. We read the classifieds. Some of us even answered them. How did I possibly get a degree out of that?

Inebriation

2008-02-25T21:11:00.003-05:00

Two Fridays ago, I went to a large shabbat dinner party. I was dressed in this cute black dress with little embroidered flowers. I wore black tights and cute little heels. I wore contact lenses. I used purple eye shadow to enhance the green in my eyes. I looked good. I was the prettiest, smartest, most charming, most interesting version of myself. For a few short hours I was the chutzpah girl--nay, the chutzpah woman I aspire to be. I was the kind of woman men want to impress and women want to emulate. Handsome young Jewish single men were blinding me with their flashy wit or their flashier careers.

I took the hand of my boyfriend, the Naval Petty Officer, First Class, and I took a certain amount of snide pleasure as I saw the computer consultant notice and try not to be visibly disappointed or the brain surgeon look, look again, and then look away. It wasn't schadenfreud--to the contrary, it was Selfenfreud! (is that such a word--joy in one's self?)I was a complete narcissist, but in the best possible way, since everyone else seemed to agree with me.

It was a moment, it passed, I went back to being every-day me.

Except: Dave still seems to be under the spell. He's been thinking I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread just about since we met. He likes to speculate about how things will be when he and I are married. He likes to test me to see how I'll deal with certain scenarios he foresees in our future life together.

At first, his certainty was intoxicating. After all, in what other context can one so safely, legally, and ethically feed narcissistic tendencies? And I don't even think he's lying to me about how he feels. He's possibly the sweetest man to be found on this earth, and he thinks that I am the most perfect woman. He wants to marry me, and has said so in so many words.

I'm feeling a little, well, unsure. Can I stay drunk on his admiration for long enough to make this work? Will his admiration stay constant--even if it would be enough? And perhaps what has me the most worked up: Am I so wrapped up in myself, in the way that I think, that I cannot fully connect with someone who does not think the same way that I do? Dave is a smart man, but he is not educated in the traditional sense. Dave is a smart man, but he is not an intellectual. Dave is a smart man, but his articulateness comes from his sincerity and through his wonderful photography; I would not call his speech "eloquent."

This wonderful, thoughtful, sweet, not-quite-eloquent man seems certain that I am the woman with whom he'd like to spend the rest of his life. In the intoxication of the first few days, I read his certainty into my own longing for certainty. I got caught up in the fun and intensity of pillow talk that has yet to know sex. I was right there with him planning our future.

It's now approximately two weeks later. I've sobered up a bit, and I'm not sure how to sort things out. I don't want to stop seeing my wonderful, sweet, thoughtful Petty Officer, but I'm not comfortable talking about marriage right now, either.

I'm fearful that some smooth-talking, articulate, intellectual asshole will come along and sweep me off my brain. I'm hoping that if that happens (and even if it doesn't), I'm able to keep my feet on the ground (even if my head is in the clouds) and figure out what's best for me.

After all, what good is being a narcissist if you do everything to make others happy?

No politics? No thanks.

2008-02-08T12:56:00.001-05:00

I recently had a long conversation with someone I met through match.com. We talked for nearly an hour. He's 29, funny, witty, educated. Not Jewish. Our email exchanges were charming and flirty. The phone conversation followed suit, until:

Him: I take it you're a registered Democrat?
Me: Duh. (Actually, I said "yes, I am." though Duh was the thought)
Him: I'm a registered Republican, I hope that's not a problem.
Me: Of course it's a problem! (Actually, I said, "Well, I guess that depends on where in the Republican party you align yourself.")
Him: I actually try not to talk about politics, because I don't want to upset anyone--people have such strong feelings.
Me: So you have strong feelings and don't express them? Or you just don't have strong feelings?
Him: I guess I don't express them.
Me: Okay, so Mike Huckabee or John McCain, who do you choose?
Him: John McCain? He's the guy that ran last time, right?
Me: Yes, the one and only. The Senator from Arizona.
Him: Yeah, um. I don't really keep up with that stuff.
Me: Just sort of a sucking sound, huh?
Him: ---
Me: Oh, right, not political, don't recognize a reference to Ross Perot?
Him: Oh, I know who Ross Perot is. When I was in school I had to answer questions about the 1990 election.
Me: There was no Presidential election in '90.
Him: -- Oh. Right, I was just testing you.
Me: Jesus F-ing Christ! How do I get myself into these things?! (Actually, I gave the polite chuckle and said "okay.")

Now, you may say that I am being a bigot by not being willing to date a Republican, to which I say, maybe you're right. Maybe I am a party-ist. But I counter--this guy isn't even a thoughtful Republican (if that isn't an oxymoron)! He's just Republican by default. He could articulate no position, no ideology, not even a leaning!

A dear friend and wise man once told me regarding dating and politics: If you can overlook politics, you don't take your politics seriously enough.

Luckily for me, I met a cute (Jewish) sailor at all of those Jewish social events I've been going to. In fact, he and I worked together (along with two other girls) to put together a seder for Tu B'Shvat (The New Year of Trees). He's a young'n (only 27--eat your heart out Demi), and remarkably enough, seems absolutely crazy about me. Talk about good for the ego. Also, it's pretty cool to say "Hey sailor!" And get this: he's a leftist. When's the last time you met a man in uniform who's a leftist? (And whose last name isn't Castro.)

Move over match, I found something kosher.

A challenging day for dog ownership

2008-01-29T22:37:00.001-05:00

Today at lunch, I took Pixie to the dog park, as I do every day. She ran off, trailing her leash, to chase squirrels, as she does many days. She ran here, she ran there, she had a great time.

She chased one squirrel until it thwarted her by running up a tree. She then chased another to the same result. Again and again, it never gets old.

And then.

She caught one. Well, actually, she found one. It was already dead. Long dead. Proud of herself for this treasure, she trotted her way down out of the brush to my side. She glumly let it go when I asked her to drop it, and then didn't understand why I wouldn't let her lick my hand afterward.

We returned to the apartment.

I heated some alphabet soup. Turned on the radio, and sat down at the table to enjoy the pasta letters.

"What's that all over the carpet?" I innocently asked my dog.
She didn't answer, so I stood up from my lunch and walked over to the carcass of my favorite hat where it lay. There was gore everywhere. A piece of the brim underneath the sofa, shards of the decorative button strewn across the floor.

I cursed. I may have even thrown the carcass. The dog was confused.

I cleaned up all the pieces and sat back down to my now lukewarm soup.

Pixie squatted and peed on the rug.

match.com

2008-01-29T22:28:00.000-05:00

Below is my profile. My eternal gratitude to anyone who can tell me why it is that I keep attracting men who have only loose command of English grammar and spelling (try again if your first thought is that English is not their first language).

Eclectic eccentric seeks same

I believe in literature.
I love cartoons.
I dislike Capri pants.
I speak 4 languages, but only English well.
I despise meanness.
I adore dogs. (Especially my dog.)
My favorite fruit is banana, though I enjoy a good nectarine, and a nice pear is a treat.
I’ve never voted for a Republican.
I refuse to eat pork for religious reasons, and I sometimes miss the taste of ham.
I believe abortion should stay legal and safe, though I pray for the time when there will never need be another.
I suspect James Joyce was some kind of prophet. So was Bugs Bunny.
I dislike Will Ferrell movies.
I know the rules of football, but couldn’t name three players.
I say I want a revolution.
I can recite most of Ghostbusters with the actors.
I enjoy bookbinding (which is different than book-making).
I find a down pillow essential to a good night’s sleep.
Hamlet is my favorite of Shakespeare’s plays, but I’ve never seen a production I really liked.
I’m a Luddite when it comes to online social networking.
I’m proud to walk to work every day.
The Pixies and Paul Simon are among the most frequently played on my iPod.
I believe in organized labor, but don’t belong to a union.
Spongebob always makes me laugh.
I idolize Joseph Cornell and Edward Hopper.
I’m early to bed and late to rise.
I’m not crazy about olives.
I’m a lousy bowler.

I’m looking for a man with whom I can share conversation, laughter, passion—and who knows, maybe the rest of our lives. I don’t need someone who agrees with me 100% of the time, but more than 50% might be nice.

Me and my baby

2008-01-20T21:02:00.000-05:00

I know you're tired of hearing about the dog, but I'm not tired of talking about her. Here's a self-portrait of the two of us. What else could a girl need?

To Do: update blog

2008-01-20T10:57:00.001-05:00

I opened my email this morning to find a missive from a loyal Chutzpahite reminding me that putting "update blog" on my to-do list every day just isn't enough.

Art visited last weekend. (Previously on the Chutzpah Files: Art is the boyfriend who, though he loves me dearly, could not bring himself to marry, even me.) I hear your collective heads shaking in disapproval! That's the reason I didn't write until after the fact. (Okay, actually I've just been lazy, but that sounds better.) Before you mutter under your breath, let me tell you about the weekend.

It was lovely. Relaxing and pleasant. It was great to spend time with this person whom I love and who loves me. Someone who recognized that my hair was, in fact, very long for me (I had it cut yesterday, so long no more, but still). Someone who sees the missing twenty pounds I've lost in the past year. Someone who can look at me and see that I'm really pretty happy.

Ironically, my being pretty happy was sort of a sad thing for both of us. It means I've moved on. I'm happier now than I ever was in the four years that Art and I tortured each other with the relationship that couldn't be what I wanted. In that happiness I think we both sensed the finality of our relationship. Art was the person I turned to when everything else was up in the air. He was the one I always drifted back to as other things, other relationships, went wrong. Knowing that I always went back to him was a contributing factor to my leaving Chicago.

In my Baltimore life, there's not much room for him. At one point he came back to bed from a trip to the kitchen and Pixie had settled in his spot. He looked at her and said "You're in my spot!" and then he paused and said quietly "Oh, I guess I was in your spot." It was a moment that went unremarked and yet it remained with me. Every time we broke up he was still emotionally my boyfriend, just absent. He isn't anymore. It's the end of an era.

And the beginning of a new one!
I've decided to throw my hat back in the Match.com ring. I'm also considering JDate, though I have ambivalent feelings about that most Jewish of online matchmakers. I'm going to put together an adorable profile, have a new picture taken of my now svelt self, and find me my soulmate!

(Why do I hear Billy Crystal as Miracle Max commenting on this post?
"Have fun storming the castle."
"Do you think it'll work?"
"It'd take a miracle.")

Damn that transitive property!

2007-12-17T21:09:00.000-05:00

Do you guys remember the transitive property from algebra? You know, if A=B and B=C then A=C? I remember it, and it's been getting in the way of my laziness lately. I've decided, now that I'm a dog-parent, that I must be a grown-up. That is to say, that I ought to act like one. So, for instance, when Pixie and I came in from our evening walk tonight, and all I wanted to do was watch TV and go to bed, I noticed a sink full of dishes. Now, before this whole I'm a grown-up thing, or perhaps without the transitive property in place, I would be able to carry on with the evening's activities and let the dishes mind their own business. Unfortunately, grown-ups don't leave their dishes in the sink to pile up for days, I'm a grown-up, and therefore, by the transitive property, I don't leave my dishes in the sink to pile up for days. Instead of TV, I pulled on the yellow rubber gloves and cleaned the breakfast, lunch & dinner dishes before I retired to the bedroom. Life was more fun without algebra.

In other news, Pixie's having a minor health issue. She was spayed a week ago, and somehow the surgery caused an infection that makes her think she has to pee approximately every 30 seconds. I'm sure it's annoying and uncomfortable for her, but who cares about her, she's a dog!? No, no, I don't mean that, I just mean, DAMN it sucks to be awoken by your dog to go for a walk (in one of the most dangerous cities in America) at 3 in the morning! She's doing better now, and has been sleeping through the night (I really do sound like a parent, no?) but still asks to go out about every 2 hours when I'm home. I liked her better when we went for four walks a day and that was that.

Pixie has been tasked with finding me a boyfriend. Unfortunately, so far the only men she shows affinity for are dog owners who are already married or black men in their late teens. Oh well, I don't really need a man: I've got her to snuggle with at night and a shower massager I affectionately call "Hank" (I love Hank because he's always ready when I am, never makes me lie and say I have a headache, and doesn't expect me to reciprocate in any way). Once I buy one of those open-any-jar-thingies, I'll have the complete trifecta, and a man will 100% unnecessary in my apartment (though I guess it would be nice to have someone do the dishes).

I got Moxie, kid!

2007-12-15T18:07:00.000-05:00

I named my dog Pixie, instead of Moxie, but she's the wiener dog of my dreams. Adorable, sweet, and snuggly, she's even cute when she chews my shoes. Thank goodness she's housebroken! More soon...

My new roommate

2007-11-19T22:54:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Who Am Us Anyway for the vote of confidence regarding the dog. I'm going to pick her up tomorrow night (Tuesday). I'm getting very excited. I went to PetSmart and bought a bed and food and a gate to keep her in the kitchen when I'm not home. I spent much intellectual energy trying to decide on her name (btw, it's Pixie, in honor of the greatest punk band of all time), and even managed to convince my mother and stepfather that they should come to my apartment for Thanksgiving so that she wouldn't have to travel too much after coming to live with me. I'm planning on keeping treats in my pocket when I go meet her to make sure that she'll like me.

Ahh, if only men were so easy.

Jumpin' Gee-Hovah's Witnesses

2007-11-13T22:25:00.000-05:00

Today I came back from a meeting to my desk to a small paper pamphlet with a post it note on it. The Note said:

Tracy, Please accept this tract from me blah blah blah hope in the Hebrew Scriptures blah blah blah.

It didn't really have the blahs. It was really weird. It wasn't a joke. The woman who left it for me has left me gifts of tea before. We bonded when we were both suffering from insomnia. She recommended this tea her daughter turned her onto. It tastes terrible, I'm not sure if it works. I never expected that the casual work friendship would invite proselytizing.

I brought the pamphlet into my boss' office, handed it to her and whispered "what do I do?" We decided we wouldn't bring it to the other woman's boss, and instead I simply returned the pamphlet, thanked her kindly, and told her I "didn't want to go there."

That's a funny dog!

2007-11-13T22:16:00.000-05:00

I'm getting a dog. Her name is Greta. At least that's her name right now. She's a beagle mix. Mixed with what, I don't know. She's goofy looking.

I think I might name her Kugel. Or maybe Molly. Or possible Clementine (I'd call her Clem). I'll have to see what she's like first. I don't know too much about her, but she looks so funny, I can't help but like her. That's just the kind of girl I am.

Ghost of a Dog

2007-11-12T23:43:00.000-05:00

Alas! My Murray, my Peter Venkman, my dog was given to another family! It's not every day I'm rejected by a dog.

In other news, Ryan and I mutually agreed to downgrade our relationship from smitten to "just friends." It was easy to be smitten when we never saw each other. It was like there were four people in that relationship: me, him, the version of him I'd created in my head, and vice versa. It would've been impossible to live up to the man-god I'd created (of course, I am the goddess of every man's dreams, but Baltimore's a lot to embrace).

So if any of you want to fix me up with an eligible bachelor, men with dogs are given preference. Moxie, my imaginary dachshund could use some company.

Ghostbusters Dog

2007-11-12T20:23:00.000-05:00

I'm in the market for a dog. I've been approved to adopt a pooch. I'd like to name him after one of the Ghostbusters, my four favorite fictional characters of all time. I'm thinking of naming him Peter Venkman, aka Petey. The other option is Murray (e.g. Bill Murray). Petey is nice for a dog. Of course, everyone's got an uncle named Murray, so a tiny dog named Murray is pretty funny.

What do you think? I'll take suggestions from you...

Shalom?

2007-11-12T18:55:00.000-05:00

On Friday night I attended a Shabbat dinner at the home of a Lubavitcher family. They're lovely people who were kind enough to invite relative strangers into their home to celebrate the day of rest. After a wonderful dinner, I got into a conversation with the father of the family about the Reform Movement in Judaism . I was defending the Movement and its history. Mr. G. was, obviously, less than fully sympathetic to my cause. It was an interesting conversation, one that didn't degenerate into personal attack, even though we completely disagreed with one another. It was no different than any of many conversations I've had with classmates, colleagues, professors and friends. At a one point in the conversation, Mr. G said "I don't know how you could say that." He said it three times. The third time, I felt the tears rising up out of my gut and into my throat. I bit my cheek, and in my brain I was thinking "Don't Tracie! Just don't!"

But I did. I lost it. I lost it and I couldn't get it back. I locked myself in the bathroom. I was so profoundly embarrassed because I was crying in these people's homes, it made me cry even harder. When Mr. G pulled me aside to ask what he'd done wrong, I cried harder for making him feel badly in his own house.

I've been clenching my teeth for so many weeks I wake up with a sore jaw most days. Mr. G's third "I don't know how you could say that" was the straw that broke my composure's back. I'm not very good at crying in public. I don't do it often, and I don't like it.

So anyway, how're you?

Tee hee!

2007-11-03T22:00:00.000-04:00

I don't know how to grab youTube videos, (yes I am woefully inadequate) but you have got to watch this.

Shut up and smell your pillow

2007-11-01T21:48:00.000-04:00

Hey there, Chutzpah kids!
What's that you say?
Where have I been?

Oh, I've been here. I've been there. I've been to Denver. Mainly I've been here, sitting around, smelling my pillow.

No, that isn't a euphemism for huffing. I really have been smelling my pillow. I have a special pillow. Its smell calms me. I've had a special pillow since I was a little girl. It's not the same special pillow that I had when I was a little girl, but I have had this particular pillow for several years. Only squishy pillows, that is to say down pillows, can be special pillows. I don't know why it is that the smell of down overlain with cotton overlain with many nights of my drool overlain with detergent (Tide) overlain with hair product (Aveda's Control Paste) should be a comforting smell to me, but it is.

Some people with special pillows have names for the objects of their affection. Not me. It's not "Pilly" or "Pinky" or "Pooky" or even "Hank." It's just "the special pillow," and when I'm having a rough time of it, I bury my nose in its squishy embrace and I take a deep breath. I've been taking a lot of whiffs of that down-cotton-drool-Tide-ControlPaste perfume, lately. I know this makes me weird, quirky, and probably a little off. I'm okay with that. If lovin' the special pillow is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Magic!

2007-10-10T17:43:00.000-04:00

As a result of yesterday's post, the temperature dropped 20 degrees. So today I'm going to postulate that my lackadaisacality is due to the fact that I'm so friggin' poor. (Cross your fingers, people. If I come into money tomorrow, I'll take at least one of you out to dinner.)

It's too damn hot!

2007-10-09T22:01:00.000-04:00

Chutzpah fans, are you feeling chutzpah-riffic?!

Yeah, me neither. I keep trying to figure out why, and I can't come up with any real reasons for my lackadaisacality. The best I can do is this: it was 93 degrees in Baltimore today (it's 83 even as I write at 10PM). WTF!?! It's October! Why is it so freakin' hot? I'm thankful I haven't removed the window a/c from my bedroom yet.

In other news, I tried to use the streaming video feature to catch myself up on the new season of Heroes (since I finally watched all of the first season on DVD). What's up with the "player" on NBC's site? It BITES! You can't watch more than approximately 2 minutes before it just freezes up. It's true, I don't have a dedicated T1 line, but still. I mean, ABC's site let me view the first episode of "Pushing Daisies" no problem. NBC, get with the friggin program! (Pushing Daisies, btw, is really adorable. I dig it the most. I fear, however, that it will go the way of Wonderfalls, and not complete the season. You better watch to make sure it has the ratings to stay on. Wednesdays, 8/7central. I know where you live. I'll be checking on you.)

Set my soul on fire?

2007-10-04T19:10:00.000-04:00

I know what you're thinking. "Chutzpah Girl, how was your recent weekend in Las Vegas?" Well, Dear Reader, I don't really want to talk about that. Let's just say that though the company was, as you might expect, lover-ly, a series of unfortunate events and circumstances led to the weekend being less than ideal. We began the weekend with flashing blue lights and a siren in Ryan's rear-view mirror. It should've ended when I caught my plane back to Baltimore, except I didn't catch it. In between there was a case of contact dermatitis on my neck, a little bit of vomiting--not due to my consuming too much alcohol--and let's not forget how pleasant and fun to be with I am when I don't get enough sleep.

I've been moping around pretty much since I got back to the Eastern time zone. Tonight I'm planning on binging on TV on DVD, and have decided that when I wake up tomorrow morning I'll feel oh so much better. I'll let you know how that works out.

Fall color in Baltimore

2007-09-25T21:46:00.000-04:00

The change of season isn't quite evident from the temperature in Baltimore, but the trees know. It's Autumn. (Do you like "Autumn" or "Fall" better? I think I like "Autumn," but I don't know why for sure. Maybe because "Fall" can be such a negative word. Like break-your-hip kind of negative. Of course, there's also falling in love, which isn't negative at all. In fact, it's quite pleasant. Like ethel's truffles, or a new magnet for your fridge.) My short walk from home to office and office to home finds brown and yellow leaves crunching under my feet; they and their fellows are being pulverized into brown dust on the sidewalks. The leaves swirl in the wake of passing cars, or drift slowly, aimlessly from branch to ground, one of them resting for a moment on my shoulder this afternoon as I walked. And yet so many of the leaf-fellows remain supple and green, firmly attached to their elevated homes. It's the perfect time of year: still warm, lower humidity--Fall is poised on the precipice, ready to take over, but Summer is not quite ready to let go.

Steve at The Sneeze is watching the brain grow from the tree in his yard. I wish I had a tree with a brain.

Insomn!a

2007-09-18T01:21:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, there was a young princess named Tracie. Well, actually, she wasn't that young anymore, but since she was still unmarried and in her thirties, the other princes and princesses felt sorry for her, and let her still say she was young. Anyway, this princess loved to sleep. She loved sleep more than she loved bananas (which was a lot, considering they are the world's most perfect food). She loved sleep more than she loved writing her weblog; more than chocolate; more even, than sex.

And so it was with bitter irony that Princess Tracie found herself awake and awake and awake until far past her bedtime. At first she just lay there, thinking "oh how difficult it will be to get up and go about my princessly duties tomorrow." Then she decided to trick herself into sleeping, by thinking about other things. She thought about her young prince (who was even less young than she, herself, and even had gray hair, but nevertheless was wholly entitled to call himself "Young.") She thought about other princes she had known, and about what tasks needed to be completed to keep the kingdom running smoothly. She even thought about that good-looking guy on Heroes, the one who can fly--there was that one episode she saw recently where he had his shirt off--yum.

She tried to contact another princess on the other side of the planet, but alas, the other princess was likely on her lunch break, and away from her gmail chat. She thought about the stupid essay she had to write in order to be admitted into the MS in Marketing at the Carey Business School. She thought about the fact that she had not yet dusted the kingdom, and had lived there for 2 full months. Gross. She got up and put more clothes on because it was cold once she was out from under the covers. She watched some television, but her princessly salary didn't support cable tv, so she quickly grew bored with the four broadcast channels.

She thought about her friend, Princess h, and how much h loves bacon. She thought about the time h ordered a BLT, hold the lettuce and tomato, and with a side of bacon. Okay, that didn't really happen, but Tracie figured it was only because h hadn't thought of it yet. She wondered if h knew about the bacon mints for sale at Archie McPhee, and thought, again, about purchasing some for her.

She wished, once again, for a digital camera, so that she could share more images with her subjects in internet-land, and lamented that they may never know the wonders that she sees everyday: the beautiful gardens in Charles Village; the photograph of the princess as a toddler, chocolate donut in hand, chocolate icing on mouth; that freaky guy who looks a little like Jenny's husband, except totally crazy and asking for her spare change in between yelling about how Angelos, the owner of the Orioles, has totally fucked everything up (he always tries to look you right in the eye when he yells the word "fuck"); that crazy-tacky clock she keeps on her mantle with the light that reflects through the painting of a waterfall so it looks like the water's moving. (Oh, my dear subjects, how I deprive you because of my own lack!)

Does anybody have an Ambien? How about Lunesta? What about that one that Abe Lincoln and the beaver advertise? I love those commercials. Rozerem. What about just a good, stiff drink? I'm dyin' here!

Evolutionary Eyebrows

2007-09-09T22:14:00.000-04:00

Something has been bothering me over the past couple of days: what's up with eyebrows? Specifically, what was the process by which humans evolved having eyebrows?

When the early humans were going through the mutations bringing them further from Abraham--that shared ancestor between humans and chimpanzees--and toward modern day humans, what made the eyebrow stick around? What was the evolutionary advantage? I mean, obviously eyebrows keep sweat and dirt out of our eyes, but as we were losing the fur/hair on our faces, what was the advantage that made us keep the hair above our eyes? Did the hunter-gatherers without eyebrows die off more quickly because the sweat dripping into their eyes made them miss seeing predators or other hazards? Or did the eyebrow-wearers have the ability to express more subtle emotions with their faces, making them more attractive to potential mates? Or are eyebrowioed creatures more ruthless, beating to death their bald-faced rivals?

These are the things that keep me up at night. That and the ever-gnawing question: what's better, Ben & Jerry's Phish Food, or Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough? (and of course it's corollary, will they let me use both Ben & Jerry's coupons at the same time, or will I have to make two trips?)

I'm in deep smit.

2007-09-09T21:42:00.000-04:00

Regular readers of the chutzpah files will know that, for better or worse, I've been seeing a man, Ryan, who lives in Las Vegas (though I don't usually actually see him, because he lives in Las Vegas).

I really like him. He's smart and funny and handsome and left-of-center. But I know this whole thing is sort of, well, fool-hardy. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. In reality, I know that absence is just a pain in the ass, and that proximity and convenience are the single largest factors in whom a person marries.

Ryan and I email or talk at least every other or every third day. The time difference sometimes makes it tough to talk on the phone during the week, but we do what we can. (It helps that for work he more or less keeps an east coast schedule.) I know that he feels the same way about me as I do him. I know that, intellectually. The thing is, I also know that this is fool-hardy. I'm finding, as a result, sometimes I doubt what I know, intellectually, to be true. In my mind we're being a little silly, and so if we go more than about a day and a half or two days without speaking, I hold my breath a little when I call, afraid that he's come to his senses. Every time he answers the phone with the same excited "Hey there!" as the first time I called I smile ear to ear. We're in deep smit together.

I gotta get a better agent!

2007-09-08T20:00:00.000-04:00

Bill needed off today, so I filled in at Gallery 44. I gotta say, for the record, working six days a week really bites. Especially when on the sixth day, someone comes into the store who is displeased with the fact that her frame came in approximately a half a hair darker than the sample she chose from and then needs to see every blessed frame on the wall until she picks another one which is $140 more expensive than the first and then doesn't want to pay the difference between the two--even though the original frame is within the tolerance of variation for a hand-made item (which is what it is). Holy Mother of Pearl, woman! It doesn't matter that much! Don't waste 2 hours of my time, make me get down every frame on the wall and then complain when I DON'T charge you for labor, for the new materials, or for the fact that you're a goddamn pain in my ass, but DO expect you to pay for the materials you receive!

This is the reason I'm not taking over the family business even though I'm pretty good at the whole framing design thing and I'm here in town. I ain't cut out for this shit.

I need a fucking beer.

It's crap, I say!

2007-09-06T21:56:00.000-04:00

D'y'ever get in one of those moods where you just sorta feel crap? Not just feel crap, but think everything is crap? Me, too.

Tonight I had a great workout at the Hopkins Rec Center (6.5 miles in 30 minutes without moving the bicycle at all), came home, had a shower, ate a crap dinner and then watched some crap t.v. I should be feeling great after that workout. It was Peaches and me, lots of sweat, and some quality people-watching. And yet. Maybe it was the scores of tight-bodied undergraduates who surrounded me during the workout. (It's tough being the oldest chick in the room when you're only 31.) Look at them with their young thighs and their young asses, seeing and being seen. Bastards! I hate those sonsabitches.

It's hot in my bedroom (crap). I have too much to do at work (crap). My cupboard is bare (crap). I have $30 to get me through to next Friday (crap). No one called me tonight except a candidate for Baltimore mayor (crap). [And it wasn't even him--it was a recording of his mom! Crap! (The primary for the mayoral race is on Tuesday. There are no Republican candidates. So really, the election is on Tuesday. I guess I should make a decision on who'll receive my vote, huh?)] The only man in my life who isn't related to me by blood or marriage lives 2500 miles away (crap).

A moment ago, I even looked at my own blog (the very one) and thought "I wish this thing were updated more often. I'm bored with this crap."

You! Hypocrite lecteur--mon sembable--crap! crap!

(That last wasn't fair. You're not crap (I dunno if you're a hypocrite). I was surely projecting.)

Shadow of the Vampire

2007-09-03T09:02:00.000-04:00

I rewatched this 2000 movie this weekend. It is much darker than I remembered from first viewing (all that stayed with me from the first viewing was Willem Dafoe's creepy vampire saying "The script girl...I'll eat her later!").

It's an odd movie. The story of the making of the early cinema picture "Nosferatu." The conceit of the film is that the vampire movie was as creepy and convincing as it was because the Count in the film was a real vampire. John Malkovich plays a director willing to sacrifice friends and lovers and employees in order to "finish my picture!" Willem Dafoe plays a really creepy really old vampire who is obsessed with an actress whose breast he fondles as he drains her blood. In the final scene Malkovich films the vampire killing the actress (with whom Malkovich's character had had a romantic relationship), his friend and producer, and the camera man. Malkovich continues to call out direction even as everyone dies. At one point he says "If it isn't in frame, it doesn't exist." The movie's POV jumps back and forth between the color film I was watching, and the black and white camera through which Malkovich's camera captures "Nosferatu." I'm certain there's a message in there about sacrifice, obsession, art, and the danger of the artist dehumanizing his subject through the creation of art, but I couldn't articulate that message.

I ruminate about movies and fiction sometimes here, but if you want to read a really interesting blog about movies check out We like to watch. It's a sort of discussion group of academics who all really like movies. They have fascinating conversations about high cinema and blow-em-up movies alike, analyzing at a higher level of intelligence and insight than your average reviewers. They also snark at each other in interesting ways. That's almost as interesting as what they have to say about movies.

High School Snoozical

2007-08-27T22:03:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-24T22:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-22T22:08:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-08-22T18:56:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-19T21:35:00.001-04:00

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...

2007-08-19T09:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-19T08:50:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-17T16:43:00.001-04:00

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

2007-08-15T15:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-13T14:24:00.001-04:00

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

2007-08-12T00:20:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-10T18:18:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-02T22:21:00.000-04:00

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.

3DF V93

2007-07-30T17:48:00.000-04:00

It's official. I am now a resident of the great state of Maryland. It's true, I've been paying state income taxes for months, receiving mail, and generally "residing," but now I have a Maryland driver's license, and the old war horse has been registered here. Her new license plate is 3DF V93. I've been thinking, of late, about getting a new car. I was really liking the Mazda MX5 Miata. And then I landed upon the Honda S2000.
And finally, the Chrysler Crossfire (which was discontinued last year).

Are you sensing the theme? I figure that sometime in the next 5 to ten years I'll need a practical, family car. Something that carseats and groceries will fit into. For now, I'm single, I've been driving the same car for fifteen years, and I want something fun!

Unfortunately, I'm also living paycheck to paycheck. When I was in college I imagined that I'd have all the money I needed once I got out and got my moderately-paid white-collar job. Now that I'm here, I can hardly believe how broke a person can be who makes oodles more than the poverty line base salary. And so I'm trying to imagine that the war horse, the poor, abused, and yet remarkably reliable '92 Honda is fun.

Liability

2007-07-26T15:34:00.001-04:00

I got a call from my insurance agent a couple of days ago. The other insurance company has accepted liability for the accident last month (see On the disabled list...). My insurance company will be sending me my deductible as soon as they receive payment.

I feel vindicated. That nasty old jerk was so mean to me on the phone. I was trying to be nice, avoid being the prick that I encountered when I was a young driver on the other side of this accident, and he threw it right back in my face. Apparently, the young woman who was driving, the jerk's granddaughter, had another accident the same day she hit me. That's why the insurance company took so long to deal with this--they thought they'd already taken care of it, since they'd dealt with another claim from the same day. Now I bet grandpa is wishing he'd taken care of my car outside of the insurance. Two accidents on the same day. Somebody's rates are going up, and it isn't me.

Weekend visitor

2007-07-22T19:35:00.000-04:00

This past weekend was the weekend that Ryan came to visit. (I've decided to stop calling him by a false name ("Brian") since it's confusing to everyone, including me). It's true, I sort of poked fun at him several weeks ago for wanting to come visit after such a short acquaintance. But after the wonderful weekend we've just spent together, I've realized that rather than him being overly optimisitic, perhaps I was short-sighted after our initial meeting. I remain discomfited by the physical distance between us, but I am wholly convinced of our compatability. Ryan has a charming mix of strength and vulnerability that makes me want to take care of him and let him take care of me. He brought me chocolates. And a fridge magnet from Vegas. And a little print of dachshunds. He manages to say just the right thing when I am anxious or sad or unsure of myself, and it's always totally genuine. He bakes pies, is afraid of spiders, and is completely unself-conscious of his own charm, good looks, and integrity.

We had a wonderful time exploring Baltimore and its environs together. We visited the National Aquarium, and he often recognized the beasties without the benefit of wall text. He met my mom. We went to Ikea, and he was a good sport about carrying my new bookshelves up the stairs. We went to Artscape, and he bought me a $5 orangeade. He likes to hold hands and sneak kisses at stoplights. He's a snuggler. He dotes on his two nieces. He likes to send his grandma postcards from the places he visits. He opens doors for me. He's impressed by trees and brick buildings because he lives in a desert that is a potential earthquake zone. Inexplicably, he seems to think that I'm both beautiful and sexy.

Frankly, I'm crazy about him.

Control freak

2007-07-10T14:50:00.000-04:00

When I feel that things in my life are out of control, I often take it out on my hair. I've worn my hair short since I was a Sophomore in high school. In college, I met and fell in love with a fellow student approximately 5 minutes after arriving on campus. He expressed interest in seeing my hair long, so I grew it. It was past my shoulders, thick and luxuriant. Men loved it. Women loved it. It drove me crazy. When, in my third year at school I felt out of control (and angry at my boyfriend), I cut it all off. That was a decade ago. I haven't looked back.

In 2002, I was dumped. Hard. He ripped out my heart and stomped on it, then rubbed some lemon juice in the wounds before handing it back to me and asking if we could still be friends. My hair was already short, so I had to be brutal. I shaved it all off. To the skin. Just to make sure that people knew it was intentional (and because I could), I got a tatoo on my scalp. I wore it that way, off and on, for a year and a half.

I've worn "normal" (if short) hair cuts for the past 4 years. I haven't really felt the need to reveal the tattoo in that time. Now that I'm no longer a graduate student, it's harder to get away with that haircut. In fact, I'm sort of trying to grow it out a little this summer. My hair currently covers the tops of my ears. I haven't had the tops of my ears covered since I cut it all off in college. But with so much up in flux right now (home, car, love, work), I'm feeling an itch for a close clipper cut. A number 1 all over. When it's about a half an inch long, the tatoo looks pretty cool, almost like it's cut into the hair instead of inked into the scalp.

I'm making lists to help me feel in control. I'm listing anything I can think of. The fifty states. The seven dwarves. The nine Supreme Court justices (it took me several months to master this one, and I'm awfully proud of the fact that I can). The family pets as I grew up. The men I've kissed. If I run out of things to list, I may have no choice but to shave my head.

What I do

2007-07-09T08:44:00.000-04:00

I slept very badly last night, and then woke up retching: an inauspicious start to my second week on the new job. I'm currently sitting in my cubicle at said job with a cornbread and coffee breakfast on the desk. I'm feeling a little wary of the coffee part, since I don't really think adding acid to the unhappy tummy is a great idea, but at the same time, last night's insomnia makes some caffeine essential.

I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by all that's going on in my life at the moment. Perhaps that's what brought on the vomiting (we already know that I'm an armchair self-psychologist, so this is my personal diagnosis). I found a mover for next weekend, but I have a great deal of packing to do between now and then. My car is still in the shop, and I still don't know if the other insurance company is accepting liability. I have yet to schedule the cryosurgery to take care of the pre-cancerous tissue on my girl-parts. It's great to have the new job, but so far I haven't had much to do, and am frankly a little bored. My previous employers have expressed interest in hiring me as a consultant to manage a magazine they publish annually, but are now dragging their feet on agreeing to my proposal. I don't want to get started writing without a firm answer, but with every day that passes my timeline gets tighter and tighter and it becomes less and less likely I'll be able to remain on deadline.

In my love life, "Brian" has been wonderful, saying just the right things at the right time. He's a salesman for a living, and I think he must be quite good at it--I'm a tough customer and I'm sold. The thing is that even though I'm delighted by our conversations (we recently discovered that we collect some of the same things), I'm terrified by the whole thing. What if when he gets here we find that we really don't like each other so well? What if when he gets here we find that we really DO like each other? Both possibilities are terrifying, and the latter may be the more so. I've never been interested in long-distance romantic relationships--I need far more attention than they can afford--so what happens next? I know, I know, I should cross that bridge when I come to it, but what can I say? I overthink things. It's what I do.

Lately, I've been attempting to escape overthinking my life with movies. I recently saw Pan's Labyrinth, which was incredible--a visually beautiful if tragic story; The Queen, which made me slightly nostalgic for the 6 months I spent in London in 1997 when Blair became PM, and For Your Consideration, which I didn't like as much as I expected I would, though it was certainly enjoyable. I'm looking forward to escaping the heat and humidity in blissfully air conditioned movie theaters for the new Harry Potter flick and Transformers in the coming weeks. I used to cheer on Optimus Prime every Saturday morning, and I'm looking forward to meeting him again.

Chertoff the Eagle

2007-07-05T18:51:00.000-04:00

Michael Chertoff has been making a lot of appearances lately, and I've finally figured out who he reminds me of.

You have to take the bad with the good

2007-07-04T17:08:00.000-04:00

It's been a bit of a roller-coaster week for me. Here's a brief list of what's happened:

1) my car was totalled. I have chosen to keep it and drive it as a salvage. [bad]
2) I signed a lease for a beautiful apartment: 2 bedrooms, hardwood floors, a working fireplace, a secure building, only two blocks from work. [good]
3) my doctor found pre-cancerous cells on my cervix. [bad]
4) I bought a wonderful new computer (a lovely mac iBook. it's so small and cute. Like a dachshund. I love dachshunds. My new apartment is pet friendly. I think I might get a dachshund. I'll name her Moxie). [good]
5) the software for the wonderful computer was the wrong version and has to be returned. [bad]
6) I started a new job. [good]
7) the supervisor at the new job was out sick, so I twiddled my thumbs for the first two days. [bad]
8) the man I met at the wedding in early June ("Brian" in "Flattered, but flabbergasted") is coming to visit in two weeks. [I can't decide if that's in the good or bad category. I'm excited to see him, but apprehensive about the fact that I seem to be developing a relationship with someone who lives several thousand miles away from me.]
9) I quit reading the Da Vinci Code and watched the movie instead (thank you Ron Howard, you saved me). [good]

I think the word for the past week is "ambivalent."

On the Disabled List: '92 Honda Civic

2007-06-27T09:35:00.000-04:00

Yesterday afternoon, I was on my way home from several apartment-viewing appointments when a young driver swerved to avoid another car and fishtailed her car into mine. No one was hurt, thankfully, but my poor car. It's 15 years old, and so any damage has the potential to be a total loss. Oh woe. The other car struck my poor baby immediately above the left front wheel well. Driving home from the accident I could hear the tire rubbing the plastic wheel well that is painfully bent out of shape. Woe woe. At the time of the accident, the other driver all but admitted fault. After the accident, her grandfather called me to tell me I had better contact my insurance company because "if you rear-ended her, you are at fault." Now tell me how I rear-ended a person with the side of my car! That son of a bitch. I hate it when people won't take responsibility for their actions. But that sonofabitch got me nervous. What if the insurance company decides that it was a rear-ending? Oh woe! I'm all a-dither.

My insurance agent said that in lane changes it often comes down to he said-she said, but that sometimes the damage makes liability irrefutable. I'm not one to pray for things like this (especially since I don't really believe in a god who could answer), but dear god, please let this be one of those irrefutable cases.

Woe!

He's just not that into me.

2007-06-26T10:39:00.000-04:00

I know you're all waiting on tenterhooks to hear what happened with Matt. Here's the update:

After the last email I received from Matt (when he spelled my name wrong, see "A laid-back guy"), I sent Matt an email that said:

"I'm going to try to make a bunch of appointments on Saturday and Sunday (I assume you'll be in NY), and the results of those appointments will determine the need for either more appointments or just some exploring around the chosen location. I'll be playing that by ear. Since it sounds like you, too, will be playing things by ear, I think we'd be an ear too many for me; I think I'll cajole family members to come out with me on those expeditions, instead.

"Why don't you drop me a line when you get back from New England if you want to take me up on the offer of a meal."

You see, I figured that I wouldn't mind going out with this guy again, but he's going to have to work a little harder than "if i'm free, i can join you."

This morning I opened my inbox to find this waiting:

"Tracie-

"I picked up some substitute work at a local branch of CTY that has sucked up my days,leaving the only time I can prepare for my summer teaching in the evenings. Don't think I'll be able to tail along on any house-searching you do, as I'm heading out of town on Friday. But if you find some possibilities and have questions about neighborhoods, feel free to e-mail me and I'll give you as much feedback as I can.
Good luck-"

He got the hint about the spelling of my name, but the rest of it...WTF? No mention of the fact that I offered to buy him a meal. I mean, why even bother writing back? Doesn't this guy know that the way you signal lack of interest in the twenty-first century is by NOT writing? He seems to think that it's writing evasive messages.

At least I know how to signal lack of interest. Good-bye Matt. Or whatever your name is.

S(t)in(ky) City

2007-06-25T20:16:00.000-04:00

I am currently between jobs. Friday was my last day at my commute-from-hell job and I don't start the new job in Baltimore for a week. This week I am busy apartment hunting. I'm encountering the strangest sights (and smells) on the streets of Baltimore.

While walking west on one of the numbered streets this weekend, I saw from a distance, a hippie (I say he was hippie mainly because of the long hair and beard, but maybe he just had an aversion to shears, I don't know) holding up a black tee-shirt emblazoned with the words "Stop Bitching. Start a Revolution." I smiled, so the hippie launched into his sales pitch. He told me that the American culture is too focused on status and consumption. That there's something unhealthy about the way our culture is headed. (He then told me that was a fancy way of saying 'our culture sucks.' I told him that not only did I understand the way he said it first, I preferred the more articulate version.) He went on to tell me he represents an artists' colony in West Virginia ( Zendik.org), and they believe that it's shameful that art has become so comodified that people don't create without attaching a monetary value to that which they create. And by the way, he usually gets $5 for the magazine of art and poetry, $15 for a CD, and $20 for a tee-shirt. I chuckled and said "good luck."

A few blocks later some well-dressed black men were set up on a corner with a portable mic and amp. They were telling the passers-by that the white man was the devil, and to prove it had a picture of the white Jesus with 666 written on his forehead. I don't know what the nice looking man thought of the white woman walking past and taking interest in his devilish white Jesus, but I admit, I was fascinated, and I may have lingered.

At about 12:30, I had worked up a healthy need to pee. I couldn't find anywhere to run in, (Starbucks, I hate you. You're everywhere when I don't need you, but when I had to pee, where were you?!). I went to what will be my office building next week, and convinced the security guard to let me use the restroom.

Walking from the office to the next appointment, the city of Baltimore assaulted my nostrils. I know I should stop comparing Chicago and Baltimore, but I won't. Chicago has its share of smells. With the river, and the chocolate factory, the diesel and the homeless, Chicago has its fair share of scents. But Baltimore? Jeesh! Take a shower, Charm City! The corner of Charles and 29th at around 12:45PM today smelled like that yucky liquid that runs out of dumpsters. You know that nasty water that smells like rotten tomatoes and diapers all at the same time. I don't know if it was the sewer or a garbage truck or what, but that corner was RIPE! And I'm going to be living there?! Maybe my nose will take pity on me, and my sense of smell will diminish.

The schaden of Freud. (Or maybe just spectacles.)

2007-06-23T09:13:00.000-04:00

Last evening, I walked all over Northwest Washington, DC with my dear friend Kathy (of menace files fame). We talked about many things, and, trying to entertain her, I related stories from my romantic history. And suddenly it hit me: I've often been attracted to men who are either older than I or who have positions of authority (sometimes both).

The oldest man with whom I was ever romantically involved was a guy I dated for a short time in college who was 18 years my senior. (No, he wasn't a professor, but he did work for the college.) The love of my life (who cannot bring himself to get married--even to me) is 13 years older than I. The man who dumped me so hard I still feel the bruises these 7 years later has 8 years on me.

As for authority figures, I once had a huge crush on a psychologist I saw for pain management. I was head-over-heels for a boyfriend who had once been one of my supervisors. And of course there were professors. There was a guy in the Art department on whom I was almost required to crush, since in his first year teaching he was 9 years older than I and handsome and eager. There were others. I won't name names.

As I humorously related many of these memories to Kathy last night, I began to raise the specter of Dr. Freud, and I experienced a psychic shudder. I frantically searched my memory banks, and realized--wait, I befriend women in authority, too. From the time I was a child, I often established relationships with female teachers, maintaining friendships long after I was no longer their student. I have female friends who are 8, 10, 15 years older than I. I am great friends with former bosses and T.A.s. Unlike their male counterparts, I tend not to be sexually attracted to these women, but hey, I'm straight.

And so, Dr. Freud, I have the following theory to counter your knee-jerk diagnosis of Oedipus/Electra: it's because I wore glasses from the time I was 2 years old. (Bear with me here.) Adults treat children in glasses differently. They treated me like I was 10 when I was only 4, 16 at 10, you get the idea. They used more complicated vocabulary with me. They expected me to be better behaved. People who make their voices higher when speaking to children (I hate that!) didn't do it to me. And so, I became an articulate child who spoke like an adult because that is how I was spoken to. And the longer this went on, the more comfortable I became with adults. You see, if an adult meets a smart, articulate 10-year-old, he or she says "wow, you're really smart and articulate. I'm impressed." Whereas the other 10-year-olds say "how come you talk like that? what are you some kind of nerd?" Is it any wonder, then, that I sought out the company of my teachers and other adults over that of my peers from a very young age?

While it's true that my affinity for authority figures is, indeed, a throwback to my childhood, it is hardly the way Dr. Freud would have you believe.

Gender Genie

2007-06-21T16:46:00.000-04:00

I've just discovered the most bizarre little tool: http://bookblog.net/gender/genie.php. Apparently women and men have different writing styles that can be determined by an algorithm. I ran most of the posts in this blog through it and true to form, I blog like a girl. I guess that's okay with me.