the chutzpah files

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).

Is it ever enough?

2009-09-16T07:16:00.003-04:00

I participated in the Body Sculpt class at the Y this morning. I've been working out like a fiend lately. 5 times a week at least. Been doing some strength training, too. Usually 2 days a week. After this morning, I realize I need to spend more time on back and shoulders. I've been so focused on my abs for so long this class's ab work barely registered, but a few minutes of back work with the bands and I was really feeling it. I'm exercising in part to replace cymbalta with natural endorphins. When I was first starting the taper, I thought it was really working. Now that I'm down to half a pill (I actually opened the capsule on a plate and isolated about half of the little beads with a sharp knife) every 4 days, I'm feeling less confident in my "diet and exercise is all I need" conviction. I've started to believe in the past two months that I've moved from one alternative health practitioner to another over the past 10 years hoping that this new one has the key to why I always feel so shitty. I often feel better for a time on these various plans, but the long-run leaves me in pain and exhausted. When exercise and clean eating showed such promise I decided that I have the key, and I need to take that responsibility to be mindful of what I eat and make time for exercise. I haven't given up on this notion, but I am starting to worry that this is just my most recent in a long line of health obsessions from acupuncture to ayurveda to autonomic testing to myofascial release. Of course, diet and exercise have several positive benefits the others are missing, including the 7 pounds I've lost, the improved quality of my complexion, and the relative low cost associated (I owe nearly $1000 to my most-recent favorite practitioner!). But my pain levels are starting to increase again. I begin to think maybe the key is diet and exercise AND cymbalta. I guess I should get all the way off the cymbalta (so that the withdrawal symptoms are over) before I decide.

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.

Mawiage is what bwings us togever today.

2007-06-14T16:52:00.000-04:00

On June 10, 2007, I made history. Well, not really, but I did do something for the very first time--I served as the officiant at the wedding of my dear friends Leah & Josh.

No, I'm not a rabbi. Nor a minister. Not a judge. Not even a ship's captain (though wouldn't that be great? Arrrgh!).

Many months ago, Leah complained to me that she could not find a rabbi in Las Vegas who she both liked and was willing to marry her (she's Jewish) and her fiance (he's not). In my effort to comfort her and offer alternatives, I reminded her that Jewish wedding ceremonies need not be performed by someone who is ordained. In fact, as with most Jewish liturgy, though the hazan, or leader, is often an ordained rabbi or cantor, he or she doesn't have to be.

When I reminded Leah of this fact, I was thinking maybe she could ask one of our professors from graduate school to perform the ceremony, or maybe one of her uncles. Without hesitation, however, she said "you're right! Would you do it?!" To which I replied "um...well...um...uh...of course! I'd be honored!"

Many months later, Leah looked radiant, Josh was the picture of Hollywood class, and I was a pseudo-rabbi (no, I'm not in this picture).

What're they gonna do? Fire me?

2007-06-20T11:17:00.000-04:00

Today is Wednesday. Friday is my last day at my current job. I've always been a hard worker. I take my job seriously. I like what I do. I like my employers (most of the time). This week, however, with the end almost tangible, I've been hard-pressed to make myself really care (hence all of the posts this week). I thought I'd share with you an image of myself (as an m&m) at work. I think it's a pretty good likeness. My hair (for now) is still a bit darker than my candy doppleganager's, and I don't usually wear over-the-elbow peach gloves, but you get the idea.

If you'd like to see what you look like as an m&m, visit http://www.becomeanmm.com/. It's a lot of fun, and a nice distraction in the middle of the day.

Novel snob

2007-06-21T12:48:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure when it happened, but I've realized in the past couple of days that somewhere along the way, I became a literary snob. I enjoy genre fiction as much as the next guy--some of the most foundational books in my life were pulp science fiction or fantasy (is that like saying "some of my best friends are [insert racial identity here]"?)--but my tolerance for over-writing has become quite low. I recently picked up The Da Vinci Code for my commute reading--I decided I wanted to know what the hype was about.

Samuel Johnson is attributed with the advice "Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out." I believe that if Dan Brown were to "murder his darlings" in that way, this bestseller might be considerably shorter. On the train ride home yesterday I read:

Captain Bezu Fache carried himself like an angry ox, with his wide shoulders thrown back and his chin tucked hard into his chest. His dark hair was slicked back with oil, accentuating an arrow-like widow's peak that divided his jutting brow and preceded him like the prow of a battleship. As he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the earth before him, radiating a fiery clarity that forecast his reputation for unblinking severity in all matters. (page 22 in the Anchor Books paperback edition)

I don't know about you, but I don't actually think that this kind of overly metaphor-ized description actually helps me to imagine the character. I know that this story must be compelling--millions of people can't be that wrong--but if he keeps going like this, I'll be too busy rolling my eyes and groaning to actually read the compelling story. I feel like I'm watching an over-acted play in which every actor chews the scenery trying to dominate the audience's affections.

I really do want to know what made so many people love this novel, so I plan to keep reading. I can only hope that Mr. Brown's penchant for overly flowery descriptions are saved for the introduction of new characters and that once everyone of import has been introduced he will get down to the business of telling that story that captured the imagination of millions of my fellow readers.

Then again, maybe I'll just rent the movie.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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...

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.

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...

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.")

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?