You've still got it.

You know, I really love you for all the help you still want to give me, and how you just gift me these sparkling observations unsolicited, but I still have to laugh. I mean, you are so fucking pretentious, which only makes this this (tiny, backhanded and not entirely) sweet compliment the best thing I'll ever get from you:

"I think you have hit on the most important question about the law. What you were wrote was brilliant. I think frankly a little is remembered from the conversation we had early on but your take on it is fantastic. I was very proud to know you when I read it."

But you're you, right? And so you ruin it with something like this:

"I'm certain you won't read this because they just want to get you through the material since it's a professional school, not a graduate school or an academy (in the Greek sense) but the most interesting book on the law I ever read is ---------'s --------. You need a background in philosophy to see the brilliance in it but here's the point in a nutshell."

AHHHHH you are killing me! I went to college at sixteen, I speak six languages fluently, I was published in a national phenomenon at 15, I go to one of the best schools in the world, I am a speedreader with a nearly photographic memory who was accepted to medical school, but evidently I am a freaking moron who needs to be spoon-fed your favorite educational text because I don't have a graduate degree in *philosophy*?!?

It's a good thing you're handsome, otherwise the general population would undoubtedly find you wholly unbearable.

EDIT: I am not an elitist jerk, but see how bad it sounded when I rattled off all that crap about myself? Now imagine hearing that everyday - subversively and sporadically - for a year. All I'm saying is that it's unbelievably and hysterically rude to pause a conversation with a peer for the express purposes of dumbing it down for consumption or challenging my ability to make the most of a text.

More than firefighters? Who knew?

Evidently, girls are now creaming over the Brooks Brothers catalog while the FDNY 2009 Calendar languishes on the shelves. Now, I know, three posts in one day is ludicrous but one was scheduled from last week and the most recent two are just fluff. I just wanted to say I've been lucky enough to date guys that are great dressers: a model who just kept every outfit on one hanger so there was no thinking involved, a football player with that all-American tight polo style, an arty-indie rock type who always looked unbearably punk and hip hop and cool.

Of course, there was that one guy I had to totally rebuild (for his own good, not mine), and there are always little things about a couple that start to rub off on each other the longer they are together - if you date me, you're probably going to invest in blue seersucker or madras or Sperry's at some point. And we've been over my end already: my necklines get higher, pants get worn less-frequently, I put away my assless chaps....

All in all, though - clothes are a weird thing and while we all definitely notice them, they don't really take up central focus in my fantasies.

Two big things today

1. It's the last day of Jeopardy auditions! If you meet the criteria for their adult shows, go to www.jeopardy.com to register for the next 18-month cycle. The last test is tonight at 8 PM PST - so, 11 PM EST. Jeopardy holds a special place in my heart; don't hate.

2. I am finally going to get my little DNA bits tested for Jewish ancestry. Technically, I wish this had been done years ago because it's a lot easier to be biologically Jewish than convert, but hey - such is life. Although it really doesn't matter what the results of the test are (I'm Jewish either way), it would still be a nice question to have answered. I haven't really done much study on the test, though, and so while I know they only test for your guilt-genes on your maternal side, I still wonder exactly how far back does this whooziewhatsit detect Judaism?

Can't wait to find out!

Surry with the fringe on top

Jewish boys make me laugh. It's a running theme over here at Nameless, Faceless. There are the clueless yeshiva bochurs (not so dangerous and kind of endearing), the reined-in BTs (normalish until they reveal their secretly-smoldering loins), and then my favorite subspecies: the delusional FFB.

I have had the distinct pleasure of meeting a few such boys; they are beyond observant, very passionate about their Judaism, but they are self-proclaimed "Americans". They dress cool, they say things like "bay-beh", they aren't tongue-tied around girls. They'll make out with you though they draw the line at tefillin dates but most fascinating is their take on the long-term relationship.

See, these FFBs are torn - on one hand, they want to be progressive and assimilated like all the boys you went to secular high school with, but on the other hand there's just no keeping a good frummy down. No matter what their body may be saying, their minds are still firmly entrenched in this cultural consciousness of early marriages, dating to find a mate, visions of a glowing pregnant wife. It's a very disconcerting dichotomy and I'll tell you - it's confusing as hell for a girl to get in on this especially a gioret or a female BT. I say this because a frummy girl won't know the signs, she won't recognize Daniel pulling away or the verbal clues Yakov might be leaving:

Sarit: "So it turns out I'll be around later - want to get together?"
Yakov: "Hey...you know...I'll keep in touch, baby."

Keep in touch? Is this a yearbook signing? Are you going to jokingly refer to how you're going to see me in detention next fall? If this were a non-Jew, you'd know just what to do: pull away because he's obviously scaling back on the assault. But it's not a non-Jew; it's a card-carrying, brachot-saying, hechsher-seeking, Shabbat-keeping member of the Tribe and so it's impossible to discern what they really want because interspersed with these sporadic lukewarm offerings are the dramatic admissions of love this and bashert that and "you're worth waiting for" talks.

As a girl, it's tough to deal with guys who are gold medalists in the Backpeddle. They know they like pussy, but they also know they want a family and so they go back and forth, giving one girl two different messages. That ends tonight. To all you vacillating frumales: pick a side and stick to it. If it turns out you're OTD, it's a 50/50: we either blow you or blow right past you. If it turns out that you really do want to be a good little Jew and grow up, then own up to your feelings and don't emotionally turtlehead when things get serious.

After all, if you can't decide who you really are or what you really want, how can we?

I didn't learn English first, either....

On Friday, I was having a lovely telephone conversation --

Wait, no. That's not exactly right, lets try this again:

On Friday, I was attempting to have a lovely telephone conversation but it was hopeless. There was a serious flaw in my plan, as the person I was talking to happened to be smack dab in the middle of Boro Park and so it wasn't so much a two-person conversation as it was a crash course in How to Learn Yiddish As Overheard at 150 Decibels in a Restaurant. I mean, these men were screaming - how is it possible that you don't know there is a very real chance that the dead can hear you?

Maybe it would have been more interesting if I spoke Yiddish and could have deciphered what they were talking about (which, by the way, I would not have considered to be eavesdropping because that conveys a measure of attempted secrecy and the idea of that here is just fucking laughable), but I don't. And while I wallow in the unyielding shame that comes with being unable to understand what is decidedly the world's sexiest language, I realize that I've probably been guilty of the same thing. I now present to you Top Three Most Important Things to Know About Speaking Your Native Tongue in Public:

1. The joke is on them.

In the Italian version of Best Buy, somewhere outside of Napoli (which, in case you're wondering, is actually a gigantic nest of asshairs caught in a twist) I became frustrated that no one sold a proper iPhone-to-cigarette-lighter cord that I dropped the f-bomb in front of an employee. I immediately looked at him, embarassed and apologetic - but there was nothing. No reaction. And then it dawned on me: they don't teach you the bad words in English class, and so this man - heck, the whole store - had no idea what I was saying. You know how liberating it is to shout anyanyanyanyanyany offensive thing you want and have nothing happen to you? I let all the tension of Naples-you-turn-off-your-traffic-signals-at-night-and-are-in-the-throes-of-a-month-long-garbage-strike go: racial slurs, the ugliest words I could think of - which is really saying something if you've ever heard my mouth - I said cuntlips to the cashier for heaven's sake! I laughed so hard I cried. My sister actually peed her pants. It was an amazing day.

2. The joke is on you.

When you grow up speaking another language with your family, that language begins to represent an intimacy or privacy which then gets easily mistranslated by those family members when in public. News Flash: Just because you launch into French/Hebrew/Esperanto at Starbucks does not in any way mean you have just constructed a small house around you and your non-fat latte - just because people can't understand you doesn't mean they can't hear your rude ass. Admittedly, I sometimes I forget how much I hate this (possibly because I can't hear my conscience while shouting to my sister to find thisorthat in my size across Neimans) and decide to shout incredibly offensive or embarrassing things in the most secret language in my arsenal, just because you think you can. However, it's impossible to outrun karma: eventually someone will understand you. Take, for instance, my aunt who once whispered in a bookstore "That man is so handsome! He has eyes like Jesus!", only to have that man turn around and thank her in that language. Please, Earth, open up and swallow me.

3. Those things aren't funny.

Occasionally, you will be lucky enough to overhear and understand something said in another language that will change your life. How good does it feel when you hear your boyfriend's Druze hospital orderly ask "Is that your girlfriend on the phone?" and then catch the Hebrew, "Yes, of course! Most beautiful girl in the universe...."? Or to hear an aunt you've never met whisper in a corner "Oh, that one is ours - she has our eyes."? Or maybe something worse: to understand in Rome what the world really thinks of Americans or how prejudiced this brown person is against that brown person in Marakesh?

I'm very grateful to have learned another language as a child and I fully intend on teaching my own kids the same way. But like any skill, this is also a responsibility. You can start using it appropriately by not screaming in Kosher Delight.

Things I did today

1. Almost died at bikram yoga.
2. Posed as my youngest brother and emailed my (his?) English teacher for a grade change on a paper I (definitely not him) wrote about Chinese agrarian society.
3. Deleted you from my phone.

I'm so sick of playing these games. I don't have the time for you to drive me nuts with what you are and are not saying.

Porny porny porn

Another one from my dearest friend, Material Maidel (remember all our good times together, MM? Picking blueberries, diving at the olde swimmin' hole, watermelon seed-spitting contests?): porn. What if you're seeing a guy who is into porn? Okay, let me make this clear:

Every guy loves porn.

I didn't say every guy looks at porn constantly, I didn't say every guy has a hidden computer folder full of it, but it is the honest truth: Every guy loves porn. Accept it. Now, four years ago I took up with a boy who was smart, funny, cute enough - and hot as hell. I say "cute enough" because he wasn't the kind of showstopper you would turn to look at but that boy was something else behind closed doors, I mean just complete wherethehelldidyoulearnthatandareyouforreal magic. The answer, kids, was porn. And I really didn't begrudge him this - in fact, I watched with him, made it fun, was very open about it, blah blah and I myself learned two very important things about porn:

1. Simply put, every trick I know. And trust me, there are some real doozies. I have a friend who tells me constantly that the man I'm marrying will a) be the luckiest man alive and, b) shocked to shit.
2. Porn gets frighteningly addictive. Admittedly, you're talking to a girl who loves distractions (I once failed a semester of college because of Tetris and billiards), but porn? As the great Kat Williams says "N-gga, I got shit tah do, tah-day!" Once you start watching that, it is very, very hard to stop.

Now, eventually that boy and I got serious - mostly because I don't know how to say "No, thank you" - but the porn kept on going. Even though I stopped watching it with him. Even though we stopped having sex. And then, as a girl, you lose your damn mind because you begin to compare yourself physically to porn stars (Why can't he just like me more than he likes them?") and there is really no way anyone wins that because the girls in question literally blow people for boob jobs and frankly, I'm in the library way too much to make time for that and so, alas, that will remain a pipe dream for me at this point.

Anyway, it's a little unfair to ask a girl "What would you do if your man is into porn?" because all men are into porn. It's slightly more valuable to posit "What would you do if your man refuses to stop watching porn?", but only very slightly because you really have no way to enforce that unless you just freak his whole computer system out with serious spyvision and while you better believe I can recommend you a program, that's really not the most desirable way to go. Maybe the best question you can ask a girl is "Being aware that he wants to watch porn and thinks about sex 9734823048 times a day, what/how is your man doing at keeping that under control?"

And isn't control the first step towards growth, anyway?

It's happening again

If you ask me to make a list of my favorite people in the world, a list of people I love more than anything, there is no doubt my father would be in the top three. First of all, he is the cutest man alive - besides that, he is hysterical and loves me so much there is nothing he wouldn't do for me. When I was away at university, he kept my senior picture underneath the glass of his massive cherry desk at work. I mean, it totally kitsch-ed up the place, but he was legitimately sad I was not there. When I got kicked out of said university (for the, ahem, second time), the note he sent me read "These guys are assholes. Truth be told, I'm glad to have you home for a year." See? He loves me beyond belief and I will tell anyone who listens about how wonderful, how kind and how generous, my father is.

The thing is, I'm fairly certain he has ruined my life.

My dad used to kick the shit out of us. Not a little. A lot. He threw my younger brother through his bedroom window. He broke my arm for leaving a sock on the stairs. He has strangled my younger brother and slammed his head against the ceiling - and my brother was little, tiny like a rag doll against the white of the ceiling and I should have been so fucking angry but I just felt sad for my father and it was because of that my six-year old self decided. I decided it would be me - not my sister or my brother - because they couldn't understand why my father was doing this and they wouldn't know how to forgive him later and so I did it. I covered them with my only-marginally-bigger body, I lied outright to take blame for things I never did, I stayed quiet while he almost killed me over and over again because hearing my scream would have been just as damaging to their psyches as getting hit themselves.

I don't regret that. If anything, I regret that I didn't do enough. And I'd be lying if I said we don't think about it anymore; my house is unbearably open - we talk about this all the time. Always laughing, always nonchalant. But if I look at this more closely, this is no joke. My father is the reason that I know exactly what it feels like when a rape victim explains that their "mind just slid away" - your body has a remarkable way of preserving itself when in excruciating amounts of pain. My father is the reason I am so attuned to people's moods, the reason I tense up when I hear quick steps up a flight of stairs, the reason I apologize constantly, the reason I have no reaction when I catch my fingers in the car door, why I can't remember to be angry, why I forgive so quickly, why I can't hold people accountable for all their destructions, why I make allowances for all of humanity - because I learned far too young why people do what they do. "Good and evil in the same body and each cannot be held accountable for the other"; I wrote that when I was seven.

So where is the line? How does one discern how kind to be, when to blow the whistle? How much is too much? When do you become more important than the other guy? There is something inside me that says "never" - you never stop putting other people first. But what does this make? It's taken me to a university I hated, it's prevented me from declining a marriage proposal, it's trapped me a miserable relationship, it's promised me to a series of gradually less-manageable commitments, it's left me completely inept at validating my emotions or recognizing the extreme gravity of any situation, it's lead me to believe that everything I love will be need to be excused, but perhaps most unfortunately, it's robbed me of the ability to think I might be happy or that I deserve to indulge my own desires.

All these years later, I am finally able to admit there is a point where kindness becomes cruelty. One day, I might actually be able to tell you where that is....

Cold hard cash

I started to write this blog because I really couldn't hold inside how clueless most frummy boys my age happen to be -- and then I realized that, many times, the girls aren't much better. It may surprise you to know that I have a lot of girlfriends. I mean, I have a fair amount of guy friends, too, but I've gotten much better at appreciating female friendships in the last few years. With my friends Rebecca 1-17 and Esther 1-3 and Sarah 1-467, though, I have started to recognize an alarming trend.

I love you, but you are seriously lacking some basic knowledge about the world.

I am not saying this because you are constantly and tentatively asking me about testicles. I am not saying this because you frequently come to me and pseudo-casually inquire about what he actually meant. I am not saying this because you have no idea how men work, in general. I am not saying this because you run your outfit choices by me or ask me what I think about Natalie Portman's haircut or need me to teach you how to find a tailor or a car service or how to clean pearls.

I am saying this because I really think you might end up dead in a Dumpster somewhere.

Lesson #1 for Shidduching/Dating/Breathing Women of Any Age: Please carry cash - purse, pocket, cleavage: pick one and use it. Do not think that just because your date should pay, he will pay. I have a friend who was thisclose to having to wash dishes in her date shoes because her bochur's credit card was declined. And this week, I have another who got stranded across town because her guy was a creeper and she ditched him, only to realize she didn't have any funds to get home. Do you really want to be in this position because you felt it appropriate that the boy be a gentleman and so to that end, you forced him to be one by leaving even your emergency credit card at home?

And while we're here, it's always a smart idea to have a separate bank account - something secret no one knows about, not even your husband - with just enough cash in it to get you out of your house and then float you for 3-6 months. My banker gave me that advice years ago and I only marginally followed it and boy was I sorry when the whole thing went to shit and he had all my money in a joint bank account.

Money is not romantic. Finances are not the first thing one thinks about when there are stars in one's eyes, but they are a huge part of life. In fact, I have nothing but total respect when a boy I'm interested says to me "Lets look at your bills, where are you financially? What will our responsibilities be? How are we going to manage this money?" because it says to me he is mature enough to realize money is a thing, realistic enough to realize that this is going to be a joint situation, and capable enough to find a solution that furthers our life together. And as a girl, you want to be that together, too. From first date to first mutual fund - heads up on the money, ladies. We can talk about what it means when he accidentally sends you a text meant for "Ilanit" later....

Well, it finally happened

It occurs to me that I never wrote about Christmas. Maybe because there is not really too much to say - I thought it would affect me, make me sad, make me wistful. But it didn't. Maybe that's because I play nice at my parents' home - don't make waves, am as accommodating of them as they are of me - but whatever the reason, I didn't have this gigantic "Oh my goodness, I'm Jewish now! What have I done? What will the rest of my life be like?!" moment. Nor did I have it last Christmas, or last Easter and so here I am thinking it's never going to happen, that I will be the one gioret in the entire history of life to not think twice, post-mikvah, about her decision.

And then I went to this wedding.
Meet my cousin P and his new wife V. This picture is meaningful for two different reasons:

1. Why yes, that is money you see littering the floor around them. During the bride and groom's first dance - a meaningful, romantic moment - it is customary that guests shower the happy couple with cash. You know, like topless dancers. Now, at every wedding there is that one old imported uncle who has naturally availed himself of far too much free scotch and is shoving $1 bills down the bride's bodice, but such is the nature of "a good party" according to my father's family. (There is zero touching in my mother's family. Don't attempt it - they are experts in phasing out noncompliant relations.) At any rate, this wedding was fairly tasteful; I still have a faint burn on my left forearm, earned in childhood and resulting from the deadly combination of a carelessly-wielded cigar, a belly dancer, and this first-dance ritual.

2. It was right around this moment that I truly experienced, "Oh my goodness, I'm Jewish now! What have I done? What will the rest of my life be like?!". And let me tell you, it was not pretty. This was the first family wedding I attended as an adult unaccompanied by a long-term significant other; my cousins having all gotten married while I was trying to end an engagement, there remains a five year gap between myself and the next unmarried relative. All of a sudden, I actually realized that I will not have a wedding like my family is used to - I will have a Jewish wedding to a Jewish man and while I will be unbelievably happy about it, in thatprecise moment, I saw my mother's face.

I saw her uncertainty about being accepted by my in-laws; she worries they are going to hate her and take me away from my family. I saw my father's ever-present self-assuredness waver in the face of so much unknown. I saw my brother's loving concern for me and my welcome into another culture. I saw my sister's underlying confusion at the lifestyle I have chosen and then I saw my wedding serving as the catalyst for my youngest brother's own decision-making process. My grandmothers, please God let them make it to see this, but will they finally realize what I've done? I don't want - I won't have - my family marginalized at a time that is supposed to signify the ultimate in unity.

With IDF, this might have been easier: he wanted the singing-in-the-streets-of-Yerushaleim wedding, and truth be told, so do I. My culture has been in that city for thousands of years and my family wouldn't feel so alienated there - they'd have something to hold on to. But a wedding here in the States? I just don't know.

Spotted in good ol' Brooklyn

Special thanks to my favorite Jewish blogger, who snapped this baby in Brooklyn a few weeks back. Can you see it? It says "Chutzpah" - classic.

The first car I ever had had a vanity plate - I'd ask you to guess what it said, but that's probably just asking for trouble - and I love seeing them on the road.

Any of you have a vanity plate? Anyone seen a really good one lately?

The day I found a sheitel in my attic

There are some of you who correspond with me via email (don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to raise your hands) and out of those people, there are a few who have asked exactly how I came to be raised SK/SS/SN without being Jewish. If you are one of those people, skip the rest of this paragraph. If not - hear ye, hear ye: there is some confusion in the background of my mother's family about whether or not she is of Jewish descent. There is an entire chunk of my family clan that is biologically Jewish, but there is no way of absolutely validating if my mother is or not, as that information would be coming from a. family members killed in a massive genocide or, b. documents that were burned in villages that no longer exist. That being said, we kind of had an odd amalgamation of minchagim growing up. Ways we were Jewish: serious emphasis on Tanakh/written Torah study, Shabbat/Kashrut/Negiah (kinda blowing it on the Negiah part now, yeah) observant, skirts for my mother/sister and I during religious functions, ridiculously insular household regarding everything but education. Ways we were not Jewish: we went to church (that's a big one), my father and brother don't do tefillin or kippot, and my mother does not cover her hair consistently/does wear pants.

Which is why it freaking blew my mind to find out this weekend that both my grandmothers covered their hair - in fact, both wear/wore sheitels for tzunit reasons.

Me, pulling boxes out of the attic: "Mom, what is this?"
Mom: "Oh, those are your grandmother's wigs."
Me: "Minnie wore a wig?!"
Mom: "Absolutely! Your father's mother still wears hers!"
Me: (Shocked silence.)
Mom: "The best part was poking nostril holes in my mother's Styrofoam wig heads."

I couldn't believe it, but my paternal grandmother has had the same hairstyle for the last twenty-five years, so I really should have known. Anyway, maybe sheitels aren't so weird, after all....

This just in: I'm a big deal in the blogosphere!

Actually, not at all. Not even a little bit. But Material Maidel did just invite me to join her cooking blog, Kosher Cuisine and I (was it even a question?) accepted. My first post is what I made for dinner tonight, no joke. Check this out, be appropriately impressed, and then get me a shidduch, won't you?

P.S. MM is looking for more contributors, so tell your friends!

I've made a huge mistake

Have you ever seen Arrested Development? I don't watch much television (I was about to tell you what I actually do watch, but I just typed it out and saw in black and white what a monumental dork I am, so I'm just going to save that for myself), but I loved this show. One of the lines that would pop up over and over is that up there: "I've made a huge mistake", said evenly and in a way that you knew it was the character's first time realizing.

Ive made a huge mistake
Uploaded by alexis711

See? It's serious business.

Mistakes are funny things. You make one, hate it, and then immediately make another. And another and another and another and then one more for good measure. And there isn't usually a numerical value involved; rather, it's a value of time that determines when you stop being and idiot and start being a functioning member of society again -- one week from the original mistake, a month, twenty-four hours, four years -- who knows how long? And this whole time you keep on doing something you don't want to do but you just watch your body do it, like some horribly unfortunate film clip, the whole time screaming "Are you kidding me? Don't turn out the lights! He's going to kill you!" or "Please, oh no PLEASE don't take a bite of that - it's poop! He put poop in it!" or most pertinently here, "No, no! Don't make that phone call! No! Don't make it -- you sound like a moron! OH! You did it! Why? Just stop being a girl!" It's like when you're little and your parents catch you telling a lie so you tell another and then a million more and pretty soon you've made - what is in your mind - a stunning argument for it being a ten-tentacled alien from Zargatron who got peanut butter all over the white couch in the drawing room. But I'm not that little anymore yet sometimes it still feels like an imp takes over my body from time to time, just wreaking havoc in it until I regain the right to control my own limbs and my own lips and my own life, at which point I'm forced to pick up the pieces when the objective, normal Me wouldn't have been making these silly amateur mistakes in the first place!

A very funny thing, indeed. Sadly, I'm not really laughing.

Sidenote: In the middle of writing this post, I fell asleep for a second and dreamed Willem Dafoe was trying to fool around with me in a public library filled with DVDs and the only thing that prevented my mother (in hot pink patent pumps, by the way) from spotting us was some quick thinking with my pearl earring. I present this as proof that something has been horribly wrong with me for the last week.

I can't stop! (AKA Last one, I promise....)

Okay. Noooow, I'm done.

P.S. That *hat*! Oh, baby, oh baby!

**Edit at 10:41 PS EST**

I'm currently stepping out in those leopard situations up there -- if you're in Boston tonight, keep your eyes peeled!

One for the girls!

So, confession (since that's what this blog turns out to be half the time, I'm sure you're all shocked): I have been in something of a funk since October.

Evidently, this has escaped no one in my real life.

I saw my grandmother this morning - it is Friday after all, and if you remember this, you'll know this is her day. I only stayed for a moment, as I love her and do not wish to off her with whatever deadly disease I am currently incubating, but it was not before she asked me to "do a three-way" with herself and my father. This, of course, means orchestrating a multi-line phone call, but I won't tell her this because she will occasionally use this phrase with my youngest brother and, frankly, I find his consummate uncomfortableness devastatingly amusing. At any rate, I set up the call, pressed speaker and was treated to a show of classic Grandmere proportions as she (almost imperceptibly, I mean, she really is a professional) berated my father about forcing me into a depression that shows on my face and body. As a man who ultimately loves me more than his own life, he was immediately repentant, my grandmother was immediately generous, the rules were immediately explicit and I immediately bought the following:




And something I'm soooo pumped about:



There's more but those boots are just too hot and they totally undo me so I can't possibly continue. Look, it's almost Shabbat, so I feel like I really need to point this out: this is not about materialism. It's actually about knowing your worth, which is something that has been almost impossible for me to do since this past fall. My grandmother is not a clotheshorse (or clotheswhore, as she absolutely thinks the word is), but she knows the value of projecting an image, something that says "I value myself because I have intrinsic worth, all thanks due to the God who created me." Being depressed, sloppy, lazy, frumpy - one can make the argument that all that can be construed as a chillul Hashem. So if I have to buy one pair of amazing cowboy boots to make Jews look good, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. Okay, so that's only a half-joke, but I'm also trying to be better about wearing skirts in the freezing cold winter, so up-to/over-the-knee boots are just a way for me to attempt to be more tzunius without looking like all the homebrews I went to college (but not their Renaissance Faires) with and hated.

Plus it's freaking cute!

(PS: Most of this stuff is from Anthropologie - on sale (look at me!) - if you've never been, go immediately and hurry because they run out of sizes quickly!)

Help. I'm sick.

I'm sick. Very. Flu. Double ear infection, sinus infection.

I feel like death.

For two straight days, I have been trapped in bed surrounded by tissues, menthol cough drops, prescription meds, NyQuil, Chapstick, numbing throat spray, heating pad, Advil, Zycam, Mucinex -- sorry, was I turning you on?

But I'll confess: the worst part is not how sh*t-tastic I feel. It's all the stupid time I have to think. And when I think, I do not like what I find. So far I have been thisclose to convincing myself of the following actions:

1. Refuse to attend classes this semester.
2. Paper my room with all the pages from my Norton anthologies.
3. Call the the boy I'm head over heels about and tell him to screw himself.
4. Drink the rest of this bottle of NyQuil.
5. Back out of a wedding in which I am the Maid of Honor by admitting to the bride that I think she has entrapped the groom via an intricate web of magnificent lies.
6. Get a tattoo on the inside of my wrist.
7. Hatch a scheme to marry the "proper" kind of boy so I get my currently-withheld inheritance from my maternal grandfather.
8. Finally sob about how acutely painful it was so stand in Aix this summer while my aunt held me at arms length, looked me head-to-toe, and pronounced "Ce mec, il t'a détruit."
9. Fake my own death to start my life over.

The list continues like this for quite a while. And so, before anyone can stop me, I'm getting out of bed and going to the gym to kick something or punch something or run or lift or do the freaking Australian crawl for an hour and a half. Otherwise, things are about to get uuuugggllly.

So what do you do when you are driving yourself crazy? How you do break the mood?

The Other Woman

It's hard enough to make a relationship work with two people.

Two people means ceaselessly working, always trying to reconcile two sets of ideas, values, goals, needs, desires, humours, schedules, feelings, memories, tastes, friends, projects, hobbies, careers, schooling, families, priorities, shortcomings, provisions.

But three people? Three people is impossible.

Here's something not many Jewish women will come out and say: most Jewish men are cheaters. It's sad but true; without exception, there is at least one Woman who will come between Rivky and Dovid. In fact, the past two relationships I've had have fallen apart due to her - and she and I have been friends for years! I always think Well, she is a huge part of my life! This guy totally needs to know about her! I'm going to introduce them! Except it's been turning out that they already know her. In fact, they happen to be even older friends with a deeper, longer history. And look, I'm a fantastic girlfriend -- it's in a million take-me-back-I'm-begging-you-please letters from my ex-fiance -- but there is literally no way I can compete with this one. She is the ultimate, the complete pinnacle.

The only way I can describe it: A few years ago, I was visiting my best friend in L.A., and while we were eating lunch at this ultra-posh place, a gaggle of supermodels fiercely step-walk-strutted past. My fork was suspended eight inches in front of my mouth for about 57 solid seconds, just watching these miracles of engineering disappear around a corner. As soon as they were out of sight, the spell lifted and I immediately launched the traditional self-preservation schtick as practiced by millions of media-familiar women all over the world: I consoled myself by reinforcing the popular perception that these women are completely vapid and devoid of any endearing personality traits. (Men, we really do this. Honestly. It's the only way we resist destroying newsstands or setting fire to CondeNast Publications or committing murder when you stare a little too long at Titty McLonglegs' latest lingerie-hocking billboard in Times Square.) But Ladies, can you imagine what would happen if one of those supermodels happened to be funny and smart, good at cooking, eager to do washing, a freaking Talmudic scholar, praised by your man's mother -- and oh, she loves giving head? Bend over, baby because you are f*cked.

This is my situation - my Other Woman is all these things, possessing a tangible exotic attraction, but is also appealing in a spiritual and emotional way and trust me, after realizing all that, I want to dislike her. I want to tell her to back the f*ck up so I can have that part of my man's attention but ultimately, she and I are friends for a reason. She is so fantastic that even I have to admit it; two halves of the perfect coin coming together in the nicest-looking purse you can imagine and so what can I do? I have no choice but to get out of the way. I mean, I've got skills, but without exception she manages to beguile more than I, enchant more than I, captivate more than I -- and she is good. She is too good because -- and this is my ultimate confession -- even I can't stop thinking about her. I covet time stolen with her and I can't help but think longingly of her, but there are times when I get so frustrated about playing second fiddle

to Israel.

It's a hard knock life for us

Sporadic Intelligence recently wrote this, advocating we all rethink how much we hate pretty people because - goshdarnit - they've got it rough, too. Now, once upon a time, I used to be pretty. Now, at best, I am unbearably cute - such is life. Anyway, I'd like to propose a little modification here based on some personal observations.

A while ago I wrote on how long it takes you to kill a fun flirt relationship - now, its more like every friendship I start ends this way. And it's not really my fault - I think I might give off some serious vibe that's like "Please, be freaky with me". Maybe it's my subconscious remembering what it was like to have the potential for freakiness with every boy I spoke to and then pumping that through every pore in my body but whatever it is, its starting to cause some problems. Problems to the point where I'm sure I'm being punished: I try very hard to maintain propriety and normalcy in my conversations with the opposite sex but nearly every man I come into contact with falls apart within five days. Not to sound like some kind of petulant sex machine, but to be frank, its kinda effing annoying.

#1 It ensures I can not have a friend of the opposite sex, which is regrettable in its reassertion that men and women really never mature past their junior high mentalities, and
#2 It makes me reluctant to actually attempt being sexy, for fear of igniting every male within a 100 meter radius and I occasionally miss that because I happen to be very good at it (Temple Bar, Dublin, July 2008 - ask around. The visiting Welsh contingency was decimated.)

A novel thought: don't pity the pretty, pretties have it easy - it's either people constantly hitting on you (which is usually just a nice ego booster and only bothersome in the most flattering of ways) or people judging you entirely on your face (if this is truly offensive to you, use that brain you keep yapping about about and find a freaking way around it.) Ultimately, though, pretty people are exempt from any kind of actual social responsibility; there is no onus on you, Pretty Person, to choose consciously whether you will be a boon or a block to your fellow Jew.

So what do I do? Not be sexy? I assure you, I'm not trying; this blog contains things I never say in my real life, as it would hardly be appropriate (anal beads, anyone?). In real life, I am very, very appropriate and am always mindful of the personal struggles of others, not to mention frightening aware that anyone can hear any publicly shared story and so I find it hard to believe that my cute-in-a-playground-way face combined with my decidedly G-rated conversation is what's making fistfuls of men take fistfuls of themselves. The point is, I'm starting to get sick of it. I like having friends, and it's not that often you meet anyone that you click very well with - male or female - and so when I'm excited to speak with someone, I do everything I can to preserve the life of that friendship. However, when the someone in question is a man, there is always pushing for another inch, prodding for a weak spot.

I tried once to fix this in a way that was more destructive to myself than it was constructive for the situation: I stopped taking care of myself and started dressing like a farmhand. You know what? All it did was extend my commitment at the local gym and max out my credit card at WhiteHouse/BlackMarket. So what's left? Maim my body permanently? Buzz my hair? Wear a bag over my head? Change my voice? Modify my disposition? Affect a slow wit? Abandon all the knowledge I've spent a lifetime excitedly garnering?

Pity the Pretty? Don't waste your time, let me send you a new button: Sympathize with the Sexy. We are in quite a pickle here.

(What? No, I will not do that with a pickle! What the hell is wrong with you people?!?)

Biiiig Mistake

I couldn't think of a word - you of all people would know exactly how bothersome that is. I couldn't think of a word but I knew the last time I heard it and it was in one of your emails, I was sure. And so I read them all -- it wasn't there, you know. Maybe then in our old IM chain, and so I read those too -- as far back as I could stand, which wasn't very far.

List of things buried much deeper in my memory yesterday:

1. When you told me to respond to any rabbinical inquiries regarding my conversion to Judaism with: "ani rotsa bee-AH she-LO k'dar-KAH" -- and how wide your grin was.
2. How much I cried the first time I found out you showered in the dark, your voice wavering between aloof ("It really is quite serious for me.") and emotional ("fucking Arab animals!").
3. How you looked when you stared right at me and said "It doesn't turn me on, but if you wanted to, I'd do it - because I trust you." Because I knew you and I knew what an extension of your trust was worth.
4. The time you woke up in the hospital and were convinced that Yemeni nurse had shaved your balls and how hysterically confused you were, while trying to conceal how interested you were in ascertaining her assessment.
5. How much you loved my ass, and how verbal you were about it and how fucking pretentious you were to call it "majestically enticing" and how funny you were to make your own emoticon for it and how you'd mock my little voice - ne touche pas ma tush - and that fantastic time I made you cum in a bar with that picture I sent and how Shmuelik had to put you in that cab because he thought you were sick.

But mostly I cried, because of all the sweet things I remembered and how in love we were and how you promised a million things and how I just believed you because I needed to during that time but I really shouldn't have because you were - and are - still such a gaping asshole. Because I also re-experienced:

6. Your penchant for making large-scale, completely unilateral decisions that threw my life into complete turmoil.
7. The way you would push me away before a big mission and the disturbing ease with which you identified the most effective ways to hurt me.
8. How cold you could be when you worked and how the thaw took longer and longer each time.

So, bottom line: still can't think of that word and now the concern that my current relationship hopes are fated for this kind of depressing hindsight evaluation is front and center.

Happy Monday, everyone!

Breaking News V1.1

I originally started to write this blog because I needed a place to spill all my ridiculous Jewish dating stories and unfortunately, my sister could no longer deal with them. As an example, I present this little post-coital exchange between myself and an ex:

Me: "You paid $12.99 for this lube?!"
Him: "What's the big deal? You paid like, $18 for the last kind!"
Me: "But those were on sale for $8.99 with my CVS card!"

Yes simultaneously Jewish and inappropriate. Welcome aboard, okay?

Now, yeah, if you read this blog within the last half hour you'll see that I took a huuuge chunk of this down, mostly because it was far too mushy and frankly, I grossed myself out. But here's the thing: I am currently phenomenally in love with a fantastic person and am kinda psyched about it. Except he also happens to know of this blog's existence and that seriously, seriously limits a) what I can say to him and b) what I can blog about.

Can't win them all, I guess.

Boooo Hisssss

With my eyes still closed, I can remember thinking: this will be a line, a line between my old life and where I am going. Where I end up will be born of this moment, as all my mistakes fall away with these droplets of water.

Don’t hold it against me – it’s easy to wax poetic the first time you rise from a mikvah.

I really wanted to believe that finalizing my Jewish identity would do some magical eradication of all my existent proclivities; I was hoping to the point of delusion that ConversionFest would totally revamp me so I wouldn’t make stupid mistakes anymore. Wouldn’t drink to the point of not knowing how many of what are pulling me out of the bar. Wouldn’t ignore homework assignments to the point of failing entire semesters. Wouldn’t date the wrong boy, no matter how charming. Wouldn’t consider myself above any rule or exempt from any deadline. Wouldn’t self-destruct, in general.

Imagine then the bummer it was to discover that there’s no quick fix to behavior modification. That everyday, I have to make a conscious decision not to screw up. Problem is, I can’t seem to do this. When I have one part of my life down, some other part falls apart – it’s like I can’t coincide the reconciliations of my academic self, my financial self, my emotional self, my spiritual self, my relationship self. For example, I managed to be a perfect adult for two whole years: I was a fantastic employee, I owned a beautiful home, I had a solid retirement fund, and I played wife and mother very convincingly. I mean, I had a freaking filing cabinet and bill calendar for goodness’ sake! Of course, I was doing nothing stimulating academically and oh, I was so miserable I thought about slamming my car into a telephone pole every single time I drove past one. It was very difficult to get out of that situation, but the final extraction happened to coincide with the final stages of my conversion process and so I vowed right then and there that I would never go backwards – this was a line in the sand.

So what to do when I’m there again? Screwing up this part and that part, even as one part shapes up to be something really good and right? Actually, forget that – I know what I do, what I’m really concerned with is what God thinks about all this. I’m afraid he might be a Freud-type, well aware of the disastrous state of my subconscious and therefore thinking I want this disarray. I’m scared he might be a Stringer Bell-type, infinitely patient until a certain yet-undefined point when he will cleanly execute me and hide my still-warm body in a vacant building? Or is he the doting grandfather-type, ultimately removed from the situation yet still sad to see me repeat past foibles but invariably hopeful regarding my eventual triumph?

Secret: My greatest fear is that God regrets my decision to convert to Judaism because there are parts of my life that are not the best they can be.

Not so secret: I can’t think of a worse feeling.

What do you mean, your neighbor doesn't own a grenade-launcher?

I have an aunt - well, really she is a second cousin on my "father's side" (which in this case, is simply a fancy term we are using to categorize the jumbled mess of Mediterranean over-feeders and gregarious partiers who flew to Bergen County in a chartered plane from Beirut fourty years ago) - who some years ago found herself in the unfortunate position of being 30 and unmarried. Now, it's just pure speculation on my part, but I attribute this pickle of a situation to the fact that she was a fun-loving, brash, bottle-blonde who wore only slightly more jewelery on her body than she did in her hot pink acrylic full set. Anyway, clearly the obvious thing to do here is to send this woman back to the Holy Land, because the Jersey shore look somehow translates better there. So off Second Cousin S goes, only to return with a seriously Arabic husband -- much to the chagrin of her mother, who intended her daughter to give her most precious gift (a green card, duh) to a nice Middle Eastern Christian. Nope. What we got was Eddie - short for Akhmed - who has always been a very kind person, very caring father, very doting husband.

Aaaaand then came Gaza.

While it's highly probably that you, dear Reader, are well aware of the war that began two weeks ago, it is markedly less likely that you are aware of the disaster zone my house became: in the same amount of time, we have welcomed and adieued about 100 family members. During a large-scale ground assault (read: dinner party), my brother and I mentioned Gaza while standing aside, in a corner, in passing, to ourselves, unobtrusively.

Aaaaand not quietly enough.

Eddie slaps his palms down onto the table and pushes himself back -- this is a man I have never seen move quickly, save for that one time he was hit on by a man while we were vacationing in the Caribbean -- and literally spits his thick Lebanese accent over all the assembled:
"Gaza? You talk about Gaza?! Let me ask you som-ting -- what is Hamas? What is Hezbollah?! I tell you, I tell you what dey are! Hezbollah, Hamas -- dey are juss people! Dey are juss people, wit guns, defending their country! An' you know what Israel does? I tell you? Dey come into de house and dey kill" -- out shoots a brown hand with five outstretched fingers being ticked off one by one -- "dey kill the muther, dey kill de father, de kill the brudder, dey kill de seester and den dey leaf one! An' so you tell me! You tell me what Hamas is!"

But I didn't because I didn't have to: my Second Cousin S told him immediately to shut up, that she wouldn't have their son learning centuries of retaliations or sweeping generalizations over the good china and so I was left marveling long after he shrank back into the man I thought I understood. Hamas is not the Minuteman Militia of Revolutionary Boston. These are not musket-wielding political idealists. How many rosy thinkers you know who carry AK-47s? If you're not careful, you'll be convinced that Hamas wants reconciliation and coexistence and the same rights as everyone else.

Aaaaand then I sell you this one of a kind photo, this rare find -- look closely, can't you see? Oh, you're gonna love it! It's MLK, Jr. letting loose with a flame thrower at the Lincoln Memorial.

Why did she convert, anyhow?

I remember the first time someone - a regular Schlomo Matzahstein, not some Beit Din biggie - asked me about my conversion. I was attending a lecture at my Hillel when a very friendly face named Jason leaned over the empty seats between us and started to chat me up; since Jewish small-talk becomes frighteningly invasive freakishly quickly, we hit "Why did you convert?" waaaay before I was ready. I mean, I know why I did it: intellectually, things added up and emotionally, it felt like coming home (sidenote: that is officially the douchiest thing I've ever said) but when you supply answers that sparse, people tend to look at you expectantly like you're a Sunday matinée that's been cut short. So I kind of stammered out seventeen answers smushed into about thirty-six seconds, mumbling and biting my lip a lot - I think I said something about YU, my mother's family, WWII. Look, it was a train wreck, okay?

I wish I could tell you I've figured it out since then, that I am now a smooth-talking poster child for gerim everywhere and they come from miles around to listen to me expound, but I'd clearly be lying. I don't know what to tell those people: everything in my life fits with Judaism (the beliefs, the attitude, the values), but how I convey that in a way that maintains my much-loved privacy while satisfying the totally normal curiosities of the Jewish community?

Enter my desk. More specifically, the carefully arranged post-finals crapmound all over my desk. Yesterday, in a long-overdue demolition attempt, I found this little gem scribbled on a gum wrapper:

Every time we sin, we are killing conscience: right becomes wrong, wrong becomes right. Repentance, when desired, cannot be enacted easily because the person is now deaf to God, as he *prefers* sin! ***When we do this - when we choose through the culminations of incremental moral modifications - we put ourselves in God's position and we are not equipped. We cannot make the decision about what is right and wrong for us.

Bam. That's why I signed up to be an Orthodox Jew: we do not decide. God decides and then Jews do and when done correctly, this life is pretty beautiful. So while I can't say that this one fantastic moment of clarity eradicates any other questions I'll ever have about my faith, I can tell you it feels good to check one of those questions off my list.