three months in

i’ve been living in brooklyn for just about three months now. my apartment, while adorable, is still completely unfinished. we have no coffee table, there are 7 cardboard boxes in the living room alone (all mine, all in various states of unpack), much of the furniture/decoration/kitchen utensils belong to my former roommate, who is as anxious to pick them up as i am to spend money on their replacements, and the only thing adorning my walls are remnants of tape and sticky tack from the previous inhabitant.

across the street from my apartment is a restaurant (i’m being generous). it’s poorly lit, with tables, chairs, walls and a counter all made of a sort of murky brown color, which sounds sort of charming and antique-y, but it isn’t. it reminds me of the kind of place you would stop at on a family road trip when you were famished and mom adamantly refused to set foot in another mcdonald’s or friendly’s. you’d walk in, look nervously around at the vaguely dingy decor and wonder if you’d “discovered” a local gem or committed yourself to a few hours of heartburn at best or literally gut-wrenching food poisoning at worse.

i’ve never seen anyone under 50 in this place, and the clientele is largely older men who are slightly overweight and wear t-shirts and/or flannel and baseball caps. the coffee is a little watery, but it is 75 cents a cup, and it’s similarly watery at both the diner and the convenience store, and the diner’s costs $1.25 (calm down, starbucks) and the convenience store is just kind of cruddy and the guy behind the counter doesn’t smile. so the place across the street has become my default. and this morning, i walked in to find my paper cup of coffee (with a napkin placed delicately over its lid) sitting on the counter waiting for me. the thin, brunette behind the counter who looks like a no-nonsense jew who’s been telling too-friendly male customers how it is for the last 20 years, takes my dollar bill and tells me to “have a good day, hon” as she hands me my change.

this feels like a victory. this hardened restaurant owner doesn’t want to chat about the craptastic weather or tell me about how her geriatric dog peed on the floor this morning, but she has willingly accepted me as a part of her morning routine.

growing up i didn’t really give a shit about new york until i went to england with my family in sixth grade and people were impressed that i lived next to new york. granted, these “people” were other sixth graders, but i nonetheless felt like a celebrity and couldn’t help but feel indebted to new york for sharing some of its enigma and popularity with an awkward sixth grader with a bad case of acne.

freshman year of high school, my friend t and i were pretty intent on being rebellious, so we used to sneak into new york on saturdays without telling our parents. we had absolutely no idea what to do in new york, much less where anything was, but we were perfectly content to walk around aimlessly, announcing familiar landmarks we had seen on field trips or on outings with our parents as though we had been there, doing very cool and adult things, countless times before (“oh, this is times square. it’s really touristy.”). we also spent some of this wandering time awkwardly hanging out with someone whom i can only describe as my online boyfriend, who had been kicked out of the boarding school we attended a year before we arrived (we were “introduced” by a mutual friend).

throughout high school, through field trips and family excursions or special occasions with friends, new york became slightly more familiar but no more accessible — it was exciting and dynamic and fun, but it belonged to other people — both the unreachable, aloof new yorkers and my own family and friends who either lived there or spent a great deal of time there.

in college, the city was a 2 hour train ride away, and again reserved for special excursions, in which i continued to feign an intimacy i did not feel (“i LOVE soho”) for the benefit of my friends who grew up in new england, the midwest or california. if i was from new jersey, i had to have something to show for it other than a general disregard for the volume of my voice.

when i moved back to new jersey for a year after college, new york became my dream city/lifestyle. i would spend every weekend i could afford there, lugging my duffel bag between friends’ apartments, fantasizing about the freedom that would come when i finally found a job and an apartment of my own there. the city seemed so full of THINGS — things to do, things to eat, things to buy, things to look at, things to make drunken mistakes with, etc.

it’s exciting to discover that the city seems no less full of possibility now that i’ve been here for three months. in fact, i feel like that time has served to show me exactly how little i know about the city, which i guess is just another way of saying how much there is left to discover. it’s a little daunting, but it’s mostly exciting.

i still spend at least 5 minutes of my 45 minute/3 train daily commute trying to figure out (1) where on the platform i should be standing at each stop and (2) which side of the subway car the door will open on. god help me, i will have this down eventually. i still haven’t explored at least two-thirds of the streets within a square mile of my apartment, still haven’t found my default drunk pizza place or high chinese food place, still have no idea what is going on anywhere below houston street, have no conception of when subways become local/express/make up routes of their own, still get on the wrong subway or walk the wrong direction and feel compelled to look like i’ve forgotten something when i turn around and go the other way just in case anyone cares or is watching.

but my 75 cent coffee was waiting for me this morning, so i still feel pretty good about the whole thing.

that’s what she said: the archives

hall of fame

- are you gonna be too drunk to pull out? (re: parallel parking. courtesy of mp.)

- don’t lick it, just put your finger on it. (re: mixing spoon w/ frosting.)

- it’s under my fat roll. (austin, on where the lighter was.)

- better on a napkin than in your stomach. (re: pizza grease)

- well, it doesn’t feel flimsy in my mouth (re: my retainer)

- just pull it out and go lower this time (kabay, re: fitting a bicycle into the backseat of the family car)

- afterwards i was just depressed and tired. (re: the movie religulous)

- just pull it out, lift it up in the back, and slide it in again. (dad, re: the pain-in-the-ass lower drawer of the dish washer)

- it felt long. (MC, re: kelly’s story, after two sentences)

- i am holding a lot of meat in my hands. (gillian, re: her lunch)

- those extra three inches really make a difference, huh? (dad, re: whether or not the window blinds insulate when pulled most of the way down)

it’s not what you say, it’s how you shave

a few weekends ago, while i got ready for being a plus-one at the wedding of a complete stranger, i realized that the relative importance of any given event can more or less be measured by a woman’s approach to shaving her legs in preparation for it.

(1) “i don’t give a shit about this.” examples: religious services, the gym, winter.

consequent leg shave: nonexistent.

(2) “eh.” examples: date with someone you’ve already slept with, first date with someone you are just humoring, plus-one at a wedding, work.

consequent leg shave: lazy once-over with ancient razor. no shaving cream.

(3) “this is sort of important.” example: graduation, job interview, first date with someone you are not just humoring, member of the wedding party, slutty halloween.

consequent leg shave: shaving cream + week-old blade

(4) “tonight potentially determines the next week/month/year/decade.” examples: new years eve, date before you sleep with someone for the first time (yes, the decision has likely been made pre-emptively, pending your not screwing it up), the first beach day of summer, the night following an expensive hair cut/blow out, a new skirt/dress.

consequent leg shave: exfoliating + shaving cream + brand new razor + serious moisturizer

obviously everyone is different. and while my priorities may seem warped, i stand by my assertion they apply to most of us, sans a few (or more?) vassar [-minded] women.

some big events transcend leg shaving. like childbirth. or moving to your first apartment! or your first real job! in less than a month, i will be moving into a cozy little apartment in park slope with katie, my housemate from college, and in january i’ll be starting work at a PR firm in manhattan (to those wondering, i will probably shave my legs before the first day of work). exciting, quirky, new york-based yammering to follow.

as of november 3, 2009…

i’m under:

NEW YOOOOOORK: i’m pretty sure i was under new york a while ago. actually, i just looked back, and i waxed romantic about it in this very blog approximately one year ago. i think part of what i loved about new york last year was just that it meant getting away from home and being in a place where i felt my age. recently, i’ve gotten myself into a psychologically delightful catch-22 in which i hate being home on the weekends because it’s boring (and, frankly, involves too much conversation with my parents) but i also hate visiting people on the weekends because it’s exhausting and i get sick of being a guest all the time. but the last few times i’ve spent a weekend elsewhere — DC, boston — i’ve been struck by how much more exciting new york feels. so much so that the prospect of living in any other city (at least at this point in time) is completely unappealing, if not depressing. if i were anywhere else, i’d feel like i were missing out. also, this may entirely be hova’s fault, because “empire state of mind” IS MY JAM.

bacon: what was i thinking all these years of ordering sausage, egg and cheese? BACON IS SO MUCH BETTER. and, actually, it’s better FOR you. maybe i should say less unhealthy. in any event, the guy who works the grill at my work cafeteria (tony) — makes the most incredible bacon, egg white and cheese on a kaiser roll i’ve ever had. i know what you’re thinking — “why bother getting egg whites? that’s like getting a diet coke with your big mac and fries. you might as well go all the way.” that is terrible reasoning and i dislike it. imagine using that reasoning with other things, like STDs. okay, extreme example, but my point is — i’m saving calories AND indulging. it’s an excellent compromise. on a different but related note — turkey bacon is terrible. however — turkey sausage is an excellent substitute for regular sausage.

my blackberry!: i feel like one of those people who chain smokes on the weekends, then starts having a few during the week, then says (and believes, completely): “i mean, i know myself, and i could definitely quit whenever i want.” mmhmm. i am addicted to my blackberry. it takes pictures, it gets email instantaneously, it has facebook and twitter (because, really, i need to CONSTANTLY have the means to update friends/strangers/acquaintances about my mundane thoughts and activities) AAANNNNDDD it has BBM-ing which for some reason really is easier and more convenient than texting. and more fun. also, because my bberry is the new tour, it is beautiful.

fall: has fall always been this great? it’s beautiful, comfortable and smells great. what’s that saying? like attracts like? anyway, everything about this fall is amazing. the bright colors, the mild temperatures (the best days peak at a delightful high-60 or low-70 and then slip into a low-50, high-40 at night for perfect sleeping weather), the cool, woody smell. fall actually makes me nostalgic for vassar — senior year, i had to drive back and forth a fair amount in the fall since i had braces and had to go to the orthodontist what felt like constantly, and there is nothing like the hudson river valley in the fall. and nothing like braces your senior year of college.

i’m over:

facebook notifications: i don’t give a shit if raquel michelle o’connell also commented on your status. unless she is responding directly to what i said, or is saying something unrelated but extremely entertaining, i don’t want to know about it. i compulsively “like” statuses and then my blackberry beeps with a facebook notification and i get so excited (hilarious wall post? message? attractive tagged photo?) and then it’s some rando saying “lol” or “good luck” to SOMEONE ELSE. uuuggghhhh. seriously facebook, if you know enough to post creepily relevant ads on my facebook page, please figure your shit out and only notify me about shit i care about.

people who get other people sick. i dislike it when people go to work when they are sick. i realize, however, that there are many compelling reasons people go to work when sick –you are a trooper, you have deadlines, you literally cannot afford to miss a shift, your manager would be upset, etc. none of this means you are not a germ vehicle, and the germ equivalent of air force one if you are in the service industry.

example one: two weeks ago, i was in line at starbucks and one barista shouts to the cashier: “hey! how are you feeling?” and the cashier kind of sways lethargically and says “better… i got a blood test today for swine flu and mono.” ummmm…. WHAT? the next thing she says: “can i help who’s next in line?” that would be me. we had to exchange money. thank god i carry around a travel-sized thing of purell.

example two: cashier at blockbuster wipes her nose, sniffles and says to her manager: “can i go get cough drops after i ring her up?” while she reaches her hand out for my credit card. eeuuuuggghhhhhhhhh.

boy scouts selling popcorn: this is two-fold. one: the boy scouts don’t allow gays or atheists to join, so f that noise. two: popcorn? okay, girl scout cookies are horrifically overpriced, the boxes seem to get smaller every year, and their uniforms are heinous. however, the cookies are delicious. POPCORN? like, if i wanted to get popcorn, i could go to the grocery store. but, i don’t want to get popcorn, because i don’t really like popcorn that much. i mean, give me a small popcorn at the movies and i will eat it in its entirety and then help you finish yours, but i never buy popcorn at the store, because let’s face it, there are better things to put in your mouth. like girl scout cookies.

my feminist hurts

so last weekend was like exercise for my feminist. if my feminist were a person, he (HA, joking, obviously a she) would be kind of like me — she would have exercised regularly all throughout college (and before that), and then she would have been pretty lethargic for a while. but she still believes in exercise and healthy eating. but when she tries to go to the gym and run 5 miles, she doesn’t feel so hot. okay, my point is two-fold: (1) i failed at being a feminist this weekend and (2) i no longer go to the gym with any regularity and feel guilty as hell about it.

i’m a great feminist — in theory. in practice, sadly, i take the less confrontational route: feel awkward, laugh uncomfortably, articulate my feelings 3-5 minutes later. usually then it takes another few minutes to think of something really nasty and/or witty and/or some type of character assassination, and by then the moment has passed. i’m sure my feeling awkward where indignant is supposed to be has something to do with centuries of being subjugated by the [white] [straight] man, but i digress.

this weekend my feminist, after reading and thinking a lot about marathons, decided to run one, and almost died a few miles in. sad. first of all, i attended a networking mixer in the city that involved a number of people receiving goofy prizes. my “prize” was a special ops police hat, probably because everyone knows how baller i am. anyway, in the spirit of the evening and at the urging of some friends also attending, i donned the cap for the rest of the festivities. mistake #1.

at this event, in a separate part of the bar (which was upstairs in a hotel), i was stopped by a 40-something stranger, not affiliated with the mixer.

40 something: can i say hi?

drunk me: okay.

40 something: hi.

drunk me: hi.

40 something: you’re beautiful.

drunk me: thanks.

40 something: what brings you here?

me: i’m at a party.

40 something: could i interest you in a late night drink?

me: maybe. [note: i'm not entirely sure why i said this. i knew there was no way i was going to "have a late night drink" with this aging doof, but i said maybe anyway, i think because (1) i am bad at saying no and (2) i wanted to see where this was going. and good thing.]

40 something: maybe this will entice you. i have a suite on the 26th floor, with a hot tub overlooking the city.

me: that does sound enticing. [it did. i mean, not with HIM, but it sounded pretty baller.]

40 something: can i give you my card?

me: okay.

he proceeds to hand me a card that has the following written on it:

JACK

[phone number]

LITERALLY. that was it. his first name, and a phone number. no last name, no profession, no goofy graphic, no “cell” designation, NOTHING. sorry jack, you are old as hell and i have watched waaaaaaayyy too many episodes of SVU.

anyway, that is not entirely relevant to the hit my feminism took, it was just amusing. note to male readers: don’t do that. ever. unless you do it ironically, in which case, come sit by me. not like THAT, you sexist, presumptuous fuck.

next up: festivities, in my special ops cap. note: the vast majority of the people at this party are considerably older than i am, and it is the type of gathering in which all attendees could potentially be future colleagues/managers. so the name of the game: be cool. this seems to be working until 20-something tells me i look like a stripper. general consensus among other men within earshot.  i immediately take off my hat, 20-something gives me the ol’ “it was a joke/just giving you a hard time/you look good/don’t be a baby/wear the hat or you will be a poor sport.” so i oblige and replace the hat, at which point 20-something (who is a friend, but not THAT good a friend) says it’s not just the hat, it’s also that my shirt isn’t exactly covering me up. or something to that effect. my mouth drops open. i laugh uncomfortably/want to die a little. let me state for the record that while my [wide strapped] tank top showed some minimal cleavage, i was wearing a SCARF over it. like, my breasts were covered — completely. anyway, i laugh uncomfortably, stare at him, don’t know what to say because other partygoers are standing around not saying much. except, of course, for married 30-something, who folds up a dollar bill and puts it in his mouth and leers at me. now, if i were a really good feminist, i would have slapped somebody, or screamed at somebody, or said something really low and threatening-like, but apparently right now “poor, deferential, entry-level job seeker” outweighs my principles. damn. didn’t take long.

anyway, i spent the next 40 minutes on a couch next to a girl who wasn’t drinking, so i felt a little better after a wholesome conversation that in no way involved my breasts/an entertainment profession that fosters the systematic subjugation of the female sex.

unfortunately i also spent the aforementioned 40 minutes trying to drink myself comfortable. generally, drinking heavily leads to one of three things for me: unbridled happiness/energy/desire to dance, angry outbursts, or whining. fortunately, the vast majority of my drunken escapades are around the former, but either of the latter two would probably have served me better this particular evening. in any event, i was in a very charitable mood after a blueberry martini or two, so when 3 20-somethings and the dollar-bill 30-something cornered me and asked if i was dating anyone, i was all too happy to take the opportunity to talk about myself. i explained that i didn’t have a boyfriend, had recently been dating someone but wasn’t anymore, etc. etc. then 30-something asked what i looked for in a guy. [note: in retrospect, i am totally creeped out by this. in the moment, this seemed like a completely reasonable entry into conversation]. so i said that i wanted to date someone who is smarter than i am but thinks i am smarter than he is, and the same with funny and attractive. that’s basically just a slightly more original way of saying i just want to feel like i lucked out and i want him to feel the same way, which i imagine is a pretty universal dating desire. they nodded when i said that and, annoyingly, looked surprised to hear something they agreed with but hadn’t thought of come out of my mouth. one said: “that’s reasonable.” but they took issue when i got to “and same with funny.” one said: “well, you’ll have a hard time with that.” anyway, no need to recount the entirety of that conversation, but here are some choice sound bites: “name one funny woman”; “ellen degeneres”;”i wouldn’t exactly call her a woman” (yes. really.) and “tina fey” (they grudgingly agreed), at which point i told them i was hilarious and that they had no idea because at this sort of function i could only “play my z game.” zing!

later that weekend, in a bar in boston, a friend and i had an unfortunately lengthy encounter with two “basketball coaches.” that’s in quotes because they were in their early twenties, white, and about as athletic-looking as richard nixon (read: not at all). also, one was definitely jewish, and everyone knows jews don’t play basketball, except at vassar. anyway, the beginning of the evening is kind of hazy, but one of the guys felt it was well within his flirting rights to use phrases like: “3 viagra” in conjunction with “the best 64 seconds of your life” and gesticulations in our general direction. okay, the 64 seconds was funny, but only because my roommate in college used to say: “i got your four inches of heaven right here… okay 3.5… it’ll be the best 30 seconds of your life” is this hoarse, geriatric, new york jew kind of voice. anyway, coach douchebag then decided to inform us about a “board” he and his colleague have, in which they rank the women with whom they’ve fooled around. we were cordially invited to submit our names to the competition. lovely. again, a swift kick in the pants would have clearly been the appropriate course of action here, but inevitably it elicited awkward laughter and some open-mouthed stares on my part. followed by a slightly more sober (but not quite there yet) indignation a few hours later. which was, of course, a few hours too late. wah wah.

after some relaxation and reflection this weekend, i’ve come up with a plan of action going forward: (1) don’t get drunk. constant vigilance. self-righteous lectures. pre-emptive strikes. or: (2) get drunk sometimes. verbally assault any male who smiles at me, save waitstaff and cabdrivers. done and done.

yam kipper

in high school a friend told me a story about his generally pacifistic brother getting into a fight on yom kippur because some rednecks at the gas station were discussing “yam kipper” as the day when jews ask for forgiveness for their sins so they can “go back to fucking us over the other 364 days of the year.” understandably, this kid got pretty offended, tried to calmly, verbally defend himself, failed  resorted instead to physical/verbal aggression, which included some saliva in one red neck’s face and a right cross in the other’s, as well as the phrase “fucking redneck hick” a few times. what makes this story even greater is that a cop ended up having seen the entire thing, and let’s face it, even the nicest cop wouldn’t have much sympathy for a kid who basically assaulted two strangers because they said something shitty about jews, having no idea they were being overheard by a jew. but this wasn’t just a nice cop, it was a JEWISH cop (!!!!!) and the kid basically got a pat on the back for the entire incident. hollllaaaa.

yom kippur, the holiest day on the jewish calendar, makes me pretty uncomfortable. and not just from the hunger pangs, which of course i complain bitterly about. i’ve started going with my mom to services, because i know she likes the company, and i also take comfort the idea of spending a day doing inventory on my life — really reflecting on the good and bad things that i’ve done (or have happened) in the past year, and how i can (or if i even want to) change going forward. and, further, i really like our rabbi — he is smart, empathetic, has a good sense of humor and is a great storyteller, so i genuinely enjoy listening to him speak.

but the service itself is a strange experience. first of all, i have no idea what to SAY on the holiday. and jews are always saying things. my jewish dictionary consists of: “1, 2, 3″, god, peace, hello, goodbye, congratulations, to life, etc. given that “shalom” covers almost half of those words, my dictionary leaves something to be desired. also, most of my NOT jewish friends know all of that. anyway, after the awkward greeting of other congregants arriving at the same time (i.e., they say something in hebrew, i smile and say “hi!”), there are a lot of prayers i probably learned at one point but don’t remember (and certainly can’t read), so i usually read the english translation on the opposite page while everyone else is singing. and it’s all very god-y and prostrate-y and i feel like a phony just being there, because at least at this point in my life, that doesn’t resonate with me at all. then there is this section where we read poems/passages about the holocaust, and i feel like reading about the holocaust in a synogauge full of jews should be comforting, a sort of communal acknowledgement of an atrocity that is significant to each one of us in our daily lives. but instead it just makes me uncomfortable — some of them go beyond a shared sorrow to a call for what seems to me to be an almost aggressive exclusion. they suggest the holocaust is only the most horrific event in an endless persecution, that all began when we were forced out of the promise land. and i can’t help but think — well day-yum, if that never happened, my great grandparents would never have immigrated to the US from russia, my grandparents never would have met, never would have had a daughter who went to north carolina for grad school and eventually married a lapsed WASP… and then… there would be no me? totally ridiculous on the one hand, but on the other… some jews clearly would prefer that i not exist. damn.

another thing that makes services hard for me to take are the people who attend. okay, so i only believe in god when shit’s going south, and i wouldn’t dream of going to services on a regular basis or keeping kosher, and during the yom kippur service i mostly think about how badly i want to go home and break the fast approximately 5 hours early, but at least i spend SOME time suffering an existential crisis and making a conscious effort to think about mistakes i’ve made in the past year. there are plenty of people at my synagogue who are very observant, very dedicated jews, and i truly respect that. but then there are the people (and, let’s face it, mostly women) who solely come to services so they can sit in the back and chatter. and for some unfathomable reason, they think it is okay to let their middle school/early high school daughters wear a backless american apparel leotard paired with a mini skirt and/or a short black cocktail dress with zebra print stilettos. granted, when i was 15 i got in a huge fight with my mom and insisted only thing keeping my fragile self-esteem afloat was a black string bikini (note: probably true) and she relented, but i didn’t fucking wear it to synagogue. FURTHER, this family behind me brought their kids in costume. literally. one of their kids was wearing a raccoon costume, complete with ears, tail and a small hole for the kid’s face. okay, i know little kids are demanding and decide they want to wear something and throw tantrums and all that, but a RACCOON COSTUME? admittedly, when i first spotted this i laughed as hysterically as one can in a crowded synagogue on yom kippur and grinned at the mom in what i intended to be an “oh, KIDS” shared moment. then my mom tells me that the kids often come to services in costume, and i glimpse the mom smiling at another amused congregant in what was clearly an “oh god i know, my kids are SO adorable and funny!” sentiment and i decided i was over it. the least you can do if you’re going to use your kids to perform at synagogue is pretend to feel sheepish about it. i hate performers who can’t even act like they’re not performers.

there are few things i find more frustrating than people who seem to get self-righteous and indignant just for the sake of getting all worked up about something. that’s something that i resented about vassar while i was there — that there was always someone getting hysterical about something, even if they had no idea what they were talking about. to be fair, for the most part said outrage seemed to be based relatively firmly in knowledge (or at least conviction), but it still got tiresome as hell. now, of course, when someone at work talks about how her husband refuses to change diapers, i look around (in vain) for a vassar student to gape at in shared outrage/horror. but anyway, this is all beside the point. the point is, i hate when people look for shit to get upset about. which is why i feel somewhat guilty/defensive about having issues with inglourious basterds – i would totally roll my eyes at if some other non-believing half-jew waxed philosophical on the effect of a movie like inglourious basterds on the general perception of the holocaust. but here i am, looking back on the movie with some admiration, a certain amount of amusement directed in the general direction of tarantino devotees and some resentment. my main problem is this: why is the jewish heroine blonde?

okay that’s not my main concern, but it is a valid concern. clearly MY natural blonde locks come from my WASP side. i saw a lot of blonde in the synagogue yesterday, and i damn well know 90% of it costs about $100/month to maintain. how do i know this? irrelevant. no, my main concern with the movie was this: it would’ve been AWESOME if that had happened, if hitler had died by the hands of a jew, if nazi soldiers had been captured by a band of vengeful jews and either tortured or forced to live out their lives with the mark of their own inhumanity on their foreheads forever, etc. etc. but it didn’t happen like that — what actually happened was the complete and utter opposite. and obviously that is what the movie is — two hours of tarantino’s quirky “wouldn’t it be cool if….?” — and his execution of that fantasy was pretty damn entertaining. but what pisses me off is that some kids are going to spend more time watching this movie than they will learning/thinking meaningfully about the real history of the holocaust and WWII and will subsequently allow it to become something that “wasn’t really that bad.” and my feeling is, the last thing we need is to know and think LESS about the atrocities people are capable of perpetrating under the influence of certain people or circumstances. and i’m no exception, i know way less about ethnic cleansings happening right now than i should — and it’s a terrifying prospect that kids might grow up knowing significantly less.

anyway, my point is, religion (my religion) makes me uncomfortable sometimes.

so do: people who weave when they walk, wet tissues, showers with more than one person, lengthy eye contact, leftover chicken, the jonas brothers.

will i ever find peace?! no, but i’m a jew. we’re used to this.

well hey there, stranger.

a few weeks ago i was talking to a friend who complained that a guy she’s been on a few dates with isn’t initiating subsequent dates or calling or texting, but always seems really happy to hear from her and enjoys himself when they hang out. so we talked about what she could say to him to let him know that she had taken note of the communicative lapse, but do so in a way that didn’t sound whiny or angry or passive-aggressive or whatever. “hey there, stranger” seems to me the perfect solution. translation: “we haven’t talked in a while. you may commence trying to figure out whether i am irritated, happy to hear from you, or some complicated combination thereof.” (fyi — it’s the latter. duh.)

i’ve taken a lengthy hiatus and have gained no clarity whatsoever into why i stopped and what i want this blog to be about going forward. but in the absence of conviction i will continue to write about whatever i feel like at the moment, given that if i want to be a writer i may want to do some writing occasionally, even if it is about me/not that good.

ehh okay kind of a lie. i stopped writing because everything i write is inevitably a product of my current situation and nothing quite depresses me like musing over my current situation.

the cubes and offices at work are largely out in the open. if i am sitting down at my desk, i can’t see over my cube wall, but i can hear everything going on around me, and as soon as i stand up i can see anyone who happens to be walking by. even many of the “offices” (large rooms for more senior employees) do not have walls that reach the ceiling — supposedly it’s supposed to create a more communal feel, but it actually creates an eavesdropping feel (which is fiiiiiiiine with me, given my interest in listening to other people/other people listening to me). anyway, despite the ubiquity of people/background noise, i’ve been known to jump halfway out of my seat and gasp loudly when someone comes up behind me while i’m at my desk and says something to me at a completely normal volume. it’s like i am constantly primed to take immediate action — my therapist would say it’s a symptom of generalized anxiety disorder — an overactive “fight or flight” response to any unexpected stimulus.

she’s probably right. but i think it also has something to do with way my bedroom looks.

(1) there is a box next to my bookcase which has various memorabilia (postcards, posters, birthday cards, pictures) i hung on my wall every year in college. it has been sitting there since i graduated sixteen months ago.

(2) my desk is covered in crap — pictures, bills, pay stubs, insurance forms that should be filed away somewhere, loose change, a straw hat i can’t seem to find an appropriate place for, a hanger, a box of checkbooks, user guides for various electronic equipment, a few notebooks dating back to high school, etc.

(3) my bureau is similarly covered in crap, though i made an effort to move most of the receipts, bills, and birthday cards on it to my desk, so now it is home primarily to an excessive number of skin care products, old soaps i brought home from hotels, jewelry boxes filled with things i know longer wear, loose jewelry i actually wear, old hats and purses i should probably give to goodwill but worry they will go back in style and then i will hate myself for lacking fashion foresight, etc.

the ridiculous thing is this: i am a really organized person. i won’t pretend that i’m neat, because i’m too lazy to put everything in its place all the time, but i’m clean and organized. once every week or two during college i would abandon my work for the evening and clean my room instead (productive procrastination). and when i cleaned it, giiiiiirl, i CLEANED it. i was all about the multi-front attack: clorox wipes on all viable (and some not so viable) surfaces + vacuuming + laundering of sheets & clothes, etc. when i was done i would lie on my (freshly made) bed and admire my work, thinking about how much easier it is to work in a clean room (that i spent more time thinking about this than actually working is something else entirely).

when i was in elementary school, i was incredibly anal-retentive about my bedroom. i could not go to sleep unless everything was in its rightful place. nothing on the floor, nothing strewn across my desk, no uneven books on my bookcase. if by some crazy twist of fate i had been unable to make my bed that morning, i would make it immediately before bed, because i didn’t like the feeling of sleeping in sheets that were not tightly tucked around me. kind of creepy in retrospect, but what can i say, clearly the control freak seed was sewn early. in any event, i grew out of this eventually (i suspect out of a conscious choice) and stopped making my bed, threw my clothes around a bit, etc.

even after i became “normal” messy, i was forced to tidy my room once a week. every monday night for as long as i can remember has been “cleaning lady night” in my house. every tuesday morning a polish woman is dropped off by “les,” a middle aged, cheerful polish man who drives a crappy old ford station wagon and who my parents (ahem) pay in cash. we’ve had a few cleaning ladies over the years, but the current one, “deborah,” has been with us for a few years now. her job, per my mother, is strictly to clean — she does not tidy our rooms in preparation for the actual cleaning (vacuuming, dusting, etc.), nor is she to make our beds or do our laundry. so every monday night my brothers and i were reminded to clean our rooms for the cleaning lady. as long as i can remember, this was a task i undertook dutifully (albeit with a certain amount of frustration).

deborah comes every tuesday just like always, and i imagine dust and probably some other things i don’t want to think about have accumulated in the clutter atop my desk and bureau. but i literally can’t bring myself to sit down and clean it up once and for all. and i can’t bring myself to put the box of room decorations in the basement with the rest of my college stuff waiting to move with me when i leave home, or in the attic with my books and notebooks from high school and college. if i’m being totally honest, i probably don’t want half the shit in that box — it certainly doesn’t fit into the gorgeous bedroom i’ve designed in my head (nyc real estate constraints be damned).

the box and clutter remain — much to the utter dismay of my mother, who has resigned herself to no longer setting foot in my bedroom because it agitates her so much. putting the box away, cleaning up the mess, sorting through the boxes of linen/household goods sitting in the garage all feels like a resignation — an admittance that i am really living at home over a year post-graduation, that this really is my life. it’s completely ludicrous — in my better moments i know i am unbelievably lucky to have what i have — understanding parents, a free home, a paycheck from a resume-worthy company, health, and years ahead in which anything can happen.

but the truth is this: i mostly just say that shit about being lucky for other people’s benefit, since nobody really wants to come to the pity party of someone who is employed, has no debt, some savings and stress-induced tummy aches. i don’t even want to go to that lame ass pity party. when i REALLY think about it, when i know or read about someone who was dealt a shit hand, i actually am grateful. but those moments are few and far between — mostly i just feel sorry as hell for myself and want to trade sleeping in my childhood bedroom for something exciting and scary, but ultimately something that makes me feel 23 and not some weird combination of 16 and 35 (i vacillate between picking inane fights with my parents and genuine concern re: my biological clock).

the good news is,  i have been completely cured of any boarding school nostalgia and/or propensity for homesickness for the dirty. it’s not you, jerz… it’s me. and you, a little.

condoms!!!

it was a normal monday night. i was talking to caitlin online, watching the hills, window-shopping online, thinking about how people should wait to have sex until after marriage, and then this commercial shattered my world view:

SERIOUSLY? i remember the days when in order to see sex on tv i had to sneak downstairs on thursday nights and watch real sex on hbo, which was a little too real and not enough sex. 

anyway, i was inspired. to do some research. online.

there’s this dave chapelle sketch where the internet is a mall. all dave really wants to do is log on and check the score of the game, but in order to reach the site where the score is, he ends up first visiting all these other sites. in the mall, the equivalent is trying to get to a store at one end of the mall and being roped into visiting a bunch of other ones first. so in the internet mall, dave passes by a nameless bodega, whose sketchy proprietor (hat pulled down over his eyes) sidles up to dave, puts his arm around his shoulders and whispers, “yo, dude, want to increase the size of your penis?” moments later, once dave leaves the bodega, ron jeremy appears out of nowhere and propositions him with an invitation to watch lesbian twins doing whatever it is lesbian twins do (i hope it makes enough money to pay for therapy for, like, ever). next is a music “store” which offers free music — people pour out of the store clutching plain brown paper bags full of unmarked CDs. wah wah. 

anyway, back to my condom investigation. i often go online to read reviews of things — restaurants, clothing, beauty products, nightclubs, etc. and while i consider myself a fairly opinionated person, i’ve never actually written a review. i seriously thought about writing an unfavorable review of a hostel i stayed at in nice, france, but i don’t think i ever actually got around to it. i’m pretty sure that should i ever be motivated to write a review, it would only be because i was thoroughly infuriated by whatever i was reviewing. so anyway, i’m intrigued by people who log on and write favorable (or unfavorable) reviews of things. what kind of people are they? 

borrowing dave’s (we’re totes on a first name basis) analogy, i think online reviewers are those same outspoken strangers who spontaneously strike up candid (and usually fun) conversations in public places (check out line, drug store aisle, elevator, ladies’ room, etc.). like the middle-aged woman in dressing room of white house/black market who, upon over-hearing my tearful argument (via phone) with my mother regarding a high school graduation dress my mother said she knew would be inappropriately tight as soon as i had described it as “sort of” tight, said: “honey, just tell her you’re gonna have sex no matter what you wear.” 

anyway, that’s what i thought about while reading the reviews of SKYN condoms, which are evidently latex-free, although i did not catch that the first (or second?) time through the commercial. there’s nothing like condoms that makes people want share. no really, tell me about it. 

over an hour!: “This one is actually BETTER than latex! So thin and elastic that it feels like nothing is there at all and stays put for the duration (stayed for over an hour!). Completely flavorless as well! “

but that’s really a slow week for us: ”these are amazing. it feels like my fiancee is wearing nothing at all, and he says he cant feel it either. we have used these 1-2x a day for the past week and they have never broken.”

because an 85% success rate is much less scary than a 98.9%: “I had been using birth control for sometime and after having a couple of scares went to using spermicide as well still had a scare. Found these and decided to try them. They are wonderful. Almost feels like he is not wearing anything at all. Loving the feeling of it.”

but really, only if you like slyding: “For all thoes who like the slyding feeling and smooth feeling to put on you will love this condom the only con is that there is no ripples in it”

presumably, light penetration is also safe: “When I tried these condoms for the first time, it was like wearing nothing. The condom did not brake under heavy penetration and was lubricated just right. Im never switching to any other condom. It is truly the closest thing to wearing nothing!”

still, it IS a condom: “These are the only condoms we’ll use anymore. We’ve had other condoms break, but never these, and my boyfriend says they feel much better than latex condoms. Still not as good as bare backing, but if we put some lube inside they are pretty great!”

walls, huh? ”My boyfriend said these were actually better than the lifestyles ultra thin grey box. He says he can actually feel the walls of inside of me more.”

sensitive, large, exclusive… don’t threaten me with a good time. “Absolutely love this condom!!! I’m hooked. Very sensitive. Does fit larger men as well. I am exclusive to this product now.”

inner ridges and such: “I’m thinking the people giving bad reviews were under the influence of some sort. THESE WERE AMAZING. boyfriend bought these and I refuse to use anything else, except ultra thin in a pinch. these generate heat INCREDIBLY and I couldn’t tell he wore one. He said he could feel inner ridges and such inside of me more.”

there are no words: “THEY’RE GREAT! I’ve had a vasectomy so my wife and I definitely don’t need birth control but we use condoms regularly to eliminate the “drips” and also because wearing it is a bit of a turn on for both us. The Lifestyles Skins really feel closest to nothing at all. Transmit body heat better than latex and don’t dry out and require extra lube like latex. A definite winner and my permanent “go to” condom.”

just for the sake of full disclosure i should note that not ALL the reviews were positive, just the funny ones. 

in like a lion, out like a lamb

that is one of the [few] things i retained from third grade: the saying that march goes in like a lion and out like a lamb. i think it has something to do with the weather, in which case mrs. rooney knew her stuff, because it is FINALLY starting to feel vaguely like spring, and judging from my last post, it was definitely still winter on march 4th. one of the benefits of spring approaching is thunderstorms… we had a surprise one a few days ago, which was prefaced by some neato clouds:

i haven’t been doing anything interesting enough to justify not writing in my blog for almost a month, but these things, and by these things i mean my laziness, happen.

march was actually a pretty good month. i spent four days and five nights in san diego with caitlin and austin and it was just as much fun as i envisioned it being pre-trip in the miserableness that is winter in the northeast. i am straight up in love with the west coast. i don’t know when this happened — but the combination of more or less constant sunshine, palm trees, the ocean and cheap mexican food makes me unspeakably happy. i should note the conspicuous lack of drug-related murders makes california much more enticing than mexico, which also fits the previous description. anyway, i’ve pretty much decided i want to live there (the LA area specifically, though i wouldn’t be opposed to san francisco OR san diego, for that matter) at some point in life. while in san diego we went to the beach, visited the zoo, lay out by the pool, did some shopping, went out every night, hung out with austin’s friends, saw a few of my friends, and also sat around in front of the tv and ate just like we did back in the day when we were in college, and it was baller.

i got back from san diego on st. patrick’s day and rode the train home from the airport (without my ipod, which i’m assuming has now permanently immigrated to san francisco, where my layover was) with a bunch of blitzed NJ devils fans. i knew people were playing hockey again, but i had no idea enough people to fill an entire NJ transit train were still watching it. at one point, the conductor came over the loudspeaker and said: “now, i know that it’s st. patrick’s day and that y’all are havin’ a good time, but please keep the curse words and foul language to a minimum. there are commuters and families on this train who don’t need to hear that. pretend like your wife or your mother is in the car, and act accordingly. thank you.” not surprisingly, this admonition was met with loud, slurred protest from the back of my car. 

two days later i hopped the train into the city again to apartment/puppy sit for my cousin, who was going to florida for a wedding. and i have to say, that while my infatuation with new york has waned a bit, i still love the city and (excuse me while i cliche all over your computer) how full of possibility it is. 

on the job front, i continue to be gainfully employed, however precariously. as of now, my position lasts until the end of april, though there is a possibility it will last through may as well. as much as i would like a more permanent position in a place other than nj, i feel lucky to have any job at all, and while i am totally bored most of the time, occasionally i get the opportunity to sit in on (or even participate in) really interesting presentations/seminars/etc. 

for example, last week we had a consumer-focused presentation, wherein we learned about the skin care routine of the average consumer. apparently, there are approximately 21 occasions per week where women (and many men) use skincare products. 21 times per WEEK? it took a lot of tough self-reflection to get to this point, but i’m here. my name is jen, and i’m addicted to skin care. 21 times per WEEK? i probably get to 21 in three days, and that includes a sunday when i’m home and only washing my face once. 

this revelation about my product junky status really hit home when i got the chance to participate in a seminar about skin care products, more specifically a seminar about the emotional experience of using a skin care product. you didn’t know skin care was emotional? i mean, duh. what’s not surprising is that most people buy products based on right-brain (emotional) thinking — obviously advertising/packaging/copy has a lot to do with that, but what IS surprising is how the way a product feels directly affects our belief about whether or not it’s working and consequently how much we like it, and for the most part, the way a product feels has nothing whatsoever to do with how effective it is. anyway, we spent the whole morning washing our hands and arms with a number of different cleansers, and the afternoon rubbing lotion on our hands/arms/legs, and we had to talk at length about each product and how it felt (physically) and what about that feeling we liked or disliked. and it was legit fun. like, REALLY fun. then we talked about creating a product for a specific consumer and how we would make it FEEL for him/her so that he/she would like it. 

anyway, all of this had led me to the conclusion that i am now a skin care expert. i seriously might as well be a dermatologist/sales associate at sephora. so from now on i am occasionally going to impose my advice on my readers. i promise not to use this as a means to promote the company i [temporarily] work for — i will inevitably end up including them occasionally because some of them, quite frankly, are awesome, but i fully intend to promote all the competitive products i also use, including this one. 

which brings me to my first recommendation. cetaphil is great. it’s super gentle, has a nice consistency, and works (i.e. it cleans). i use it in the morning with a washcloth so i can carefully buff off any dry skin (instead of using a scrub every day, which is actually quite irritating). on the back it says you can rub it in and then wipe off (instead of rinsing off), but it doesn’t feel that great on your skin after a few minutes. it’s my belief that products like cetaphil are much better for you than products that are catered to a specific skin type (oily, dry, etc.), because those products have a whole lot of junk in them, most of which does more harm than good (or doesn’t do anything at all). 

this seemingly mundane skin care seminar also produced another personal revelation: i am immature. the participants in the seminar ranged in age from 22 to 35, and it’s a pretty cool, easy-going crowd. a couple have kids, a handful are married, but nevertheless it felt more like a group of my peers than anything else. until we started trying on the product, and people started talking about how it felt, and the countless opportunities for “that’s what she said” comments presented themselves, and i was the only one who looked up expectantly to make eye contact and found myself alone, all alone, in my juvenile perversity. 

examples:

“it was dry at first but then got wet really quickly!”

“how come yours is so thick?”

“rub it a little faster.”

“use more fingers!”

AHHH. the pain of missed opportunity. life’s hard.

snow day ’09

funny how an unexpected day off from work + new camera courtesy of your awesome brothers = newfound (albeit brief) appreciation of winter/snow. monday was pretty incredible. unbelievably, i actually had work to do that day, so i spent much of the morning and early afternoon sitting in my pjs on the couch working and watching no reservations with anthony bourdain. around lunchtime i got inspired to take abby out and play in the snow.

mmmm snow. 

after that i worked a little more, watched a little what not to wear, and then christian and jess came over and we went SLEDDING! obviously i did not take any pictures of that because i don’t actually WANT to lose/break my third camera in as many years, but needless to say the sledding was fantastic. we used the hill right outside the dining hall, a popular fac brat sledding haunt, although it was deserted around 3:30pm when we arrived. all the lville kids are currently taking exams, so we were also spared their fruitless efforts to sled down the hill with dining center trays. part of what made the whole activity so appealing was that i hadn’t gone sledding (there or anywhere else) since before high school, since lawrenceville had one snow day the entire time i was there, and i think i spent most of it sleeping. most of the snow had been packed down or frozen over by the time we got there, but the brown family childhood sleds (plus one boogie board) served us well, although i’m vaguely embarrassed that we called it quits after 45 minutes. i attribute this to our lack of appropriate attire — since snow pants are no longer a winter necessity (as i’ve said previously i have zero interest in spending upwards of $400 to strap my feet to some plastic and try-not-to-die down a hill), we wore sweatpants, rain boots with one layer of socks (huge mistake), fleece gloves which did nothing in the way of repelling water, etc. jess sported a hat and scarf, but i was hat-less as i refused to wear my dad’s atrocity of a fleece hat and none of my other hats are even remotely practical, and christian wore jeans, a sweatshirt and no gloves, because he’s a moron. 

after some cash cab (god DAMN i love daytime television), christian and jess went to buy wine and bread and i got started on dinner for the five of us (me + christian + jess + parents). even though i think giadda delaurentiis is irritating as hell for (1) being unreasonably skinny for a chef and (2) more importantly having no italian accent whatsoever except when loudly emphasizing italian words, she is probably an incredible chef, so i made one of her recipes (courtesy of the food network’s website). abby watched. 

Orzo with Sausage, Peppers & Tomatoes

 

Prep Time: 10 min

Inactive Prep Time: 20 min

Cook Time: 10 min 

(LIES. it took me like an hour and a half. ugh.)

 

Ingredients

 

• 1 red bell pepper
• 1 orange bell pepper
• 1 pound orzo pasta
• 3 cups chicken stock
• 3 cups water
• 1 tablespoon kosher salt
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 7 ounces (2 links) mild Italian turkey sausage, casings removed
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 2 plum tomatoes, chopped
• 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes, optional
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 1/2 cup ricotta salata cheese, crumbled

Directions

Using tongs, place the bell peppers over a gas flame. Cook, turning occasionally, until the skins are charred on all sides, about 5 to 6 minutes. (Alternatively, place the peppers on a baking sheet and broil for 5 to 8 minutes, until charred.) Place the charred peppers in a medium bowl. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and allow the peppers to steam for 20 minutes. Under running water, peel away the charred skin from the peppers. Pat the peppers dry with paper towels. Remove the stem and seeds from the peppers and cut into 1/4-inch thick slices. Set aside.

In a medium saucepan, bring the chicken stock, water, and kosher salt to a boil over high heat. Add the pasta and cook until tender but still firm to the bite, stirring occasionally, about 8 to 10 minutes.

While the pasta is cooking: In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Add the turkey sausage and saute until cooked through, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Add the bell peppers, tomatoes, and red pepper flakes, if using, and cook until heated through, about 2 minutes.

Drain the pasta, reserving about 1/2 cup of the cooking liquid, and transfer to a large serving bowl. Add the sausage mixture, 1 tablespoon of the parsley, and season with salt and pepper, to taste. Toss well to combine all ingredients, adding reserved cooking liquid, if needed, to loosen the pasta. Top with the ricotta salata and sprinkle with the remaining parsley. Serve.

i forgot to take a picture because by the time we ate it was practically 8pm and i was wasting away, but it looked like the one above. serially, guys. 

snow day ’09 was great. but i’m so ready for spring break ’09, i.e. four days and five nights with caitlin & austin in san diego. yesssss.