November 9, 2008
True Story
I just got back from the BYFI Fall Forum, which was all about Jewish writing in America today. It's a topic that's been much-mulled over, and proclaimed dead by more than one person with way more credentials than me. But I found it kind of inspiring. There are three new authors whose books I'm definitely going to pick up: Dara Horn (BYFI '94!), Rivka Galchen (she grew up like me but in Oklahoma!), and Elisa Albert (she is vehemently NOT a Jewish writer). Little ideas for my own novel came to mind while I sat in the audience, but I think I'll leave them to rest in my notebook for now. Yes, characters will probably be based on you.
Oh, it's just a little chopped liver
Accidentally, I ate some chopped liver. This totally goes against my pseudo-vegetarian (aka pickiness) habits, which were developed in direct response to the massive amounts of meat I was forced to eat in Morocco. It's not that I had meat every day, mind you. It was expensive, and therefore a special treat. But because it was considered special and a yummy, nutritious treat to be savored it was served in heaping mounds with maybe a few olives thrown in. Entire chickens and rabbits just piled up on plates. I was grateful for the protein, but it's a little odd when you notice your neighborhood has far fewer sounds of clucking. So here in the states I've been sticking to fish (plants that move really) and tofu for my protein needs. I'm one of the few people who find the taste and texture of tofu appealing. So that's what I ordered at this little Asian place in my current Brooklyn neighborhood, and I just realized that what I was hoping was eggplant is actually liver. It's kind of like when I was presented with an entire rabbit to eat, I practically willed it to be chicken. It tastes like it!
Sorting it all out
When I was little my Uncle Oliver would throw me up in the air and catch me over and over again. It was my favorite game. It made me feel happy, cared for and exhilarated all at the same time. When Senator Barack Obama was declared the winner of Tuesday night's election, I felt all of these things. Finally, taking a leap of faith had paid off. All of a sudden a whole new world opened up. I shed a single tear, took some pictures with my friend Yaelle, called my mother, aunt and grandmother and texted everyone I knew. On the two hour ride through the subways to Williamsburg I saw the tired yet elated faces of my fellow New Yorkers. When I finally emerged above ground the riot police were blocking off Bedford Avenue while search helicopters saught stray "rioters" on side streets. Apparently, some people were a little too happy in this Obama stronghold.
Over the past few days a new feeling has settled in. When I was little the beach was my weekend hangout. My mother allowed me to swim alone, but always gave me a strict marker on my bathing suit that I wasn't allowed to go past. At the time Hawaii was one of those majestic places where you could see straight to the bottom of the ocean floor. It helped if you were interested in avoiding sea urchins and sharp rocks. Go out too far and you would injure your feet, or worse, get caught in a rip tide and be carried out to sea. On those rare weekends when my father was home he often decided that I needed to be toughened up. He would carry me much further out into the ocean, waaaay past my safety marker. So incredibly far, that I couldn't see through the water to the bottom (it helps to keep in mind that he was literally twice my height). I would hold onto him for dear life and protest quite loudly that he carry me back to shore. Sometimes he obliged me, but mostly he wanted me to explore and to see the world from a little further away. All I felt was the huge expanse of the sea ready to swallow me up, and take me away from everything I knew.
Those feelings of uncertainty, of the completely and utterly unknown are what have settled in. What does it mean to have an Obama presidency? What does it man to not have a Bush or Clinton in the White House? On a personal note, what does it mean to have someone like me in the presidency? Not just "like me" because he's biracial, but because he was raised by a single mother and his grandparents, plus he's well-educated, progressive, pragmatic and young. Yes, many of these things could describe President Bill Clinton, but, honestly I wasn't nearly as cognizant of his administration as I was of President George W. Bush's. The consequences of the latter presidency will stay with us for generations to come, no matter how amazing (or not) President Obama proves to be. I have high hopes for the next four (dare I say, eight) years, but I'm also full of the fear of the unknown. It's actually a positive fear in an odd way. That scared feeling you get when you sense your hopes are being raised, and you just hope to God that no one will bring them down, but you know someone probably will, so you hold back a little.
I thought that I would have carried the unexamined elation of Tuesday through at least today!
In other news: Williams beat Amherst in their 123rd match-up. I love my new job (more on that later). I love the new Trader Joe's in Cobble Hill (way more on that later). Karin and Ryu are getting married next weekend and I'm going to be a bridesmaid. (I bought gold shoes today - 30% off! I am so a recessionista.) I'm happy to be back in New York.
xoxoxo
Over the past few days a new feeling has settled in. When I was little the beach was my weekend hangout. My mother allowed me to swim alone, but always gave me a strict marker on my bathing suit that I wasn't allowed to go past. At the time Hawaii was one of those majestic places where you could see straight to the bottom of the ocean floor. It helped if you were interested in avoiding sea urchins and sharp rocks. Go out too far and you would injure your feet, or worse, get caught in a rip tide and be carried out to sea. On those rare weekends when my father was home he often decided that I needed to be toughened up. He would carry me much further out into the ocean, waaaay past my safety marker. So incredibly far, that I couldn't see through the water to the bottom (it helps to keep in mind that he was literally twice my height). I would hold onto him for dear life and protest quite loudly that he carry me back to shore. Sometimes he obliged me, but mostly he wanted me to explore and to see the world from a little further away. All I felt was the huge expanse of the sea ready to swallow me up, and take me away from everything I knew.
Those feelings of uncertainty, of the completely and utterly unknown are what have settled in. What does it mean to have an Obama presidency? What does it man to not have a Bush or Clinton in the White House? On a personal note, what does it mean to have someone like me in the presidency? Not just "like me" because he's biracial, but because he was raised by a single mother and his grandparents, plus he's well-educated, progressive, pragmatic and young. Yes, many of these things could describe President Bill Clinton, but, honestly I wasn't nearly as cognizant of his administration as I was of President George W. Bush's. The consequences of the latter presidency will stay with us for generations to come, no matter how amazing (or not) President Obama proves to be. I have high hopes for the next four (dare I say, eight) years, but I'm also full of the fear of the unknown. It's actually a positive fear in an odd way. That scared feeling you get when you sense your hopes are being raised, and you just hope to God that no one will bring them down, but you know someone probably will, so you hold back a little.
I thought that I would have carried the unexamined elation of Tuesday through at least today!
In other news: Williams beat Amherst in their 123rd match-up. I love my new job (more on that later). I love the new Trader Joe's in Cobble Hill (way more on that later). Karin and Ryu are getting married next weekend and I'm going to be a bridesmaid. (I bought gold shoes today - 30% off! I am so a recessionista.) I'm happy to be back in New York.
xoxoxo
November 4, 2008
Is anyone else incredibly nervous?
I've avoided TV and radio for the past three days (sorry, Rachel - you're still Rachel-tastic!), but all I can think about is tomorrow and the crazy consequences that are in store for our country if things don't go a certain (OK, my) way. Here's what I'm reading and watching to keep myself calm and hopeful:
and
Vote early and keep your fingers crossed. I'll be in Park Slope either celebrating or mourning. I have a special feeling about this one though.
and
Vote early and keep your fingers crossed. I'll be in Park Slope either celebrating or mourning. I have a special feeling about this one though.
October 21, 2008
Because I Love Numbers More Than You Realize
I am obsessed with this blog. (Thanks to Eric! [Or did Greg actually find it first?]) It's possible that I would enjoy it less if my guy were losing, but since he has a 92.5% chance of winning today, I love it. A lot. Also, the writers have a habit of making fun of the Drudge Report, which also makes me smile. "Drudge" is a word my grandmother uses to describe the stuff caught in the drain of the kitchen sink.
Today I'm going up north to spend time with my aunt and uncle before I depart for New York (again) on Friday. We'll probably watch MSNBC, eat In-N-Out burgers (even though I am 95% vegetarian now), and roam around Carlsbad. I'm not really sure, but I love spending time with them, and am sad that I won't be able to do it as frequently as I have over the past four months. Boo. New York, you better be worth it.
Today I'm going up north to spend time with my aunt and uncle before I depart for New York (again) on Friday. We'll probably watch MSNBC, eat In-N-Out burgers (even though I am 95% vegetarian now), and roam around Carlsbad. I'm not really sure, but I love spending time with them, and am sad that I won't be able to do it as frequently as I have over the past four months. Boo. New York, you better be worth it.
October 20, 2008
Vote! I did!
Today I went to the San Diego Registrar of Voters and voted early! After months of waiting and waiting I finally got to mark my ballot for Barack Obama. I am so happy!
Now if only my clothes would pack themselves . . .
Now if only my clothes would pack themselves . . .
October 17, 2008
And We're Back
Is anyone still reading this? Well, besides lovely Matthew, who occasionally looks up from his intense social calendar of tea, leather and mountain climbs to read about my silly musings on CostCo. If you are: thanks!
About eighteen months ago I decided that New York had given up on me. It's an intensely fickle city, full of itinerant freelancers and subletters. Most people I know are struggling to figure out their careers, and we're never sure if it's because we're under thirty or if because the city is just more difficult than other places. For some reason many New Yorkers believe that by simply existing in that space they are somehow "making it". Fearing that trap, I made a decision to leave, sold all my furniture, gave up a lease on a disgusting vermin-infested studio (thank you, Parkoff Management!) and jaunted off to Morocco. What a great idea that was!
Actually, it was. As difficult as my experience turned out to be--the lack of water, the parasites, the crazy host sisters who thought it was OK to gossip about my health and spend 8 hours in a too hot public bath, and the men who thought daily marriage proposals should be considered carefully (highest offer? 100,000 camels!)--it was worth it. I never want it to be thought that I didn't value my time in that place. The most important lesson I took from that experience, however, wasn't the three languages I learned, or the insights into a different culture, or how to make cous-cous. It wasn't even my realization that I'm somewhat of a change junkie. What I hope to always carry with me is the knowledge that I am my best and only true judge.
And so next week I return to New York, to work in my chosen field, in a position I've always thought I wanted. I hope it's true. It's work that I love and believe is important, in a place that I've always felt the most myself. I'm frightened that I'll fall into some old, very damaging patterns, that only serve to undermine my happiness. Mostly, I'm anxious about leaving my family again. Who will take me to CostCo and make sure I see the latest Hollywood releases? The wanderlust in me has been cured, though, I think. Everything else will follow.
About eighteen months ago I decided that New York had given up on me. It's an intensely fickle city, full of itinerant freelancers and subletters. Most people I know are struggling to figure out their careers, and we're never sure if it's because we're under thirty or if because the city is just more difficult than other places. For some reason many New Yorkers believe that by simply existing in that space they are somehow "making it". Fearing that trap, I made a decision to leave, sold all my furniture, gave up a lease on a disgusting vermin-infested studio (thank you, Parkoff Management!) and jaunted off to Morocco. What a great idea that was!
Actually, it was. As difficult as my experience turned out to be--the lack of water, the parasites, the crazy host sisters who thought it was OK to gossip about my health and spend 8 hours in a too hot public bath, and the men who thought daily marriage proposals should be considered carefully (highest offer? 100,000 camels!)--it was worth it. I never want it to be thought that I didn't value my time in that place. The most important lesson I took from that experience, however, wasn't the three languages I learned, or the insights into a different culture, or how to make cous-cous. It wasn't even my realization that I'm somewhat of a change junkie. What I hope to always carry with me is the knowledge that I am my best and only true judge.
And so next week I return to New York, to work in my chosen field, in a position I've always thought I wanted. I hope it's true. It's work that I love and believe is important, in a place that I've always felt the most myself. I'm frightened that I'll fall into some old, very damaging patterns, that only serve to undermine my happiness. Mostly, I'm anxious about leaving my family again. Who will take me to CostCo and make sure I see the latest Hollywood releases? The wanderlust in me has been cured, though, I think. Everything else will follow.
September 20, 2008
My Grandmother Has a Crush on Jon Stewart
The television in my house is a hot commodity. Four adults with very different viewing preferences reside here. My mother will watch anything and everything on the SciFi Channel, including but by no means excluded to, Eureka, Dr. Who, Dead Like Me and some show about a man whose parents sold his soul to the devil when he was born. Rick enjoys WWF and Burn Notice. I enjoy anything on Showtime (Weeds and Dexter are probably my favorites), along with Lost and The Office.
My grandmother has always liked what we affectionately call "dead people shows." House, Monk, CSI, CSI: Miami, Law and Order, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, Cold Case, NCIS, Bones and a myriad of other shows which tend to revolve around an illness or crime and wrap up their story lines within the hour. She despises Lost even though I've explained that the main character is a doctor, just like House, there are mysteries to be solved and a few people even manage to die. She's not buying it; she thinks the polar bear is ridiculous, and that a bunch of pretty people on an island should really "get a grip". She also doesn't find comedies funny. (Don't get me wrong, Grandma actually has a fabulous sense of humor; she just finds sit-coms inane.)
But while I was away on a recent trip to New York (yay!), as you may know, Senator John McCain named little-known Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. For some reason this has opened up a whole new world of television. She watches Countdown with Keith Olbermann and The Rachel Maddow Show with me. There are few objections when I watch the other news programs. Somehow the whole X chromosome ploy by McCain didn't win over my Grandma - a woman who once told me that Senator Barack Obama was smarmy, and that she didn't understand how people my age could be so enthusiastic about him. And tonight, after a lovely trip to CostCo for a three pound package of strawberries, I turned on The Daily Show, and Grandma admitted that "Jon Stewart is so cute." Obviously, this country is on the right track.
My grandmother has always liked what we affectionately call "dead people shows." House, Monk, CSI, CSI: Miami, Law and Order, Law and Order: Criminal Intent, Cold Case, NCIS, Bones and a myriad of other shows which tend to revolve around an illness or crime and wrap up their story lines within the hour. She despises Lost even though I've explained that the main character is a doctor, just like House, there are mysteries to be solved and a few people even manage to die. She's not buying it; she thinks the polar bear is ridiculous, and that a bunch of pretty people on an island should really "get a grip". She also doesn't find comedies funny. (Don't get me wrong, Grandma actually has a fabulous sense of humor; she just finds sit-coms inane.)
But while I was away on a recent trip to New York (yay!), as you may know, Senator John McCain named little-known Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. For some reason this has opened up a whole new world of television. She watches Countdown with Keith Olbermann and The Rachel Maddow Show with me. There are few objections when I watch the other news programs. Somehow the whole X chromosome ploy by McCain didn't win over my Grandma - a woman who once told me that Senator Barack Obama was smarmy, and that she didn't understand how people my age could be so enthusiastic about him. And tonight, after a lovely trip to CostCo for a three pound package of strawberries, I turned on The Daily Show, and Grandma admitted that "Jon Stewart is so cute." Obviously, this country is on the right track.
August 14, 2008
Places I've Been Carded in San Diego
It's sort of a running joke that I look like I'm twelve. I suppose it's because, at nearly 28 years-old, I have no (obvious) wrinkles, I smile easily, and I have a "sweet," "soft" voice. (I don't always appreciate these adjectives.) Since when does friendly equal youth? Especially considering the amount of complaining I hear about "today's youth". Here are just a few of the places I've been carded during my stint in lovely San Diego:
The Ralph's grocery store in Mission Valley
Legal age to purchase alcohol: 21.
Question from cashier to me: Looks like you have wine here. Who will be making the purchase today?
Answer: My grandmother.
AMC Movie Theaters in Fashion Valley
Legal age to view an R-rated movie accompanied by an adult: 17.
Cashier to my grandmother: I'm sorry but she really needs to be 17 to see this film.
My grandmother to cashier: Add ten years and you have her age.
The Point Loma Public Library
Legal age to obtain your own card without a parent's signature: 18.
Question from librarian to me: Did you bring your mom with you, hun? She'll need to sign your application.
Based on the reactions I've received whenever I reveal my real age, I'm beginning to worry that my driver's license will be confiscated by an over zealous librarian who is convinced that I couldn't possibly be closing in on 30 and that I must have stolen some nice old lady's wallet to obtain a fake ID. Not cool!
The one place I wasn't carded: The San Diego County Registrar of Voters. Apparently, they compare your signature in their database. What a relief!
The Ralph's grocery store in Mission Valley
Legal age to purchase alcohol: 21.
Question from cashier to me: Looks like you have wine here. Who will be making the purchase today?
Answer: My grandmother.
AMC Movie Theaters in Fashion Valley
Legal age to view an R-rated movie accompanied by an adult: 17.
Cashier to my grandmother: I'm sorry but she really needs to be 17 to see this film.
My grandmother to cashier: Add ten years and you have her age.
The Point Loma Public Library
Legal age to obtain your own card without a parent's signature: 18.
Question from librarian to me: Did you bring your mom with you, hun? She'll need to sign your application.
Based on the reactions I've received whenever I reveal my real age, I'm beginning to worry that my driver's license will be confiscated by an over zealous librarian who is convinced that I couldn't possibly be closing in on 30 and that I must have stolen some nice old lady's wallet to obtain a fake ID. Not cool!
The one place I wasn't carded: The San Diego County Registrar of Voters. Apparently, they compare your signature in their database. What a relief!
What I Learned At the Bowling Alley Tonight
Some of you know that I was a dork growing up. Sure, I had friends, but I also watched Star Trek (both the original series and The Next Generation) and even attended an actual convention with my family in tow. The best part was when they showed us how the transporters worked. Cue ooh's and aaah's. My other claim to dorkiness? The bowling league in which I participated for about two years from the age of ten on the naval base on Coronado Island. No, we didn't have those silly short-sleeved polyester shirts. And I never got a crazy nickname. At my strongest I bowled an 85 and used a six-pound ball. If I broke a hundred that was amazing! I never used the granny throw, even though it seemed like an effective strategy because you got to use both hands.
Looking back on it, I think it's pretty silly that I was playing an indoor sport at the peak of my childhood in sunny Southern California. I rectified this as a high-schooler by taking up tennis and developing more tan lines than I care to remember. Despite the lack of tanning opportunities, bowling taught me excellent hand-eye coordination and perseverance by repeatedly showing me that no matter how hard you try sometimes the ball just isn't going to go your way.
To my surprise I still carry these lessons. My arm is straight and true, and my ball placement is fantastic. About a year ago, I bowled a 180 with an 8 pound ball, shaming my date, who seemed to think he was supposed to win because he was male and had paid for my shoe rental and the beers that should have made me throw poorly. No way, Jose. I've got skills.
Tonight was a slightly different story, under slightly different circumstances. I went bowling with my Uncle Val, who is crazy good (he got five strikes!) but not crazy competitive. He's encouraging and helpful, yet still let's me do my own thing. What I was surprised by was that I threw the 8 pound ball like it was nothing. My ball wasn't straight and true-it skewed right. That wasn't cool. So I upgraded to the 10 pound ball. Same thing. My score was in the toilet; I needed to adjust my form, but how? Could I, little Anjuli, The Little One, as my Aunt Lisa calls me, actually throw a 12 pound ball with control and grace? As it turns out, I could. I'm buff. Who knew?
Did my score vastly improve? Yes. OK, fine, it improved for one game and then my arm got tired and I was throwing all over the place. But the point is: I was much more powerful than I thought. Maybe all of that carrying of my own trash in and out of my site in Morocco actually worked out my arms. Or maybe it was wringing the water out of my hand-washed clothes?
What I've been thinking about since we returned from the bowling alley and finished our amazing In-and-Out burgers, is about how much I've changed. There are the more obvious psychological changes I've undergone - the stress, the regret, the pride, the excitement, the wonder - but there are also the physical ways in which my experiences have manifested themselves. Not only am I mentally stronger, but also, it turns out that I can lift heavier objects and run greater distances. I keep expecting to return to who I was a year ago because that's who I think I am. But actually, I'm a physically and mentally stronger, longer-haired, one-year older, some might even say better, version of who I was when I left. I didn't necessarily have to travel to Morocco to achieve all of that, but I tend to take the most dramatic approach to life. What direction I'll take next is still up in the air, but it's reassuring to know that I have this new strength to draw upon as I make yet another transition.
Looking back on it, I think it's pretty silly that I was playing an indoor sport at the peak of my childhood in sunny Southern California. I rectified this as a high-schooler by taking up tennis and developing more tan lines than I care to remember. Despite the lack of tanning opportunities, bowling taught me excellent hand-eye coordination and perseverance by repeatedly showing me that no matter how hard you try sometimes the ball just isn't going to go your way.
To my surprise I still carry these lessons. My arm is straight and true, and my ball placement is fantastic. About a year ago, I bowled a 180 with an 8 pound ball, shaming my date, who seemed to think he was supposed to win because he was male and had paid for my shoe rental and the beers that should have made me throw poorly. No way, Jose. I've got skills.
Tonight was a slightly different story, under slightly different circumstances. I went bowling with my Uncle Val, who is crazy good (he got five strikes!) but not crazy competitive. He's encouraging and helpful, yet still let's me do my own thing. What I was surprised by was that I threw the 8 pound ball like it was nothing. My ball wasn't straight and true-it skewed right. That wasn't cool. So I upgraded to the 10 pound ball. Same thing. My score was in the toilet; I needed to adjust my form, but how? Could I, little Anjuli, The Little One, as my Aunt Lisa calls me, actually throw a 12 pound ball with control and grace? As it turns out, I could. I'm buff. Who knew?
Did my score vastly improve? Yes. OK, fine, it improved for one game and then my arm got tired and I was throwing all over the place. But the point is: I was much more powerful than I thought. Maybe all of that carrying of my own trash in and out of my site in Morocco actually worked out my arms. Or maybe it was wringing the water out of my hand-washed clothes?
What I've been thinking about since we returned from the bowling alley and finished our amazing In-and-Out burgers, is about how much I've changed. There are the more obvious psychological changes I've undergone - the stress, the regret, the pride, the excitement, the wonder - but there are also the physical ways in which my experiences have manifested themselves. Not only am I mentally stronger, but also, it turns out that I can lift heavier objects and run greater distances. I keep expecting to return to who I was a year ago because that's who I think I am. But actually, I'm a physically and mentally stronger, longer-haired, one-year older, some might even say better, version of who I was when I left. I didn't necessarily have to travel to Morocco to achieve all of that, but I tend to take the most dramatic approach to life. What direction I'll take next is still up in the air, but it's reassuring to know that I have this new strength to draw upon as I make yet another transition.
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