Winging It in the Country

In what is a case of severely shitty timing, circumstantially speaking, I am getting ready to depart for a weekend in the country. Doc Harley and I are taking the bike, loading up the trailer, and going to his friend's beautiful farmhouse in the Catskills. Normally I would be thrilled about this, and yes, there is a part of me that is very excited to be going, but its such a horrible weekend for me to be out of town. I'm only going because its very important to him, and I told ghim it was important to me that he come home with me for either Thanksgiving or Chanukah and well, compromise is necessary.

But I am worried about a very close friend who is ill and facing upcoming challenges of his own, whose mother is also having a major operation tonight and I won't be there to hold him. Logically I know that it is more important that I am there to hold him when he has his own upcoming surgery, so why do I feel like I'm abandoning him? Why do I feel horrifically guilty for having a life of my own that I know he absolutely wants me to have? This friend is wonderfully supportive and so truly happy for me these days, and I feel so fucking guilty and awful for having a personal life in the midst of his crises. I know he'd be incredibly upset to hear this, and I know he in no way wants me to feel this way...that's the last thing in the world that he'd want. Its all of my own creation but I'm not sure how to balance everything out in my life and feel like everyone's getting the attention they deserve (which I suppose in my mind means undivided?). I've always been terrified of being that girl who suddenly disappears when she gets a boyfriend. I've never been that person before, but I've always had that fear.

On a far less puissant note, its also a bad weekend to go away because I'm in the midst of creating gigantic 5 foot tall pink wire and fabric wings for SL2000 and I to wear in the Halloween parade. This project has been an overwhelming nightmare which I've devoted 3 very long nights to working on; last night I was twisting wire and screaming expletives at the top of my lungs until 3am. I am actually taking these huge 5 foot frames with me to the country to then fill with fabric and decorate. SL2000 will be spending the weekend making the banner and statue of liberty costumes. We will probably end up working late into the night together on Sunday when I return.

So its just not the best of times to be going for a sweet little weekend in the country, as you can see.

I'm sure I will feel entirely differently about the whole thing once we get out there, and DH was so sweet and excited about it this morning when I left for the sdj. It will be good for us to spend some time together away from all the shoulds and have to's of everyday life, providing I can get over my useless guilt.

And its just about time for me to run home and pack everything I may need this weekend in a mere 15 minutes. At least I'll have a great excuse for overpacking.

The Uncoordinated Juggler

The game of the week seems to be schdeule juggling; the prize being some semblance of sanity for those who greatly excel at it. I do not fit into this category. I am more of the freak out and stress out ilk. I am the obnoxious person frantically typing at super speeds, sending out 50,000 emails per second to accomplish one measly thing. While this is indeed high comedy to watch the flailing of appendages and flurry of pointless but hectic movement masquerading as proactivity, I do not reccomend this approach as it wreaks havoc on the digestive system.

I have the Wonder Twins in town, whom I must make time for, a vigil at the Times Square recruiting station tomorrow since the death toll just reached another 2000, and costumes and banners to build for 10 women or more for Code Pink's contingent in the West Village Halloween Parade. Part of this building includes making two gigantic sets of five foot tall and 3 feet wide pink wings - by hand, from scratch. All this needs to be accomplished by this weekend, because Doc Harley really wants me to come to the Catskills with him; its so important to him that he agreed to let us use his basement space to construct everything as long as I went away with him this weekend. Though of course if the waether doesn't clear up we may not end up going. An old farmhouse in a monsoon is not so romantic.

The problem is coordinating everyone's schedules.

Actually, the problem is that my lazy ass can't wake up in the mornings and we overslept in such dramatic fashion this morning that I am desperate to find a niche where I can catch up on some of the lost hours at the sdj. Niches of time are not easy to come by, except when you don't need them or can't use them.

One day I will develop the ability to wake up to an alarm. I'm dreaming big here.

When Everyone Adores the Man You're Dating it Makes You a Paranoid Freak

Being the womym who has generally been perpetually alone or in mostly sex based relationships (when I was in my early twenties I was the queen of the convenient arrangement), its completely alien to me to suddenly be part of a "we". And it totally snuck up on me! There I was, going about my business, and wham! Suddenly I'm part of a "we" and my poor cat thinks I've forsaken her. Suddenly we're hanging out with my friends, and we're inviting them to the Catskills this weekend.

I feel like I've entered the dating twighlight zone. There's no crazy drama, no games whatsoever, just my ridiculous insecurities and this new entity of "we" that just sort of happened when I wasn't looking. I know I tend to be on the spacey side, but damn! How can your life suddenly change so completely and yet the moment of change is wholly undefinable?

Its so weird to suddenly be a part of a couple. Its so weird to do everyday normal life things with someone else. Its so weird to see someone just about every day (or night, rather).

I have a drawer in his dresser. And it has clothes in it. Aaaahhh!

Friday night, as we were walking to his apartment, an Irish tourist stopped him in the street and asked Doc Harley where some bar was; he didn't know so he called information to try and find it for the guy. The drunken Irishman was shocked by the action, and turned to me and said "Do you know how lucky you are to be with this man? You've found the nicest man in New York City."

On Saturday night, we were at the wedding of a friend of his, and every little old lady there was telling me how lucky I was to be with him. He found out that this couple I was talking to was planning on taking the train back into the city to their hotel and he insisted that we give them a ride. He's just that kind of guy.

Strangers to both of us keep telling me how lucky I am to be with this man. Do yuo have any idea how much that scares the shit out of me? Yeah, I found a treasure...a treasure that can disappear at any moment. A treasure I can drive away with my crazy insecurities at any moment. Because I am starting to get really scared by how much I like this guy, and how much I like being part of this "we".

Mr. Artsy Hotpants met Doc Harley, and loved him. He loved him so much, he has now gushed twice on the phone about how much he loved him. And when I told DH how well MAH did on his LSAT, he said "So are we doing something to celebrate?"

He invited MAH and SL2000 to come out to the Ctaskills with us! I've never dated someone who wanted to even meet my friends, much less invite them along to do things with us.

MAH said that I desperately need to relax, and just go with the flow. He said clearly this guy likes me, and I should just relax and enjoy. In other words, enough with the raging insecurities already!

So much easier said than done.

Its great advice, but incredibly hard to follow through on. I'm trying to learn to be good about talking about these issues as they come with the good Doc, and so far he's great about listening to them. He's just so clinical and logical and I'm so overdramatic that its difficult. I don't want to hear that my issues are stemming from anxiety, and that if it wasn't one thing it would be another. I know that, I just don't want to admit that. I want to hear that I'm the most incredible human on the planet and I want to hear it ad nauseum. I want to be coddled, and he's not the coddling type. He listens, he cares, but he's a fix-it kind of guy who wants to find solutions and i don't want solutions. I want to be ridiculous and immature and overdramatic. He does give me reassurance, but he gives it and expects me to hear it and accept it. And that's so hard to do.

How do you relax, in a foreign land where everything is new and you're scared of getting lost?

Why have I suddenly become so needy and insecure?

I keep calling Orphannie and Sarachkah, desperately seeking relationship advice from those with far more experience than myself. I feel reassured for an hour or two and then I get all scared again.

I'm terrified I'm going to fuck this up.

Do Not Read This Post - It Was Written Under the Influence - Pay No Attention to the Monkey Behind the Curtain!

I have been remiss in my blogging efforts, but not without good reason. I have been horrendously ill and coughing up whatever is left of my lungs after smoking for as many years as I have. I began feeling badly this weekend, but was so sure that it was just merely an allergy attack that when Doc Harley suggested that perhaps I was ill, I confidently (read stubbornly) asserted that I knew my body better than he did and it was just allergies. That was Sunday morning. Monday morning, I was singing a different tune. Actually, that's a lie; Monday morning I was coughing a different tune...and the tune was pure misery.

Luckily, DH called to check on me Monday afternoon (I have no idea how he knew I'd be at home) and promptly insisted that I take antibiotics. "I think I can beat this." I sputtered in a feeble attempt to appear less sick than I actually was; DH was not fooled or swayed in the least. So off to the drugstore I trudged, and I ended up quite thankful for it. While it can be sometimes annoying to be dating a know it all doctor (as forget about winning any arguments), it can also be quite handy...especially if you are a ridiculously stubborn monkey who is quite prone to both illness and accidents. When I called to ask my mother if she could help pay for the antibiotics (I am already borrowing off the credit card this month for simple monthly expenses), she was astounded to hear that I was actually taking medicine before I was too sick to even move. I gave credit where it was due, and now my mother is of course enamored of DH, for that fact alone.

As if that weren't enough, he called again on Tuesday to see how I was doing and upon hearing that I was still quite ill he invited me over to his place so that he could take care of me. One of the worst things in the world about being sick is how utterly alone you feel, especially when laying around an apartment, well, completely alone (save the man hating cat, of course). So naturally all of my strong independent womyn rhetoric flew conveniently out the window, replaced by a resounding chorus of "Yes, please take care of me! Please oh please take care of me and stroke my brow and feed me soup and make me feel like I am not all alone in this world!" Thankfully the chorus heard in my feverish non-independent head alone.

But here's the deal, folks...I needed to not be independent. I needed to be lovingly taken care of. And that's okay. Why shouldn't I be? And does it make me less of a strong independent womyn? I don't think so. Perhaps it makes me a complete whiny baby when I'm sick, but I've known that for years.

You know what else? I enjoyed it. Yes, I enjoyed needing someone else and having them provide what I needed. I enjoyed admitting that I needed that.

I know, what the fuck is happening to me, right?

Today, as I'm struggling to make it through my hellacious day at the sdj, Doc Harley calls to see how I'm doing. This is no longer annoying, by the way, but something I actually look forward to; I know, how quickly my tune changes, huh? We talked for a bit about the trip we're taking to go to a friend's wedding this weekend and then he asked me how late I was working. I told him, and then he asked if I was going home to my apartment or to going to his place. First of all, I was really kind of tickled at the fact that he asked so nonchalantly, like of course going to his place was an option. Secondly, I really didn't want to go home and be sick and miserable in my own place tonight and was hoping he'd ask me to come over. So of course I didn't say I wanted to come over, I asked him what he'd rather do; he replied, "Of course I want you here, what do you want?"

He's making me homemade soup as I type this. I am so fucking spoiled, its unreal. Its like the dating twighlight zone after all the ummm, funny dating adventures I've had. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other night, for no apparent reason save extreme pms, I woke him up to tell him that if this was just sex he needed to tell me right now. We do tons of things together, enjoy eachothers company, have actual conversations, and yet I'm paranoid that its just sex? I don't think taking care of someone when they're sick is anywhere in the fuck buddies manual; ditto for cooking them homemade vegetarian soup.

I think its clear what's happening here.

I've been hypnotized and brainwashed. Sometime when I wasn't paying attention. And somehow my super strong defense lines have been compromised. I must call in the backup forces before its too late!

Its amazing the crap you write while under the influence of codeine cough syrup. I'll deny it all vehemently tomorrow.

Making a Fast Break

Traditionally breaking the Yom Kippur fast is a community event, either done privately with close family and friends, or at temple with your other members of the congregation who pinch your cheeks incessantly while you desperately attempt to dive for the bagels and lox before they're all gone (usually this bagel diving is an unsuccessful endeavor). Usually I spend Yom Kippur with my family and end up with bruised cheeks of all sorts and no bagels at the end of the day.

This year, I spent Yom Kippur in the city. Mr. Artsy Hotpants took me to services at the gay synogogue, where we were joined by My Little Vidipookikins. It was wonderful to have my "family" with me; when I bawled like a baby during the Yiskor service (the service honoring the dead so the bawling is quite justified), MAH turned to me at one point and smiled and winked. It made all the difference in the world. Its nice to spend the holidays with people you love dearly. Its even nicer when they don't make fun of you for blubbering like an idiot over a dead brother. These things are important in life. After 4 hours of temple, we were ready to go and made a beeline to exit into the torrential rains that were falling. MAH and I split ways, and I went to My Little Vidipookikins' and drank tea all afternoon (I was fasting, but not from liquids as I'm sick and that would have just been stupid) while we talked about what the holiday meant, what we wanted to change within ourselves, and of course...boys. Okay, so perhaps the last didn't exactly tie in, but come on...gimme a break. You can only do so much atoning before it gets old, right?

Then I went to meet Doc Harley at his office as the good doctor had invited me the day before to go with him to his sister's for break the fast. I had agreed, quite flattered to have been invited. That was before the fear set in. That was also before I knew I would be meeting his whole family.

Umm, that would be meeting his whole family on what is only the most important of all the Jewish holidays.

And did I mention it was his whole family?

So on the way there, we're talking about the differences in our families' mealtime traditions etc. He thinks its horrible that when I was growing up no one was allowed to leave the table until everyone was finished; I don't think its horrible, I think its polite. Its the French way. We chalked this up to cultural differences (or at least I did, he can think whatever he wants) and moved on to the topic of portions. He always thought it odd when his friends' parents would cook specific portions per person, as in his family they had like 3 portions per person (its evidently a Jewish tradition I missed out on being, again, half French). I said that my mother was very specific about portions as she was always the good nutrition nazi. that's what I call her, the good nutrition nazi.

DH stopped, turned and looked at me, and said "Don't say that word tonight. The N word." And I said "Nazi? Okay. I won't." He replied, "Yeah, its just not a good idea to say the N word at Yom Kippur dinner in a family that lost everyone to them." Now he had already told me his parents were Polish, and I guess I had assumed they had come here before the war. So I asked, "Umm, are your parents survivors?" Yup. Not only are they survivors, but they were the only ones from each of their families still alive when the camps were liberated.

My capacity to insert my foot directly into my mouth is truly astounding.

This faux pas, although made before we arrived, only increased my anxiety. I was actually sweating, despite the cold, by the time we arrived.

We get into the foyer, where there is a rack on which to hang our coats, and I notice that some people have taken their shoes off and left them at the door. This propelled me into an outright panic. See, I wore the really cute textured tights that I love, with these great boots that happen to come high enough to cover the gigantic gaping hole in the tights where just about half of the leg is missing. I turned to DH with my deer-caught-in-headlights expression, and said in a trembling panicked whisper "Umm, people are taking their shoes off! Do we have to take our shoes off?" He said "Not if you don't want to. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable." He paused, and said "I'm keeping mine on." I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief and said "Oh thank god! I have a gigantic hole in my stockings where about half the leg is missing!" He said "Ditto for my socks. That's why I'm keeping my shoes on. My socks have huge holes where my toes breathe. All my socks do."

Bless his heart, because unbeknownst to himI checked out his socks when we got back to his apartment and they were most certainly whole and intact.

His family was incredibly nice and very friendly and, well, nice. I, however, instantly turned into a social idiot who did best conversing with the 5 year old nephew. I made a great impression on the 5 year old nephew though. My witch's voice was certainly a hit, as well as my ability to drink the scariest looking water ever (with about 10 gallons of food coloring in it)...oops, I mean "brew", "witches brew" to be specific.

Had I only been able to equally impress the adults with such dynamic skills.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think I made a bad impression exactly, I'm sure I came across well as far as feral children go. Make that feral children who have yet to master the language skills necessary for communication. There was a lot of friendly nodding and smiling whever I clumsily attempted to trip all over my words. I mostly remained silent whenever possible.

Part of it was intimidation because his family is all very successful in whatever big careers they all have. Big non-artistic successful careers. Careers which actually make money and all. I don't think anyone there would have worn shredded stockings. I definitely know that this does not make them in any way more valid than me; on the contrary, I've always seen the arts as more valid than most things. I'm sure I would have felt far more at ease were I able to say "Why yes, I'm doing a show right now, as we speak. Come see me in all my brilliance!", but I couldn't. And somehow I was afraid to mention that I'm in the process of co-developing a work that's so in the initial stages that I'm not ready to articulate it even here in this blog.

Even more intimidating was the hyper-awareness of exactly how young I am (wow, that's a rarity for me to see it that way, isn't it?) This isn't the first time I've dated someone older than me, as you know, and in fact this age difference (18 years) is far less than that of my previous older guy experience. I don't know why this time around I'm more skittish about it. Perhaps its because of having previously been through it, and knowing that in that particular situation, the gap caused many more problems than I was willing to admit. I don't think that would be the case this time around, and so many things are different (myself included)...but I am aware of it. And I suppose that made me eager to somehow prove myself worthy of hanging with the big kids, you know?

I survived the evening. I have no idea how I came across; Doc Harley's response was "What are you talking about? You came across fine. The food was good wasn't it?" Umm, I'm not sure, because I was too nervous to really taste anything. How freaking silly is that? I'm an adult, dating and still getting to know another adult. That's it. No pressure, no expectations, just enjoyment of the moment. I somehow forgot that, until we got back to his place and I curled up in his arms and remembered which moments were truly important.

I blame it on my mother, who being French has 15 heart attacks per second when it comes to manners and such. Not that my mother is formal, by any stretch of the imagination, we just have a certain way of doing things and a certain way of behaving in certain situations and well damn if that doesn't sound uptight now that I'm typing it out.

I am a very silly and sometimes quite French monkey. I guess I wore the wrong hat.

What's more important is that I'm having such an incredible time with this man who makes me smile all the time and who is the only person who has ever been able to wake me up laughing in the morning.

I'm beginning to like drinking coffee in the shower. I think its a metaphor.

Going Out on a Limb

You are hereby forewarned that this post may come across as uncharacteristically schmaltzy. Make no mistake, however, I am still a jaded bitch. Somewhere in there. Really. I am.

So the comments stemming from this post really kind of got me thinking - a scary prospect, I realize, but perhaps a good thing nontheless. See, Orphannie, as usual, kind of hit the nail on the head and called me out on what I stubbornly didn't want to admit was true. She said "i'm just saying make sure you're not finding fault with everyone just because you don't want to get close to anyone". This hit home hard, as it certainly fits in with my pattern, as has also been stated by Lady Charon on more than one occasion. Swandad told me to "shit or get off the pot!" and while this first seemed perhaps harsh, I think he had a valid point. Armed with all of this, I went home for Rosh Hashanah, determined to prove everyone wrong and come up with concrete arguments proving that I was indeed open and giving this guy a chance.

Even my own mother took their side, saying that it seemed to her I was nitpicking and finding any excuse to dismiss this guy. She asked if I had told him that PDA bothered me. Umm, well, no, but umm...he should know by my reactions, right? Okay, okay. I suppose that nondisclosure does fall into the catagory of not giving the guy a fair chance.

But I didn't think I was scared of anything. I mean, Doc Harley's incredibly weird, but totally non-threatening and not really asking for more than I can give. Scared? What could I possibly be scared of?

By the end of my time away, I had finally called a resounding "Bullshit!" on myself.

The truth is I'm uncomfortable with being treated nicely. I'm scared of the prospect of an easy stress free male / female interaction. Its the great big scary unknown, and what if I get used to it? What if I like it and then it goes away? See, I don't exactly have a history of being treated well by people with penises - in fact, it all reads more like one neverending after school special, replete with cheesy music and meaningful camera takes. I'm so used to having to fight my way through things that I'm not sure how to relax and let go, so I seek out the familiar territory of the battle ground. And when it's not there, I search out reasons to abandon the good in serach of the bad. Its not a masochistic thing, its just a learned behavior. Does that make any sense?

I decided it was time to indeed "shit or get off the pot!". I chose to shit.

Wow, I really should choose another maxim; I'm thinking that's either incredibly insulting or ultimately prophetic...only time will tell.

I came back home ready to give him a real chance, not just the transparent facade of a chance he'd been previously afforded...and wow, what a difference it made. The silly little things that annoyed me and seemed so big really weren't, they were just magnified by fear. I told him how much I hate PDA, and we've sort of found a compromise consisting of he mostly abstains and when he goes too far I push him away and remind him that 1. I hate PDA and 2. I will be spending the night with him. He can kiss and grope me as much as he likes...in private. Then he makes fun of what he considers my tight lipped public kiss. Whatever. He's definitely trying to respect my wishes and that's what's important.

I ended up spending a really lovely weekend with him. Saturday afternoon we went to see Robert Bresson's Pickpocket at the Film Forum - his idea, and the absolute perfect thing for what was the official start date of monsoon season here in the city. This was followed by drinks at a wonderful little treasure of a restaurant that one of his patients owns; its tucked away in an alley and you walk into a completely different time and place. He actually doesn't really drink and I think its rather odd that I, who could be called a bit of a lush, keep dating men who don't drink. We met SL2000 for dinner, who said that Doc Harley was "unexpectedly classy"...something I had been too busy pushing him away to notice. We floated (literally) down the street to hear Betty Dylan, one of my favorite bands (who were incredible, of course), where we met up with more friends, including The Lone Star Talent, my future roomate.

Let me just state that he didn't bat an eyelash at meeting a gaggle of friends all at once. That's refreshing, to say the least. He also invited everyone back to his apartment to hang out afterwards, which gets big points, you know? He didn't have to do that...inviting people over is a whole other level above and beyond the call of duty.

Not that there's any duty. Just so you know - I'm stating for the record right now there is no duty.

So one of my friends, Mr. Haberdasher, ended up staying over at Doc Harley's on the couch (yet another case of above and beyond whatever term means the same thing but isn't the call of duty) that night. In the morning the boys went out for brunch supplies while I was a lazy princess and took a bubble bath. We had a lovely brunch and then went on an impromptu adventure to the Met.

Wow. I'm dating someone who likes to go on impromptu adventures, like me. To museums no less!

I'm also dating someone that doesn't know how to use an inside voice in a museum.

It was lovely nontheless; the 5 year old in him is endearing as well as annoying, I find. We spent about 3 or 4 hours in the museum and then went to the park, where Mr. Haberdasher and Doc Harley had me in stitches with their running commentary of everyone who passed by. We rounded off the day with a trip to Veselka to warm our chilly bones with tons of yummy Russian food (there's nothing like Borscht on a cold day). Then Doc Harley and I went back to his place and cuddled up on the couch watching Mystery on PBS (yes, I watched television, but it was PBS, so that makes it okay).

It was kind of the perfect little weekend.

Wow, that scares me. That scares me almost as much as the fact that I called him this afternoon just to say hi.

He did ask if I wanted to go to the Oyster Festival this weekend to hear his friend's band play and told me to invite whatever friends I wanted to, which I thought very cool of him. The weekend after that we're going out of town, to a wedding. I'm his date for a wedding...yikes! And we're going to get a hotel room or maybe even a B&B and have a weekend adventure.

So I'm giving him a chance. And I had a really great weekend. I guess that should really be enough for now, but of course I'm an obsessive worrier and can't leave it at just that. I should though. I should just enjoy this right now. Easier said than done. I'm not used to this, thus it scares me.

And no, Mr. Artsy Hotpants, none of this means he's my boyfriend!

A Helluva Lot of Good Luck

I just went outside for a smoke break, and much to my dismay brought back a souvenir from my not-so-lengthy excursion outside. The moment I walked back in, one of my co-workers called me over to let me know that I had a gigantic smattering of bird shit all over the back of my sweater. No, of course it wasn't a small somewhat inncouous smear, it was a feather looking shape about the length of a pen and the width of a quarter. I made a beeline for the bathroom, and of course on my way was stopped by 12 people asking me what was on my sweater. My response was, of course, "bird shit", which seemed to surprise some of them. Well then why'd you ask? I handwashed my sweater in the sink,which is hanging to dry as I tyoe this but I'm sure it will remain indefinitely wet, especially because the temperature outside is so cold and the sweater so badly needed.

I've got a giant smattering of good luck coming my way and that's all there is to it!

Ambushed!

I am notoriously impossible to wake up in the morning; I stubbornly cling to sleep, desperately crying out "Five more minutes! Five more minutes!" if anyone dares to disturb my figure burrowing further and further under the covers. But clearly, this morning I was outsmarted, and my evil plan to sleep well into the day and then cry about not getting enough hours was cruelly thwarted. Doc Harleycame over to my side of the bed and gently kissed me, following me as I rolled away towards the other side of the bed (my huge tactical error, I now realize). Despite my feeble protestations, he kept saying "I just want to show you something, then you can go back to bed." Silly me, thought it was a mere come on, and not the ingenious wake up strategy it turned out to be. He rolled me right out of the bed, and half carried me to the bathroom, where the shower was already on, temperature perfectly adjusted. Before I could even realize what was happening, I was in the shower and beginning to wake up. Then, just to ensure I continued to wake up, he came and brought me some coffee while I was in the shower. Damnitt!! There was no turning back then, I was waking up, with no excuse to crawl back into bed and avoid my day. NPR was even blasting on the radio in the bathroom, waking my brain as well as my body.

Shit. I must start dating stupid men who are unable to trick me into waking up. (of course considering my usual half sleep state, only a lobotomy victim would be unable to outsmart me first thing in the morning).

I was too busy laughing when I finally realized what had happened to be upset at all. On the contrary, I thought it was very cute,

Happy New Year!!

On Monday and Tuesday I celebrated my new year. While I did have quite a bit of wine at dinner, it didn't involve the drunken bachanalia one usually associates with New Year's. No, the Jewish New Year is celebrated by eating more than one human can possibly ever digest, drinking the most hiddeous wine ever created (except in my family - there is the French side you know..), eating apples and honey (read as spilling honey all over the table cloth and somehow getting it in my hair) for a sweet new year, and of course the oh-so-fun looking inward self examination. That's right, who needs drunken revelry when you can examine all of the ways in which you didn't necessarily live up to your own goals and ideals of what a good person is? Not only is it heaps of fun, but you definitely don't wake up next to some mystery person/alien/bizarre sex toy the next morning. Unless of course you live in Long Island, but as that's a scary thought to ponder anyway, we'll just leave that one alone.

Thus begins the time period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, oddly named as The Days of Awe [insert weird theme music here]. Days of what? Awe you say? How about calling a spade a spade...let's get honest here, isn't something like Days of Guilt a little more appropriate?

See, we don't have absolution or anything. We do fast on Yom Kippur, but it certainly doesn't cleanse us of sin or anything...it just makes us really fucking hungry, reminds us that we're human, and then we pig out on kugel and bagels and shit. No, no absolution; no easy way out. We basically have to acknowledge that we fucked up, and just live with it.

It sounds worse than it is though. See, in Judaism there is no perfect (unless you're a Jewish mother and have a son); no human in any stories of the torah is infallible. We strive to be the best we can, but we're all human and therefore we make a gigantic pigsty of everything we attempt. Our intentions are good though, for the most part. So this time is about looking at the ways in which we've fallen short of our goals of who we want to be. Its about honest evaluation, both good and bad, of the chages that have happened in the last year, and then kind of deciding where we want to go from here. Its like a rest area on the highway of life; so maybe there were a few wrong turns, you got a little lost...okay. But where do you want to go now? And it makes a hell of a lot of sense, really.

My friend, NinjaLady, used to say to me often "You have to know where you've been to know where you are to know where you're going." As I grow older, I understand more and more exactly what she was saying.

So now begins my time of introspection. Who am I? Who was I at this time last year? Who do I want to be at this time next year?

The answer is definitely not late, which is what I will be if I continue this post. So I will leave you with this cliff hanger, to perhaps come up with your own creative answers (you just can't make TV references or I won't get them at all).

Shamefully Shaggable

Oh no! I was tagged! I knew it would happen sooner or later...I knew I couldn't get away with never having to answer silly or embarassing questionaires. But Ava, did you have to tag me for the shame file? As if people didn't have enough to make fun of me for? Okay, here goes:

Naming a list of your top 5 celebrities/people in the public eye you consider to be completely shaggable is an easy task. But there is another list; the list you daren't mention to even your closest confidantes. This list you keep to yourself, because it utterly bewilders and shames you that you could have salacious thoughts about any of these individuals. I am going to open myself up for ridicule and publicly name my shame file shags in no particular order:
Gerard Depardieu: Okay, but did you see Cyrano? I guess I'm a sucker for a huge schnoz...


Sir Anthony Hopkins: Umm, my liver is not what I'd like him to eat with a nice Chiante. Sorry, but he's sexy, that's all there is to it.

Bill Clinton: I am hanging my head in shame. Maybe I just like cigars? I don't know what it is about him...his outlook on health care?

Roberto Benigni: Definition of dorky sexy. Sometimes the class clown does get the girl, and goofiness can be a turn on. Really.

Billy Bob Thornton: Okay, clearly I'm not the only one...Angelina Jolie thought he was sexy too. Uh-huh, I reckon'

Okay, I'm tagging SL2000, Orhpannie, Swandad, Sgroovy, and asking MAH to come out of blogging retirement for this one.

(whew, I survived my first tag, dignity somewhat intact...)

Uh Oh, I Figured Out How to Audioblog Again...

That's right, I figured out their sneaky phone number changing trick (yes, it took me this long) and am now audioblogging again....just because I am that masochistic to want to record my voice that I can't stand hearing.

So this is my lzay Saturday afternoon rambling post, updating you on such exciting news as a roomate change, new friends moving here, Mr. Artsy Hotpants' LSAT test he took today, and my impending rusha homa for Rosh Hashanah at 3am tonight. I know some people don't have sound cards on their computers (I remebered getting comments to that effect when previously addicted to audioblogger), but its really not all that exciting of a post and not that worth transcribing. The gist is that I'm taking the day for myself as I desperately needed to, and I'm just relaxing and rambling. It's a good thing.