At what age are life-crises inappropriate? The target age to flip your shit with mild to little trepidation from friends and family and perhaps the occasional console “it’s only a phase dear. S/he’ll grow out of it” is fifty-something. Finding yourself in a mustang convertible with two misplaced cheerleaders and a bottle of Rogaine in the glove compartment at age sixty something is borderline, concerning, and an indication that you missed your golden opportunity to make brow-raising decisions (read: fool of oneself) a good decade ago. Peak too early, and you find yourself on the other end of an “intervention” or worse, committed. “I was just expressing myself” or, “I need to find out who I am” are age-sensitive excuses either for students on their Euro-binge/East Asia-backpacking sprawl of a gap year before they get their so called life back on track, or the wo/man who after crying over their first over-the-hill birthday card which was received on their eight forty-second birthday, tries to make up for their lost youth by engaging in every adventure sport and sport instructor they can get their hands on. And frankly, it’s not fair.
I had my first coming of age meltdown at eighteen and no, I’m not proud of it. I knew eighteen was the beginning of the end but what I didn’t realize was, my rational would lend itself to argue that 17 too, was the beginning of the end and even, every day from there on would be, the beginning of the end. Morbid, I know. And a waste of thought too, but at the root of my anxiety was our cliché “live every day as if it were your last” or a little less sad, “to the fullest” and finally everyone’s go-to quip “seize the day.” My first life-crisis was in fear of not making the most out of the time I’ve been given and how different is that from the philosophy behind the mid-life crises we forgive? And now, four years later, a recent college graduate with my entire future ahead of me, again, just as it were in days, weeks, and months before with my life, still ahead of me, I face another life-crises and boy, am I being harangued by the upper echelons. I dare say I am the subject of ageism. Because were it not for my lack of life experience or, as it were, requited age for bitching about those white streaks in my hair, I wouldn’t be lectured in patronizing tones about the illegitimate agency I have to make untraditional decisions that pave a new way of life. Simply, I’m being told quite boldly, that I am not allowed to behave the way I am, to get my ass back in line and do like the other chickadees do. But, since I do have white hair at the tender age of twenty-two, I’m going to go ahead and take control of this situation and create a life for myself with the grace and wisdom that comes with age. Because what I really am doing, is reflecting on what direction I want my life to go in, and acting accordingly. Is this any less appropriate than a midlife crisis?
What I am struggling with in this most recent crisis, is how to best serve myself in a society that guides post-grads and individuals at large into a mainstream homogenous lifestyle. How, do I manage to translate my personal values and long-term goals into a sustainable way of life when they are not parallel to and sometimes even clash with social norms for the average twenty-two year old? For example, I’ve been told that as a first priority, I need to make money. Regardless of the glamour of the job, I need a pay check, I need to support myself, I need to earn cash and when and only when that happens, can I make movement towards another goal. So, chickadee went to market and got herself a menial job in the interim until “the real deal” came along. And when the job ceased to be fulfilling and meet expectations, I reevaluated what I was doing with my life. How quickly the months of interim passed and how little I had to show for it. Not only were my days seized by the wrong people, (namely, not myself) but my goals seemed to fall increasingly further away. I’ve started to question my own priorities. What is more important to me: a paycheck with weighty strings of frustration and unhappiness attached, or less monetary stability and the added ability and time to consider what would be a worthwhile way to spend my life? Fortunately, I feel privileged enough to have the opportunity to choose the latter with comfort and knowledge that not everyone can afford to make a similar choice. Next comes an ethical dilemma; Do I place myself amongst the many, go to a job I hate, pay my dues, and cross my fingers that I one day get out of it because everyone else is doing it too? Just because some people don’t have an alternative, a choice, does that mean I have to suffer as well? Contrastingly, would I be doing a disservice in not taking such a gift, by turning my back on a valuable opportunity? Would I show humility and selflessness by falling rank and file? How are we fighting the good fight and how has it changed? Do I give myself the opportunity to fight for a life that can be well thought out, enjoyed from the very beginning, envisioned and conscious? Or, do I do what I’m told, meet the pre-natal expectations and risk regretting wasting time for the sake of following the process toward leading a successful life? Is success still measured monetarily? Has no one paid any attention to the MasterCard commercials?
So, what am I doing here? A lot of thinking, for one. I’m going slightly left of the grain (shocker). I’ve decided not to demean myself by doing work that isn’t meaningful to me. I'm forgoing the steady pay-check and going to wing-it. And, to be clear, it isn’t the act of the job that I find demeaning, it is not doing everything within my means to fight for living life to it’s fullest by my own core beliefs and terms that is demeaning. In not consuming myself with the crazed thought of making a dollar, I’m giving myself room to experiment, to grow, to consider. I am slowing my life down and taking advantage of the fact that this life is it. My decision to do what makes me happy in the moment is under review as irrational. I think it’s just untraditional. Regardless of the characteristic of my most recent decision and current thoughts, would I get away with this behavior if I had a full head of white hair?
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
It's not always about the Turkey
I think the last time I thanked my sister was roughly a decade ago at her Bat Mitzvah. I was required by the parentals to give a speech in her honor and the cheeky girl that I was, spun off a little spiel out of a string of 'thank-yous' or as it were back then, a list of "things my sister is good for." But, since then, I’ve dropped the ball and taken her presence for granted. I’ve gotten used to the fact that my closet seems to mysteriously deplete as my sister’s gains two-fold, or the fantastic way she keeps me trim by eating the Halvah I stashed in my car, later claiming, “I didn’t know what it was there for!” Over the years, I have sidetracked from acknowledging what my sister really is good for and thankfully (get it?) was given a little hip-bump and wink from ModCloth to reflect on dear Lili.
During my daily outing to Modcloth I stumbled upon their Thanksgiving-Thank-a-Thon Blog Contest and between the threads took pause to ponder who exactly am I most thankful for? The friends in my FavFives account? The genius who invented Pandora? Tuesday’s date who legitimized my degree in women’s studies by assuming we’d split the check? It was a toss up, but the pound landed Lizzy-side up and I’m giving the shout out to her other Royal Highness, Lili Katz.
Lili dearest, we’ve both outgrown the neon bikini I forced you to wear and share at the beach that summer we were four and five. And true, while we both wish it suited (intended) us today, while retro is high tide, (ok I’m done) there are a lot of aspects to our relationship I’m glad to shed and new trends I am so happy to grow-into with you. I am thankful for our dance compatibility. I don’t know what I would do without a girl to show me up on them mashed-potato moves. Your grooves are the perfect distraction from Mom’s claw shuffle on family club crawls (there was that one time in Mexico…). I am thankful for our proximity in age, that we can share similar obstacles and feats and swap stories of the battle wounds we won in the process. I am thankful for your handwritten letters. Some might say we waste time re-learning to write 3rd grade cursive when we put pen to paper, or searching the house for a damn stamp, but I treasure seeing your scripted capital L in the return address because it reminds me of youth and stability.
It’s not just that your signature has yet to change since the third grade, but your flair for genuine fun and hint of Peter Pan syndrome is rejuvenating. You’re accomplished and stylish, a smarty and hip, and you brighten my day singing Adelaide’s La Grip. A sister-for-life you have to be, (mom says) but dependable in nature is an added bonus. I know I can always count on you for your love, a good laugh, and sage fashion advice (I’ll never pair orange with purple and forest green again!) I miss you and sometimes wish the postman wasn’t the one to facilitate our relationship, but will take his tacit participation for now. Basically Lili, I am so thankful for all the unconditional sisterly beauty you give me that isn’t required of you by the manual mom and dad gave us that one year at Hanukah.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Whose That Girl?
That Intel Girl.
Did I mention that I got the Intel gig? Apparently my confident cover letter proved my geek-chic-ness. After a series of run-around and vague phone calls regarding the event, I was directed to a training on Thursday afternoon. Hesitant and very wary of the type of job I was getting into, not to mention of the people who seem to be fulfilling a career in this industry, I reminded myself to stay true and grounded. I might be geek-chic, but I am not the type of girl who would normally find myself in this line of work and to prove it to myself and the people I expected to meet, I arrived to training in jeans and a t-shirt with my hair tucked up inside a baseball cap. Well, I was on my way to the game anyway - I wasn't going schlep around an extra bag of clothes just for a training. Anyway, I thought I was being funny and a smart-alec but it turned out, I wasn't that girl either.
In the elevator I prepared myself to face a room full of platinums and walked in to find four average lookers of different creeds chilling on a couch. Confused, I scanned the room and not finding the assembly belt of barbies, almost turned around and walked out. Erica assured me I was in the right spot and I shrugged and joined in the conversation. Eventually two blonde strumpets did arrive and content that my grossly unfair generalization was met, we started training. Oh hey PowerPoint, didn't expect to see you post college. What's that you read? An Intel mission statement? Unnecessary animated transitions? Failed uTube links? I remember you. Fortunately Intel provided us with Ghirardelli chocolates of which I had six. Oh yum. After learning that we would be promoting Intel's new values that are to appeal to the oh-so-important, jaded and easily persuaded youth, and a long lecture about the difference between a geek and a nerd (oh it happened) we were told we would be standing around promoting a new image. The good news, it was at Outside Lands! Only the biggest city summer music festival with tickets so expensive I didn't dare even check out the website! The bad news? There was a costume involved. The good news? There was a choice in costume; mini skirts or jump suits. The bad news? The strumpets won the choice. Guess which outfit they found most promising (read: sexy).
I'm just going to get through this next part real quick. White skirt, white top, white lab coat (geek = scientist but we need sexy so.....), patent leather platform go-go-boots, blue sunglasses and, an electric blue wig. I was happy to see that the skirt was old-navy because I buy old-navy all the time and know my size. Intel thought they knew better and requested I move down a size. Maybe geeks are turning slutty these days...I don't know...I didn't ask. Bewildered and giddy with fatigue and blue overload, I stumbled into a Walgreens to ask for a bag to shove my prize outfit in. So much for not lugging around clothes to the baseball game. I'm not even going to mention what happened when the bag broke at the Giants game, revealing the mesh of blue and white. I'm not sure if the fact that I was at a Jewish Heritage sponsored game was in my favor (I'm thinking Intel brand meets tribe colors) or not...but I'm confident that the blue wig raised some questions with the rabbis.
I didn't escape the house Friday morning and Cousin Danielle caught me dressed and ready to go (estoy listo?) with her blackberry phone. I was marched outside to have my picture taken for the yearbook and then one in front of the truck because I was probably the only one in San Francisco looking like that driving a pick up. Eh, maybe there were two of us. But I bet I was the only one being paid! Maybe not. Actually, if there were two of us, I bet the other was getting paid more than me.
Annnyway, because the concert was in Golden Gate Park, I had to park on the perimeter and walk into the mess of second-shift disaster zone in my go-go boots. Oh boy did I get looks. At least no one could recognize me! I tried hard to be That Intel Girl as I negotiated dirt hill and eucalyptus spillage in my whites but it was weird. People have no problem staring. I probably would have stared too! You know something is completely off their rocker if they're getting the stare down in this city though. As soon as I entered fun-land I didn't really have to BE a character anymore. I was branded and people took care of forming ideals of who I was for me. I relinquished control over my personality to the ingenious minds of Intel and played ball.
A few minutes early to the gig, I walked into other vendor booths and got high fives and hugs from other workers. "Hey it's an Intel Girl!" I was on the inside and it felt right on! I was part of a group, the support staff, we got each other's back yo. I was immediately cool, a felt like I would enjoy my three days as an Intel Girl. The Intel Booth was by far the biggest tent at the concert. White (of course) and dome shaped, inside was a dj booth, a mixing station, a tech station, computers to check e-mail, upload pics and videos, an oxygen bar and lounge. It was plush, loud, and white for a hot second. You gota start questioning the geeks upstairs at Intel who thought that the color white was going to go over well at an OUTSIDE LANDS concert...really?
I got my assignment, to stand at a station and engage patrons. We weren’t selling, we had nothing to promote, we had nothing to do, and we didn't work for Intel. If we were asked questions were were to direct them to intel.com and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I was there, and what go-go boots had to do with being useless in a crowd of randoms who thought they were getting drunk off our test-tube shots of blue poweraid at the oxygen bar. That was a true story.
Eventually I worked my way up to the observation deck on top of the dome that looked out onto the crowd and main stage. That was cool, lonely, and increasingly windy. I started to get cold and bored. My head was pounding with the dj beats from below which were competing with the main stage concert vibes. I started to dance. I love to dance, even by myself, and in public too! You might have seen me get down in the dairy isle of the grocery store before, or that one time in my dorm room junior year when I forgot to close the curtains. But, there is something really really weird about dancing on an outside balcony by yourself, watching people, in a wig and a lab coat. I dare say it sounds a bit stalker-ish and border line perverted. It got creepier when people came up to talk to me on the deck. I got, "Is that your real hair?" more than once. From the kids, it was ok; I can understand their negligence to notice the six other blue wigs around. From the adults, I was concerned and wanted to ask them several follow up questions. Sometimes I answered their question with a simple "yes" and then when they clarified with a "really?" I alternated between answers "yes" to which they usually thought I was a freak because I was obviously lying and in turn they would walk away, or "no" to which they would realize their question was stupid and in turn, they would walk away. Win win.
Some other Intel Girls wanted to switch places with me so I spent the last few hours in front of the dome, standing and wondering what the fuck I was supposed to be doing. People didn't know if they should come up and talk to me or watch me. Hell, I didn't know either. As it grew dark and the concert-goers antsy for Pearl Jam, I felt less and less comfortable as that Intel Girl. People touched my hair, wrapped their arms around me to have their picture taken with me, walked right up to me and expected something to happen...oh yeah...I was a gimmick. People expected something to happen if they came up to me and I had nothing. Sometimes I said "hey!" but then I got to thinking...would they walk right up to me if I didn't look like a cross between a smurffette and Scooby Doo's friend Velma? Probably not, and had they, I would look at them as expectantly as they were looking at me! So...the times I didn't say "hey!" and just stared back, were hysterically awkward.
I really did not like being touched and in pictures and verbally harassed. Not ten minutes into the shift, a superiorly unattractive older biggest loser candidate walked past me and caudled "you're fucking sexy." How I wish I had gotten my feminist act together quick enough to shout back "you too hot stuff."
...To Be continued
Did I mention that I got the Intel gig? Apparently my confident cover letter proved my geek-chic-ness. After a series of run-around and vague phone calls regarding the event, I was directed to a training on Thursday afternoon. Hesitant and very wary of the type of job I was getting into, not to mention of the people who seem to be fulfilling a career in this industry, I reminded myself to stay true and grounded. I might be geek-chic, but I am not the type of girl who would normally find myself in this line of work and to prove it to myself and the people I expected to meet, I arrived to training in jeans and a t-shirt with my hair tucked up inside a baseball cap. Well, I was on my way to the game anyway - I wasn't going schlep around an extra bag of clothes just for a training. Anyway, I thought I was being funny and a smart-alec but it turned out, I wasn't that girl either.
In the elevator I prepared myself to face a room full of platinums and walked in to find four average lookers of different creeds chilling on a couch. Confused, I scanned the room and not finding the assembly belt of barbies, almost turned around and walked out. Erica assured me I was in the right spot and I shrugged and joined in the conversation. Eventually two blonde strumpets did arrive and content that my grossly unfair generalization was met, we started training. Oh hey PowerPoint, didn't expect to see you post college. What's that you read? An Intel mission statement? Unnecessary animated transitions? Failed uTube links? I remember you. Fortunately Intel provided us with Ghirardelli chocolates of which I had six. Oh yum. After learning that we would be promoting Intel's new values that are to appeal to the oh-so-important, jaded and easily persuaded youth, and a long lecture about the difference between a geek and a nerd (oh it happened) we were told we would be standing around promoting a new image. The good news, it was at Outside Lands! Only the biggest city summer music festival with tickets so expensive I didn't dare even check out the website! The bad news? There was a costume involved. The good news? There was a choice in costume; mini skirts or jump suits. The bad news? The strumpets won the choice. Guess which outfit they found most promising (read: sexy).
I'm just going to get through this next part real quick. White skirt, white top, white lab coat (geek = scientist but we need sexy so.....), patent leather platform go-go-boots, blue sunglasses and, an electric blue wig. I was happy to see that the skirt was old-navy because I buy old-navy all the time and know my size. Intel thought they knew better and requested I move down a size. Maybe geeks are turning slutty these days...I don't know...I didn't ask. Bewildered and giddy with fatigue and blue overload, I stumbled into a Walgreens to ask for a bag to shove my prize outfit in. So much for not lugging around clothes to the baseball game. I'm not even going to mention what happened when the bag broke at the Giants game, revealing the mesh of blue and white. I'm not sure if the fact that I was at a Jewish Heritage sponsored game was in my favor (I'm thinking Intel brand meets tribe colors) or not...but I'm confident that the blue wig raised some questions with the rabbis.
I didn't escape the house Friday morning and Cousin Danielle caught me dressed and ready to go (estoy listo?) with her blackberry phone. I was marched outside to have my picture taken for the yearbook and then one in front of the truck because I was probably the only one in San Francisco looking like that driving a pick up. Eh, maybe there were two of us. But I bet I was the only one being paid! Maybe not. Actually, if there were two of us, I bet the other was getting paid more than me.
Annnyway, because the concert was in Golden Gate Park, I had to park on the perimeter and walk into the mess of second-shift disaster zone in my go-go boots. Oh boy did I get looks. At least no one could recognize me! I tried hard to be That Intel Girl as I negotiated dirt hill and eucalyptus spillage in my whites but it was weird. People have no problem staring. I probably would have stared too! You know something is completely off their rocker if they're getting the stare down in this city though. As soon as I entered fun-land I didn't really have to BE a character anymore. I was branded and people took care of forming ideals of who I was for me. I relinquished control over my personality to the ingenious minds of Intel and played ball.
A few minutes early to the gig, I walked into other vendor booths and got high fives and hugs from other workers. "Hey it's an Intel Girl!" I was on the inside and it felt right on! I was part of a group, the support staff, we got each other's back yo. I was immediately cool, a felt like I would enjoy my three days as an Intel Girl. The Intel Booth was by far the biggest tent at the concert. White (of course) and dome shaped, inside was a dj booth, a mixing station, a tech station, computers to check e-mail, upload pics and videos, an oxygen bar and lounge. It was plush, loud, and white for a hot second. You gota start questioning the geeks upstairs at Intel who thought that the color white was going to go over well at an OUTSIDE LANDS concert...really?
I got my assignment, to stand at a station and engage patrons. We weren’t selling, we had nothing to promote, we had nothing to do, and we didn't work for Intel. If we were asked questions were were to direct them to intel.com and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I was there, and what go-go boots had to do with being useless in a crowd of randoms who thought they were getting drunk off our test-tube shots of blue poweraid at the oxygen bar. That was a true story.
Eventually I worked my way up to the observation deck on top of the dome that looked out onto the crowd and main stage. That was cool, lonely, and increasingly windy. I started to get cold and bored. My head was pounding with the dj beats from below which were competing with the main stage concert vibes. I started to dance. I love to dance, even by myself, and in public too! You might have seen me get down in the dairy isle of the grocery store before, or that one time in my dorm room junior year when I forgot to close the curtains. But, there is something really really weird about dancing on an outside balcony by yourself, watching people, in a wig and a lab coat. I dare say it sounds a bit stalker-ish and border line perverted. It got creepier when people came up to talk to me on the deck. I got, "Is that your real hair?" more than once. From the kids, it was ok; I can understand their negligence to notice the six other blue wigs around. From the adults, I was concerned and wanted to ask them several follow up questions. Sometimes I answered their question with a simple "yes" and then when they clarified with a "really?" I alternated between answers "yes" to which they usually thought I was a freak because I was obviously lying and in turn they would walk away, or "no" to which they would realize their question was stupid and in turn, they would walk away. Win win.
Some other Intel Girls wanted to switch places with me so I spent the last few hours in front of the dome, standing and wondering what the fuck I was supposed to be doing. People didn't know if they should come up and talk to me or watch me. Hell, I didn't know either. As it grew dark and the concert-goers antsy for Pearl Jam, I felt less and less comfortable as that Intel Girl. People touched my hair, wrapped their arms around me to have their picture taken with me, walked right up to me and expected something to happen...oh yeah...I was a gimmick. People expected something to happen if they came up to me and I had nothing. Sometimes I said "hey!" but then I got to thinking...would they walk right up to me if I didn't look like a cross between a smurffette and Scooby Doo's friend Velma? Probably not, and had they, I would look at them as expectantly as they were looking at me! So...the times I didn't say "hey!" and just stared back, were hysterically awkward.
I really did not like being touched and in pictures and verbally harassed. Not ten minutes into the shift, a superiorly unattractive older biggest loser candidate walked past me and caudled "you're fucking sexy." How I wish I had gotten my feminist act together quick enough to shout back "you too hot stuff."
...To Be continued
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Women's Studies Major Goes Ginger for Dough
The city is bleak with job prospects and being the desperate foodie I am and not wanting to kick my habit of...eating...I signed up to receive notifications of "gigs" in my area. This work is generally, handing out samples in a mall, working events and tradeshows, etc. I heard that the money was good and the positions in this line of work, ridiculously easy. I am by no means interested in wasting the beautiful liberal arts degree I recently culled but like I said, a girl's gotta eat and while my new philosophy of not saying "no" to a date has kept my social calendar chock-a-block and my stomach well fed, I'd like like to tell my god children that I didn’t get to where I am now by sitting on my ass – I worked damit! Hopefully by the time that lecture rolls around I’ll at least be two steps closer to my dream job, mopping the already pristine floors of the Googleplex. Many of the job notifications I receive go into my gmail folder titled “career2” to separate that correspondence from the real careers I am pursuing. I don’t bother replying to 99% of the notifications but I would like to share with you the latest. Don’t bother replying in angst with advice on how best to decide whether or not to attend the below gig (Lili). I’ll take insult to anyone out there would dare to think I, a women’s studies major and proud feminist, would participate in a degrading, disgusting, and draw-dropping casting call. Even, to make a buck. Read on: And if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and narrate between parenthesis.
August 27th, 2009
Hello ladies!
Some of you may have already seen the invite on the e-planner but in case you haven’t:
We’d like to invite you to a Casting Call for a new Liquor Program JAMESON, slotted to run through the end of the year. (Right on! Semi-permanent gig, good cash flow, potential for free 7&7s.!)
Events for this program will run approximately 2-3/week, for 3-4 hrs per event. Events will pay $23/Hr (hot dog!) with an opportunity to receive bonuses based on accumulated hours and excelling as a Brand Ambassador at the events. (Oh hello, I would kick as a Brand Ambassador, I did it for Google at Denison right?)
This invite is to the CASTING CALL, next Tuesday September 1st . This casting is unpaid, (ehhh) and will serve as the job interview for candidacy on the Liquor Program Team. You will then be notified if you have been selected to be on the team, (that’s a bit shit isn’t it?) and will attend a PAID training, details TBD.
(Ok now for the audition details!)
San Francisco Casting Location and Time:
Date – Tuesday September 1st
Time - Castings will run from 8:00PM-9:30PM (NOTE: You will be slotted in every TEN MINUTES. If you are late for your casting, you will lose your opportunity. COME EARLY, and COME PREPARED.)
Location – Kell’s Irish Pub in San Francisco 530 Jackson St.
(Interesting…interview at a Pub, but it is for Jameson…let’s read on)
ü At this casting, you will interview, and also try on the Program Uniform (Black Skirt and Green Tee). (Yeah, I’m not liking the uniformed gigs. It screams hooters to me for some reason.) The client will take a photo (creepy) of you in the uniform for assistance with decision making. YOU MUST BE A SIZE 1 UP THROUGH A 5. (These are the only sizes the uniforms come in.) (Shocker, the only sizes they come in? Would that be because…you only ordered them in those sizes? Maybe? Disgusting. No need to delve into this issue).
ü YOU MUST BRING YOUR OWN HIGH HEELED KNEE HIGH BOOTS
(sasssssy with a side of you’ve got to be kidding me. Ok, I have the boots, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to strut around in them in front of strangers with a camera. My strut looks like a waddle in knee high heels and paired with the skirt, they should be charging way more than $23!)
ü You must arrive at the casting call with your hair and makeup done, as if you were working an (grammatically incorrect) liquor promotion. (No ponytails, etc. In other words, come looking like you are ready to go out.)
(not touching this one)
ü NO facial piercings or visible tattoos.
ü FOR JAMESON A RED WIG IS PART OF THE ATTIRE SO YOU MUST FEEL COMFORTABLE WEARING IT FOR THE EVENTS.
(we all know that I wasn’t serious about this event early on, but if anyone had any doubts until now, that red wig just sealed the deal. I’m not touching this one either. Don’t use your imagination).
If hired for this program, you are NOT able to work any other liquor, beer, or wine brand programs (UNLESS it is a Pernod-Ricard brand,) for the duration of the program. (Some Pernod Ricard Brands: Chivas Regal, Jameson, Glenlivet, Seagram’s, Absolut, Malibu, Stoli, etc.)
If interested in being booked for the casting, please reply with:
1. Your name (you mean, CandyStripper?)
2. CURRENT contact info (phone number, email address)
3. Resume with applicable experience (experience…hmmm…I saw a prostitute once in a spandex thong on the corner of a street in Berlin during music tour in high school. Does that count? Can the rest of us see what a competitive candidate’s resumes looks like for this job?)
4. 2 CURRENT photos. One headshot, one body shot.
(head shot, body shot?! Which one? The one of me on my 21st birthday kneeling next to the toilet in Brews or posing with the “gag gifts” my first-year residents bought me from the local Lion’s Den?)
*We will submit you to our client if we feel you are a good fit, (wait…a good fit as in you think my cute and out going personality will sell your liquor or good fit, you couldn’t see my lovely lady lumps spill over the size 1 skirt? I’m confused.) and we will let you know if you have been selected to attend the Casting* (All that shit and the gig still isn’t guaranteed? Yeesh!)
I laughed/cried so hard when I received this e-mail – just the thought of me participating in an interview like this was revolting. I know some people do it, but I’m not that desperate. I’m not a complete snob though; I did respond to one gig but it was for Intel and they were looking for a Geek Chic tech savvy chick, a far cry from fulfilling my childhood dream of playing little orphan Annie but with a bottle of Irish Whisky in hand.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Can I get an Ice Water with a splash of Goose?
Last Friday I attended a Stanford Social that requested the elite presence of alumni and their Ivy League friend's. I was originally asked to take the ticket of a woman I had just met at synagogue who couldn't go and meet up with her friend, but the ticket was given away to someone else. Having already convinced myself that this event would be a great networking opportunity and maybe a chance to earn the MRS degree I never received from Denison, I bought myself a ticket and arranged to meet up with the two girls whom I had never met before. Dressed in a sleek and bright cocktail dress, I rode the cable car up Powell Street and hung out the back end to stare down the repetitive hills.
I clutched my cousin's little black purse and smiled at the romantic scene before me. I jumped off the car at the 800 block and walked into the University Club where Carol and Jenna were waiting. After introducing myself and finding my nametag, we climbed the pretentious mahogany stairs and entered a trio of event rooms with a large wall of windows highlighting the downtown skyline. 
I clutched my cousin's little black purse and smiled at the romantic scene before me. I jumped off the car at the 800 block and walked into the University Club where Carol and Jenna were waiting. After introducing myself and finding my nametag, we climbed the pretentious mahogany stairs and entered a trio of event rooms with a large wall of windows highlighting the downtown skyline. Carol, Jenna and I were immediately disheartened but for seriously different reasons. I chalk this up to our difference in age, Carol and Jenna 29 and 30 respectively, to my 22 and 2/3. While the girls quickly scanned the room for male potential, only to find an overwhelming number of women similar in age, I quickly scanned the room for the table selling drink tickets, only to find prices too steep for my tolerance. They hit the bar and I hit the floor. Apparently they felt they needed drinks to mitigate their loss (the fact that they would have to do some serious pouncing to beat the gender odds) and I felt I needed to get my game on to fill the void in my empty cocktail hand.
So we did a lap. In college we called this "walking" which I am sure everyone has seen happen before. Ever notice a group of women (usually 3 or 4) walking around a room in formation? They seem to be surveying the crowd and funnily enough, they are! So we took a lap, keeping an eye out for men to pursue and when we got back to our post, planed our course of action. Carol and Jenna with their wealth of experience at these shin digs had three things to say. One, I was going to be much more successful then they because I was so young and the rest of the women were in their late 20s or 30s. Two, the pool of young men were slim which further decreased their success rate. Three, one day I would get used to chec
king out the wedding finger before the rest of the person. Oh no.
And then I pointed out a tall drink of water who appeared to be in his late twenties and suggested the girls go talk to him! Getting excited, they gulped their wine and quickly discussed their plan of attack. How would they start? What would they say? I was a little excited for them because, who doesn't like the chase? But I was also getting antsy because after all, shouldn't they be used to this game by now? "Let's just walk over to him and maybe he'll turn around" Carol suggested. So we got in formation and walked towards the young man who was standing with some friends. I was in the back of the line, with my head turned to stare at the invisible line of embarrassment we trailed, three paces behind in case anyone was looking at our ridiculousness. We stood behind this guy as he talked with some friends and Carol and Jenna gave each other the eye nudge, simply communicating, "You do it!" "No you do it!" "Just do
it!" And before you knew it mystery man was walking away. Carol's face fell.
I picked up the pieces. "No guys listen, this is great! Now he's by himself so you can just walk up to him and say hi!" Puzzled by my innovation, Jenna fell behind Carol and they walked towards the guy, who not seeing them approach, proceeded to walk into the other room. Undeterred, Carol and Jenna followed him and knowing I couldn't survive this segment of the chase without completely losing it, hung back to collect my giggles. A few deep breaths later, I decided to check in on the girls and see how they were getting on with mystery man. I walked into the other room and saw the guy still standing by himself. Confused, I turned my head to look for Jenna and Carol and found them at the bar staring at him. I know rolling your eyes is considered rude, but I did it anyway and marched up to the guy.
"Hi," I smiled; "I'm Madelei
ne" I stuck out my hand.
"Mike," he responded and smiled and began talking. Nice funny guy, good conversation...we found out we were both gatecrashers and had not even applied to the ivy leagues. I looked toward the bar at the girls who wide eyed, gave me the thumbs up sign. I turned back to Mike and smiled in apology/mischief fully knowing what was about to happen; Carol and Jenna were at my side in a hot second and as I introduced the two to Mike, they proceeded to run through the obligatory, "so what do you do?" questions. Before they got into it, I excused myself to go find some...ice water...and bailed. I spent the next half hour talking non-profits with another gatecrasher and ran into Justin, a Googler I had met the week before.
But the fun was just beginning. A large red faced man with white surfer hair and a white jacket told me that he really liked my dress to which I responded “I like your white coat” because it seemed chill Ivy and I could do with some personality in this joint. He was one of a few older men I conversed with over the period of the night and I don’t know what it is, but everyone wanted
to give me career advice. This one, Robert, was the president of a financial group and told me to go back and get an MBA. According to him, it’s the only way for me to be successful. We talked about it for about a half hour too long and again I excused myself to get…more ice water…
But escaping wasn’t so easy. As soon as I turned my back, Robert’s tone switched and instead of giving more advice, he started to speak motivation. He told me not to worry; that I would be very successful. I had the personality, I was great to talk too, I was really cute and I would have no problem getting a job. Also according to Robert, 50% is looks, 20% is attitude, 20% is passion, and 10% is knowledge. I have not a clue in hell how he managed to be president with that math (and frankly, the bright red face from double fisting cocktails) but he kept going and I continued to politely nod my head along with his compliments. I would find something soon. (nod yes) I was on my way to great things. (nod yes) I’d have no problem meeting people (nod yes) because I was friendly (yes) and cute (yes thank you) and I’d have a lot of men (here’s hopping) and a lot of boyfriends (he said it) and the real question I had to ask myself was weather or not I was interested in older men.
Ohhh what!?!
My head snapped up and the eyebrow lifted and I looked him in the eye and said, “oh I’ve answered that question. And the answer is, when I’m an older woman
I’ll be interested in older men.” Robert smiled a bit sheepishly and I really did leave then to get my ice water. The nerve right!?
I walked outside on the balcony for fresh air, took a picture of the beautiful skyscrapers surrounding the trans America building, and soaked up some more advice from another president of some other company (I forgot which one and no he’s not hiring) who tol
d me to find my secret skill. At this point I was getting tired of the career banter so I left the soul-searching therapy session and walk
ed downstairs to listen to the live band. Boppin’ my head to the music, a very tall lanky creeper with a side smile similar to the Simpson’s Montgomery Burns approached me. ‘Ohh here we go’ I thought.
I looked up and listened to the man (forget his name, let’s call him Monty) explain that he saw me by myself and that a girl like me shouldn’t be alone and then the career advice came. I tuned this guy out and smiled while I watched the band. Ok, fine…I paid a little attention but only because I feel bad being rude. So I engaged in a half assed conversation and then excused myself to go upstairs and get some more ice water. I was getting really cold with all the ice I’d been munching on and the girls had left long ago with crushed souls. Apparently their Mike bailed when I left to get ice water and their egos shot, they took each other out for dinner in the Marina district, otherwise known as the yuppie triangle.
When I got upstairs, Monty was suddenly in front of me asking if I wanted to go outside to the deck. Explaining that I had already been outside but that he really should take a look because the view was exceptional, he said ok and that he would be back and we would go downstairs and dance. As he walked away I smiled and kept my eye on the balcony door. As soon as I saw him come back inside and look for me, I hopped to and scampered into the next room. There were three adjoined on the top level and two on the bottom. I saw my Googler friend Justin and with fervor I explained to him the situation I was trying to avoid. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Monty enter the most recent threshold and bidding Justin goodbye, I booked it to room three. Looking around for a saving grace/fire escape I was literally spinning in circles. And there Monty was again! Smiling at me. Walking towards me! Forget it, I thought. This is so not worth it. I am not going to run from room to room to escape this dude. I’ve had enough of this Ivy League shit and I’m going home. At full gate, I walked out the final room and down the stairs to leave. I hit the bathroom first and as I was shoving my arms into the sleeves of my jacket I spotted two shoes right in front of me. I slowly looked up and saw Monty.
“Madeleine! Where are you going?”
“Oh” I smiled “I’m going home!”
“What about our dance?” he looked concerned. I can’t believe he didn’t recognize a woman at full run.
“Sorry. I’m leaving.”
“Well do you have a card so I can contact you?” Fuck no! I thought. I mean, yes I did have cards. I was prepared. But no way I was giving my number to this one.
“I don’t, sorry!” I really did look genuinely sorry. “I don’t have a job so, naturally no card!” Makes sense right?
“Well, what if I have a job opportunity for you? How should I contact you?” Shit.
“Oh, you know what?” feign surprise “I think I do have a card. Wait a second…” fishing around for a card. “Look at that! So, if you hear of anything, you can let me know!” This baiting might pan out after all. He looked over my card and found my scribbled e-mail and number.
“Ok, so I’ll call you if I hear of a job and, what about socially?” shit. Ice water? Ice water?
“No, not socially.” I warned, “I’m just looking for a job. Nothing social.” It was too late to take my card back and I blame falling into the trap all on the fact that I was suffering permanent brain freeze from the amount of ice water I consumed.
The Ivy League so ain’t not for me. Benumbed, I left university club for a dive bar downtown to meet a Denison friend for real drinks and the ice melted.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Castro Cycles Meet Jewish Film
To ease into life in the city of San Francisco, I found myself volunteering at the San Francisco Jewish Film Festival. I figure clutching to the Jewish community will help with the transition from a month in Israel. This morning, Cycles, a film featuring characters whose lives are interwoven by time, love, and family called for a 12pm showing and us volunteers were asked to arrive at 10:15. Always on the early side I took a stroll around the Castro neighborhood, imagining each storefront as Harvey's first home. You know you're in the Castro when you walk into a store sans theme save the color scheme (all of them colors) and find a mix of sassy greeting cards, toast imprints (to give your breakfast attitude) and chenille sticks which is an alternate term for, pipe-cleaners. I'm not kidding.
At around 10 am. I walked to the Castro Theater, a beautiful old fashioned building, quaint with antiquity and fully adding to the charm of the neighborhood, to find a small yet solid woman with pixy grey and white hair and a cane. Her name was Murial and she too was volunteering. Excellent. A Jewish motherly type figure to bestow her best wishes and guidance on my still open-ended future. Shortly after I introduced myself to Murial a young woman who happened to be the coordinator found us to apologize for her mistake in asking us to be here a full hour early. Instead of asking for the manager so that I might inquire about replacing her, I joined Murial for a cup of coffee down the street and we got to know each other. Murial is probably a mother to someone, but certainly not me as we jumped into the political, economical, and moral state of our jaded and apathetic nation. Murial has little faith in America and originally from New York and a former resident of Spain, Italy and France, her cultured and world view brings fear that the entire world is laughing at us. Murial is fiery and passionate and most of all, severely disappointed in the state of affairs but she is retired after all and happy to gripe. I was thankful for the "Where We At 101" rant because honestly, the only politics I've been aware of was the big parking lot controversy over in Jerusalem between the conservatives and...everyone else.
Eventually Murial and I returned to the theatre to take tickets, escort people to their seats and enjoy the film called Cycles. I'd like to say the free movie was worth the volunteering but what really made it was the quality people-watching opportunity. San Francisco is full of some of the most friendly faces but every now and then you get a prick who doesn't deserve to be around other people. I wish Murial were by my side for the times I said, "enjoy the film" to blank faces to trip them with her cane. Maybe next time, I have a few more shifts to fulfill.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Jerusalem Syndrom
I always knew I was special but my new friends, courtesy of couchsurfing.com, Gideon and Yair solidified my status last night. I contacted Gideon for some local Jerusalem gems, the kind you can't find via a tourist office and he happily met me downtown at Zion Square to set off on an adventure with his roommate Yair. I was thrilled to see them for three reasons, the first being that I really wanted an insider's view of the city, the second being that I am new to this phenomenal network called Couch Surfing and wanted to find out more, and the third being because I accidentally mistook a smiley guy on a bench for Gideon and while he didn't speak English particularly well, he really really wanted to help me. As I walked around the square looking for another smiley guy whose name really was Gideon, this other kid took off his sunglasses, gave me the once over and was about to pounce.
Lovely Gideon and Yair quickly ushered me into a humus shop, the first of three holy spaces we would encounter that day, to reach sanctity. This, they told me, was the best humus in all of Jerusalem. Funny, because cousin Omri said the same thing about the humus shack two streets away. I wonder if the humus guys are cousins. I’ve also been pointed in the direction of the best ice cream and Belgian waffles in all of Jerusalim. We’ll see how far we get before I sadly take off on Monday. Gideon snacked on regular humus with chickpeas strewn about and Yair’s was topped off with minced lamb. Delic. The proper way to eat humus, is yes, with pita, but more delicious, with onion, tomatoes and pickles! You just dip in, scoop, and devour.
From there we walked to the old city and once again, entered through Jaffa gate. Gideon pointed out the bullet holes in the door way and the clever architecture double door feature that prevented intruders from breaking into the city. The two were incredibly knowledgeable of the old city and pointed out artifacts, and bits of historical trivia throughout the day. I followed them inside narrow passages that lead to people’s private homes. All the buildings were made of the same stone (it is actually illegal to build anything in the old city of any other material) making the streets very slippery and uneven. We wound our way in and out of streets until we came to the Mormon house which was a site for “women monks” or nuns as we refer to them, to live. They have gorgeous small dorms, a courtyard, a kitchen, a church, a social room, etc. and most special of all, a roof that Gideon found access too. We climbed the Mormon house stairs until we reached the top and once outside were privileged with the most spectacular panoramic view of Jerusalim. The image was spectacular and we had a 360 degree view that stretched or miles. My line of sight was directed by Gideon who narrated stories of The Dome of the Rock or Temple Mount which is the holiest place on earth according to Christians, Muslims, and Jews. This gold dome was a temple, a mosque, a church, and the cycle repeated throughout history as people pillaged and rebuilt the site. Being in such close proximity to the Western Wall, it is the site of religious conflict but I like to imagine all the positive energy put into building and rebuilding this holy place. Can you imagine how much love and crazy mental sacrifice is offered there? On the flip side, Gideon showed me the different quarters of the city, Jewish, Christian, Muslim etc. from up above and it is amazing how everyone is surviving and living next to people who at some point in history, bulldozed their place of warship.
The third heavily spiritual site we visited was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Resurrection). While this place may look and feel like a church (it smells of candles) it is really several churches built together. Again, different peoples took ownership of the place where Christ was apparently crucified and buried and today, it is quite obvious (if you have a guide like Gideon) to notice several styles within the building. There is no continuity as each keeper only cares about his portion of the church and thus, the maintenance is quite random and inconsistent. This adds one variable to the Jerusalem Syndrome, the idea that the city of Jerusalem in all it’s holiness, can make you crazy. Literally, people enter this city and are so overwhelmed with the spirits of their religion, they flip shit. I’m not knocking religion (although the Orthodox here seem to cause much strife and political conflict where none need be) and will be the first to admit I wish I were orthodox anything just to have a secure and black and white faith (not very feminist I admit, but ignorance is bliss right?) but Israel evokes so much emotion in some people that they are deemed crazy. Spending time in this church was proof enough as we watched tourists from all over the world line up to kiss Christ’s burial spot. Not only that, but there was a slab near the entrance of the church where they say they lay Christ down after his crucifixion. People drag themselves to this spot, heave their bodies onto this stone and cry. They bring treasured pieces like crosses or Christ likenesses or …as Yair does, batteries, to charge with holiness. They lay these down on what I am guessing is marble and pray and cross themselves and literally, cry. Sometimes it is moving and other times it supports the Jerusalem Syndrome theory.
After religious overload we shopped the Arab Market in search of the leather bag I have been dreaming about all week. A cousin’s friend said she bought one for 50 sheiks but that is unbelievable. I know this bag isn’t worth much but certainly more than 50…maybe she got a smaller one. In any case, last time I tried haggling with this guy I got him from 350 to 280. To be honest it is probably worth no more than 100 but this game is hard! At least I had some Israelis on my side. The owner, Yousef, obviously didn’t remember me because he started the price at 450! Gideon and Yair got it down to 300 and I took it from there. I felt bad making the guys listen to literally 30 minutes of, “you’re honest I can see it in your eyes, so I give you honest price. I make no profit, no profit for you! You take with you now. Student Discount.” So we settled at 235 and I got a small leather wallet out of it too. I’m sure he would have eventually lowered his price but I was getting worn out!
From there we grabbed coffee in a gentrified mall that overlooked the city (gorgeous) and talked colonization, war, and the hardships of getting a tourist visa to the states. We walked downtown and had a drink at a outdoor pub. The guys drank Guinness and I enjoyed Arrack (Israeli Anise) on ice. It was there I learned of my special powers that allow me to spread meaningful blessings. I am a Katz which is short of Cohen, the highest rank in the holy order of Jews if I’m not mistaken. Cohen’s and Levis I believe are among the elite who have access to the most spiritual places. Similar to your west-side, peace, loser-loser-whatever hand signage, the Katz/Cohen’s of the world have their own uber cool hand shape to bless others with. After the Arrack I had less control of my fingers so Yair shaped them into the blessed art thou Katz position and I blessed both him and Gideon. They promised me they were all the better for it.
Next we hit up a sushi bar which is the hottest eatery in Israel. They loooove their sushi and who can blame them with this heat? Gideon and Yair were great entertainment and I was pleasantly satisfied on the bus ride back to the cousin’s apartment where I practiced my blessing hand trick. If I get in trouble at the airport on Monday I’ll just pull out this nifty trick and see what happens!
Lovely Gideon and Yair quickly ushered me into a humus shop, the first of three holy spaces we would encounter that day, to reach sanctity. This, they told me, was the best humus in all of Jerusalem. Funny, because cousin Omri said the same thing about the humus shack two streets away. I wonder if the humus guys are cousins. I’ve also been pointed in the direction of the best ice cream and Belgian waffles in all of Jerusalim. We’ll see how far we get before I sadly take off on Monday. Gideon snacked on regular humus with chickpeas strewn about and Yair’s was topped off with minced lamb. Delic. The proper way to eat humus, is yes, with pita, but more delicious, with onion, tomatoes and pickles! You just dip in, scoop, and devour.
From there we walked to the old city and once again, entered through Jaffa gate. Gideon pointed out the bullet holes in the door way and the clever architecture double door feature that prevented intruders from breaking into the city. The two were incredibly knowledgeable of the old city and pointed out artifacts, and bits of historical trivia throughout the day. I followed them inside narrow passages that lead to people’s private homes. All the buildings were made of the same stone (it is actually illegal to build anything in the old city of any other material) making the streets very slippery and uneven. We wound our way in and out of streets until we came to the Mormon house which was a site for “women monks” or nuns as we refer to them, to live. They have gorgeous small dorms, a courtyard, a kitchen, a church, a social room, etc. and most special of all, a roof that Gideon found access too. We climbed the Mormon house stairs until we reached the top and once outside were privileged with the most spectacular panoramic view of Jerusalim. The image was spectacular and we had a 360 degree view that stretched or miles. My line of sight was directed by Gideon who narrated stories of The Dome of the Rock or Temple Mount which is the holiest place on earth according to Christians, Muslims, and Jews. This gold dome was a temple, a mosque, a church, and the cycle repeated throughout history as people pillaged and rebuilt the site. Being in such close proximity to the Western Wall, it is the site of religious conflict but I like to imagine all the positive energy put into building and rebuilding this holy place. Can you imagine how much love and crazy mental sacrifice is offered there? On the flip side, Gideon showed me the different quarters of the city, Jewish, Christian, Muslim etc. from up above and it is amazing how everyone is surviving and living next to people who at some point in history, bulldozed their place of warship.
The third heavily spiritual site we visited was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Resurrection). While this place may look and feel like a church (it smells of candles) it is really several churches built together. Again, different peoples took ownership of the place where Christ was apparently crucified and buried and today, it is quite obvious (if you have a guide like Gideon) to notice several styles within the building. There is no continuity as each keeper only cares about his portion of the church and thus, the maintenance is quite random and inconsistent. This adds one variable to the Jerusalem Syndrome, the idea that the city of Jerusalem in all it’s holiness, can make you crazy. Literally, people enter this city and are so overwhelmed with the spirits of their religion, they flip shit. I’m not knocking religion (although the Orthodox here seem to cause much strife and political conflict where none need be) and will be the first to admit I wish I were orthodox anything just to have a secure and black and white faith (not very feminist I admit, but ignorance is bliss right?) but Israel evokes so much emotion in some people that they are deemed crazy. Spending time in this church was proof enough as we watched tourists from all over the world line up to kiss Christ’s burial spot. Not only that, but there was a slab near the entrance of the church where they say they lay Christ down after his crucifixion. People drag themselves to this spot, heave their bodies onto this stone and cry. They bring treasured pieces like crosses or Christ likenesses or …as Yair does, batteries, to charge with holiness. They lay these down on what I am guessing is marble and pray and cross themselves and literally, cry. Sometimes it is moving and other times it supports the Jerusalem Syndrome theory.
After religious overload we shopped the Arab Market in search of the leather bag I have been dreaming about all week. A cousin’s friend said she bought one for 50 sheiks but that is unbelievable. I know this bag isn’t worth much but certainly more than 50…maybe she got a smaller one. In any case, last time I tried haggling with this guy I got him from 350 to 280. To be honest it is probably worth no more than 100 but this game is hard! At least I had some Israelis on my side. The owner, Yousef, obviously didn’t remember me because he started the price at 450! Gideon and Yair got it down to 300 and I took it from there. I felt bad making the guys listen to literally 30 minutes of, “you’re honest I can see it in your eyes, so I give you honest price. I make no profit, no profit for you! You take with you now. Student Discount.” So we settled at 235 and I got a small leather wallet out of it too. I’m sure he would have eventually lowered his price but I was getting worn out!
From there we grabbed coffee in a gentrified mall that overlooked the city (gorgeous) and talked colonization, war, and the hardships of getting a tourist visa to the states. We walked downtown and had a drink at a outdoor pub. The guys drank Guinness and I enjoyed Arrack (Israeli Anise) on ice. It was there I learned of my special powers that allow me to spread meaningful blessings. I am a Katz which is short of Cohen, the highest rank in the holy order of Jews if I’m not mistaken. Cohen’s and Levis I believe are among the elite who have access to the most spiritual places. Similar to your west-side, peace, loser-loser-whatever hand signage, the Katz/Cohen’s of the world have their own uber cool hand shape to bless others with. After the Arrack I had less control of my fingers so Yair shaped them into the blessed art thou Katz position and I blessed both him and Gideon. They promised me they were all the better for it.
Next we hit up a sushi bar which is the hottest eatery in Israel. They loooove their sushi and who can blame them with this heat? Gideon and Yair were great entertainment and I was pleasantly satisfied on the bus ride back to the cousin’s apartment where I practiced my blessing hand trick. If I get in trouble at the airport on Monday I’ll just pull out this nifty trick and see what happens!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A day in Jerusalim
I'm going to bypass the whole Taglit saga...maybe I'll continue to write about it later but I am so far behind and feel like my experiences these days are much more worthy of a rant. The following chronicles are not...chronolgical but still fun stories.
On Tuesday I met my cousin Britt who also happens to be on holiday in Israel for a day downtown. We ate breakfast on one of the main strips called Ben Yahuda before walking toward the Old City. The old city is surrounded by a huge wall and has many different entrances. We walked through Jaffa gate to wander the Arab Shouk which is a covered touristy market full of jewlery, fabrics, chatchkies, pottery, you name it - they have it. It is very similar to the Souks in Morroco and the bazar in Budapest but much of the retail is actually from Israel. Like every other similar market, store owners stood outside their stores speaking as much English as they can to entice you and sucker you into buying stuff. This is a bargining adventure if I ever saw one so the entire process was thrilling. Even being able to walk by a store owner without looking at him or saying Todah (thank you) is a feat. They are fiesty!
Britt is a very assertive and direct woman with the occasional hilarious quip. Example - half way into the market we were approached by a man who simply asked "you come to my shop. where you go where you go?" to which Britt responded "I don't know, it's a long road." She's sharp...I thought it was funny. Britt wanted to buy some door hanging chatchki so we stopped in a store to look at the goods. The man in the store took to me very quickly and said I had the most beautiful eyes. I sparkled, I shined, I said thank you and browsed the store. He and Britt haggled over the price and just as our feet were about to hit the pavement he caved to her price. She immediately turned around to finish the deal but it took me a while to stop smiling before I could get my game face back and turn around. He spoke in Hebrew to Britt something about how he liked me and how pretty I was etc. He invited us to have coffee with him and we said sure. I forget his name but he wanted to show me his jewlery and asked if I had a boyfriend and all that courtship gab. I told him no and asked if he had a girlfriend (fully aware of the answer). He said he wanted one and just to mess with him I told him he was crazy and didn't need a girlfriend. He had 10 good years to find a wife and should live life until he was 30. (he was 22 as well). He was shocked and seriously disagreed. He tried to get my number and find out where I was staying and ask me out for the night until Britt and I escaped. I thought it was all amuzing and flattering until Britt told me that while I think his liking me will get us a better price, he is thinking his flirting will get him a better deal. What a sucker. That was the last time I accept coffee from a Bedoin! (Desert people who migrate around the...desert).
We met a friend, Carmel, for lunch at a gorgeous restraunt on the side of a cliff. We ate out side and the view was so spectacular. I ate salmon carpachio and we were treated to a little champaign and watermellon margarita. It is so fantastic being able to travel around with locals who know everyone and the best places. Carmel then took us to a natrual watering hole to swim but it was full of kids and Donkeys so we just sat and watched.
At night my cousin Omri, and I went out for a beer before meeting his wife, Daphna, at a club. Daphna is my height (maybe even an inch smaller) and much slimmer than me but - she's tiny! There are a lot of small people in Israel and I love it. Omri is around 5'7" and considered tall here. Anyway, Omri and I had a drink at this very cute little tavern on a side street down town. I had a fig vodka and Omri had guiness. We shared their version of beer nuts which are a type of bean that you suck out of it's skin - kind of like edamame - but they are the same color as peanuts. After the yummy drink we headed further downtown to the club. It was in the middle of this green area that is apparently the Garden of Freedom. We climbed two flights of outside marble stairs until we got to this circular patio. There were more marble tables and a bar at one end, and then (think concentric circles) there is a door to go inside to another circular area which is the club. Bar...club..I don't know. The further most inside circle was the bar and then on the outside were more bar tables and a little area inbetween. I bought another round of drinks and when Daphna found us, we sat and talked and people watched. It was very noisey from the DJ who was mixing all this american pop. Omri and Daphna, both 29, thought that the scene was made up more of people my age but really, there was a mix. I left the two to peruse the crowd and walked to the balcony for a while to see what was good out there. Nothing much - more people socializing. I don't speak Hebrew so it is hard to go up to someone and say hey...so I went back inside after a while and Daphna and Omri were not where I'd left them. No matter - Dan said I would be fine making friends so - there I was. No one was dancing. I took issue with this. It was a club opening. Ok actually there were some girls standing on the bar but they weren't really dancing. They were more swaying back and forth. I kinda bounced around to the music for a while and I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man in movement. I whirled around to see the most fantastic dancer of my life and I walked right up to him to tell him so. He asked why I wasn't dancing and I said that I couldn't hold a candle to that. He told me to do my thing so...you know the rest.
I did my thing and the two of us put on a little show. We rocked it out to all the American shit for a while, I tried to copy his fancy footwork and hand jives and got completely lost in the music. Noone else was dancing. Eventually a woman in a sequined vest joined in on the party which was great! She was a quality dancer too. Somehow - at an Isralie club opening in downtown Jerusalim, I had found Marvin - a black jew from St. Louis and Lisa, a tourist from Australia to dance with me. I knew something wasn't right with Marvin and his god-like dancing abilities so I marched up to him and asked him if he teaches classes and he admited that he was - get this - the choreographer of Israel's production of Rent. Yea. That's who I was dancing with. I laughed for a while and then shaped up enough to get his details in case I move to Israel - the guy will teach me those moves. They were serious. Lisa was ok. She was fun though.
So - the two of them liked dancing with me but I felt we needed more players so I turned around and put my arms around two Isralies standing near by and asked them why they wern't dancing. One looked confused and the other said "I'll dance with you!" So Beni (everyone and their son is called Benyamin) started dancing too! I was surprised at how easy it was to get people to dance and though the club was very small, we made it work. The club photographers surrounded us and god know's where those blackmail worthy pics are. Omri came back eventually and bought me another drink. He seemed really surprised to see me in the midst of a dance party but was happy that I found a good time. Ironically enough, Beni's uncle is a rabbi in the Bay Area. This world keeps getting smaller and smaller. If you don't have a cousin in Israel, know someone named Benyamin, or are less than 3 degrees of separation from a Rabbi, you have no business in the homeland. That's all I'm sayin.
On Tuesday I met my cousin Britt who also happens to be on holiday in Israel for a day downtown. We ate breakfast on one of the main strips called Ben Yahuda before walking toward the Old City. The old city is surrounded by a huge wall and has many different entrances. We walked through Jaffa gate to wander the Arab Shouk which is a covered touristy market full of jewlery, fabrics, chatchkies, pottery, you name it - they have it. It is very similar to the Souks in Morroco and the bazar in Budapest but much of the retail is actually from Israel. Like every other similar market, store owners stood outside their stores speaking as much English as they can to entice you and sucker you into buying stuff. This is a bargining adventure if I ever saw one so the entire process was thrilling. Even being able to walk by a store owner without looking at him or saying Todah (thank you) is a feat. They are fiesty!
Britt is a very assertive and direct woman with the occasional hilarious quip. Example - half way into the market we were approached by a man who simply asked "you come to my shop. where you go where you go?" to which Britt responded "I don't know, it's a long road." She's sharp...I thought it was funny. Britt wanted to buy some door hanging chatchki so we stopped in a store to look at the goods. The man in the store took to me very quickly and said I had the most beautiful eyes. I sparkled, I shined, I said thank you and browsed the store. He and Britt haggled over the price and just as our feet were about to hit the pavement he caved to her price. She immediately turned around to finish the deal but it took me a while to stop smiling before I could get my game face back and turn around. He spoke in Hebrew to Britt something about how he liked me and how pretty I was etc. He invited us to have coffee with him and we said sure. I forget his name but he wanted to show me his jewlery and asked if I had a boyfriend and all that courtship gab. I told him no and asked if he had a girlfriend (fully aware of the answer). He said he wanted one and just to mess with him I told him he was crazy and didn't need a girlfriend. He had 10 good years to find a wife and should live life until he was 30. (he was 22 as well). He was shocked and seriously disagreed. He tried to get my number and find out where I was staying and ask me out for the night until Britt and I escaped. I thought it was all amuzing and flattering until Britt told me that while I think his liking me will get us a better price, he is thinking his flirting will get him a better deal. What a sucker. That was the last time I accept coffee from a Bedoin! (Desert people who migrate around the...desert).
We met a friend, Carmel, for lunch at a gorgeous restraunt on the side of a cliff. We ate out side and the view was so spectacular. I ate salmon carpachio and we were treated to a little champaign and watermellon margarita. It is so fantastic being able to travel around with locals who know everyone and the best places. Carmel then took us to a natrual watering hole to swim but it was full of kids and Donkeys so we just sat and watched.
At night my cousin Omri, and I went out for a beer before meeting his wife, Daphna, at a club. Daphna is my height (maybe even an inch smaller) and much slimmer than me but - she's tiny! There are a lot of small people in Israel and I love it. Omri is around 5'7" and considered tall here. Anyway, Omri and I had a drink at this very cute little tavern on a side street down town. I had a fig vodka and Omri had guiness. We shared their version of beer nuts which are a type of bean that you suck out of it's skin - kind of like edamame - but they are the same color as peanuts. After the yummy drink we headed further downtown to the club. It was in the middle of this green area that is apparently the Garden of Freedom. We climbed two flights of outside marble stairs until we got to this circular patio. There were more marble tables and a bar at one end, and then (think concentric circles) there is a door to go inside to another circular area which is the club. Bar...club..I don't know. The further most inside circle was the bar and then on the outside were more bar tables and a little area inbetween. I bought another round of drinks and when Daphna found us, we sat and talked and people watched. It was very noisey from the DJ who was mixing all this american pop. Omri and Daphna, both 29, thought that the scene was made up more of people my age but really, there was a mix. I left the two to peruse the crowd and walked to the balcony for a while to see what was good out there. Nothing much - more people socializing. I don't speak Hebrew so it is hard to go up to someone and say hey...so I went back inside after a while and Daphna and Omri were not where I'd left them. No matter - Dan said I would be fine making friends so - there I was. No one was dancing. I took issue with this. It was a club opening. Ok actually there were some girls standing on the bar but they weren't really dancing. They were more swaying back and forth. I kinda bounced around to the music for a while and I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man in movement. I whirled around to see the most fantastic dancer of my life and I walked right up to him to tell him so. He asked why I wasn't dancing and I said that I couldn't hold a candle to that. He told me to do my thing so...you know the rest.
I did my thing and the two of us put on a little show. We rocked it out to all the American shit for a while, I tried to copy his fancy footwork and hand jives and got completely lost in the music. Noone else was dancing. Eventually a woman in a sequined vest joined in on the party which was great! She was a quality dancer too. Somehow - at an Isralie club opening in downtown Jerusalim, I had found Marvin - a black jew from St. Louis and Lisa, a tourist from Australia to dance with me. I knew something wasn't right with Marvin and his god-like dancing abilities so I marched up to him and asked him if he teaches classes and he admited that he was - get this - the choreographer of Israel's production of Rent. Yea. That's who I was dancing with. I laughed for a while and then shaped up enough to get his details in case I move to Israel - the guy will teach me those moves. They were serious. Lisa was ok. She was fun though.
So - the two of them liked dancing with me but I felt we needed more players so I turned around and put my arms around two Isralies standing near by and asked them why they wern't dancing. One looked confused and the other said "I'll dance with you!" So Beni (everyone and their son is called Benyamin) started dancing too! I was surprised at how easy it was to get people to dance and though the club was very small, we made it work. The club photographers surrounded us and god know's where those blackmail worthy pics are. Omri came back eventually and bought me another drink. He seemed really surprised to see me in the midst of a dance party but was happy that I found a good time. Ironically enough, Beni's uncle is a rabbi in the Bay Area. This world keeps getting smaller and smaller. If you don't have a cousin in Israel, know someone named Benyamin, or are less than 3 degrees of separation from a Rabbi, you have no business in the homeland. That's all I'm sayin.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Roomies
The roomies were not only acomplices for Mac's fashion show but, my sassy enterage for the ten day experience. Jenn, a New York publisher is a wonderfully sarcastic and amazingly honost woman in her mid twenties who shares in my wacky dietary restrictions and general ridiculousness. Adva, a 22 year old Isralie soldier is small and dark with piles of curly hair who turned heads on the bus when she stripped down to a sexy white, rhinestone studded, chain-deco one-piece (the kind with serious fabric missing from the sides). The saucyness of the suit prevailed whence we climbed into plastic rafts for some .5 grade water rafting. It was Adva who initiated the water fight not a hot second into the ride and poor Jen's recently straightened hair was instantly crimped. The three of us lived together, sat together on the buses, ate our meals together, and toured the city together. Adva taught Jen and I the local secrets of Tim Tam and Coffee and Bamba and Coke. Jen and I were seriously chillin with the hippest of Isralie soldiers and we were all the more cool for it.
Tim Tam is a chocolate covered chocolate cookie with god knows what inside but it is miraculous. I am guessing a waffer of some sort because to fully experience the decadence of Tim Tam, you nibble off the bottom left and the top right corners, stick the bottom half in a cup of coffee and suck like a straw. After collecting a mouth full of coffee you take the soaked Tim Tam out of the coffee and pop it in your mouth. Un-fucking-believeable pardon my French but seriously - you must try this. We got the full Tim Tam experience the second night of the trip when we chilled at a Kibutz. We stayed in small dorm like apartments on a green very similar to a quad, right near the cafateria. Hello camp. We had just experienced our first taste of Isralie culture in the rec room where we were taught two traditional dances. I forget the name of the first one but I assure those of you who participated in any group folk dancing have replicated these boxy moves. The second one was none other than, the hora. Hava Nagila played over and over and over again as we grape vined it to the left, and to the right, and ran to the middle arms up over our heads, and down to our knees as we backed that ass up right back to where we started and then, the can can kick with a clap over our head. I swear to Moses had not every other person in the room at some point in their youth frequent cheesy American Bar Mitzvahs I would have excused myself from the dance. And lets be serious, I love dancing and I have no problem breaking the icy dance-floor but the hora? So when that was done Adva and I got down to some real Isralie tunes and I practiced my Zumba shuffle moves and some shimmies that are more socially acceptable in these parts. The girl dances like woah and that's when I knew I found my other half in Israel. Not only that, but she turned me on to a hair product that is delic!
In all seriousness, Adva is a truley loveable girl who for some reason I really clicked with and when you find people you can share a soul with (mind you this connection was made before the koolaid was distributed) eneries are contageous. We fed off each other's enthusiasm the entire trip and Jenn balanced in the middle perfectly. I couldn't have asked for better roommates and reveled in the chance to be myself with these girls. So we took the dance party back to the quad, plugged in someone's ipod to some small speakers some genius brought with and shook it to the local vibes. About half the group pushed three picnic tables together and sat drinking wine, beer, coffee and teas and of course, eating Tim Tam. Adva made a big production at one end of the picnic table, calling to attention the group to witness the big event. Next, she called up the roomies to indulge and oh yum.
Second Isralie secret, the Bamba and Coke. Bamba is like a cross between a cheese-puff and a rice cake except that it is made entirely from peanuts. It taste like peanutbutter but looks like packing foam. It's crunchy and delicious and our Guide, Dani, swears all Celiacs are obsessed with Bamba. So, one night in Jerusalem we were restricted to the perimiters of the hotel and a group of us got together to play cards, as all campers at some point do. It was late after Shabatt so our games lacked most anything fun (we already drank all the wine) but thankfully the bar did serve a $7 coke. Grab a handfull of Bamba, chomp down, get all the peanut bits caked in between your teeth and then take a swig of coke. Ohh yeay Pop Rocks. Your mouth fizzes and the coke washes away the excess Bamba. So, not nearly as luxurious as Tim Tam but, still fun. As for the card game, it was pretty lame but we played in teams so the banter and trash talk made me happy. I learned some generous curse words in Hebrew and got some serious practice in. We also bet masages (winner recieves, loser gives) but somehow most people never delivered. The night ended quite late for Shabatt, which consisted of a shitty hotel meal and a group of us lighting short white candles and half-assing a prayer. I tell ya, for an organization trying to re-kindle the Judaism, they really dropped the ball with our group. After we lit candles and passed around a cup of wine for 50 mouths, we held an Oneg which is a post-Shabat dinner get together. We all brought our wine and desert and had a little party. But when one of the peer leaders introduced the lamest game...ever...called...Wha...we left.
Jen, Adva and I were usually the last ones to bed, climbing in anywhere around 2:30-4:00 am. only to rise at 7 (unless you were Jen, who wok eat 5:30) for breakfast. Needless to say exhaustion overwhelemed us all but we got our naps in every few hours on the long bus rides.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Mac
And then there was Mac, a sweet skinny young man whose smile was so big his eyes closed when he was happy. Think Woody Alen's new best friend but with dark hair and a guitar. Mac loves to talk philosophy, meta-physical-imaginary versus reality-based relationships, write and play music and cherishes his friends more than anything in the world. A self-proclaimed talker (ok I told him he was a talker but he agreed with me.) whenever I got lost in one of his hour long monologues I would start to sing and we would harmonize for the rest of the walk. I brought up Blackbird (into the night of the pale black sky) and he started in with Breakfast at Tiffany's. I wasn't caught off gaurd becasue we first bonded over our shared love of musicals at Baggage Claim where I almost convinced him to join me on a Greece tune. The guy had a solo in his high school musical and eventually he came to my room one afternoon during nap time to belt out the tune. It was remarkable and as I hummed along passerbys poked their heads in the door to see what nut was singing about Tears on his Pillow and Pain in his Heart. *Sigh*. After the sing-a-long it was time to get dressed for dinner and I enlisted Mac to help me pick out a dress. He couldn't really understand what some of the more complicated pieces looked like, so he tried on my wrap dress. Yup, he's about 5'7" and that skinny. When my roommates walked in, they quickly walked out and returned with a handful of Isralie soldiers with cameras. Mac posed with his goofy grin.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Taglit Travels: Hey That Guy Looks Jewish
Israel, Taglit Birthright experience is over and my lack of blogging is a reflection of the fast-paced craziness of the last ten days, most of which I will attempt to summarize now. I will be traveling on my own for the next two weeks, so I will have ample time to share the shalom series' squeal, memoirs of the homeland.
When I got to JFK to meet my tour group I got really scared. Not the good pre-camp-I-hope-my-bunk-mates-like-me butterflies I'm used to but a painful, heart sinking "ohhh shit" feeling that comes when (picture this) at the car unloading at the passenger drop off point at the airport are two skinny blonds with straightened hair (trust me, you can spot anything fake) in clothes similar to what Danise and I would wear to a Spanish disco-tech, each with a huge suitcase, a Vera Bradley duffel bag and designer clutch. Their make up hid their faces so I couldn't really judge their personalities from their expressions...or maybe it was the glare from the obsessive amount of jewlery they were wearing that made it hard to see them. Either way, I blinked twice and took my hand away from the interior door handle. Germain, smiled, laughed, and told me to get out of the car and make nice.
A half dozen dead-fish hand-shakes later I realized there were multiple Birthright trips leaving and the Outdoor Israel (hippy jews) crew were located in a different area, not to be confused with the Oranim (jappy jews) group. I quickly bonded with everyone else with back-packing gear and we took a collective sigh of relief that we were not with those other groups. The entire airport process was a mess though and I can't say for sure if it was because we were a group of hundreds of kids (each group is 40 ish) or because El Al is very concerned with security. Either way, each of us were interviewed before we were given our boarding passes by El Al reps. Forget, "did anyone give you anything to pack in your bag." These guys meant business and I got scared again. I was asked about where I was coming from, who I stayed with in New York, if they lived with family. What did they do for a living? What did I do? Why was I going to Israel? Do I have family there? Am I Jewish? What is my Rabbi's name? What holidays do I celebrate? Why do we celebrate Chanukah? It went on. I almost cried. I couldn't remember Germain's name, or how to say the phrase "8 candles." I kept thinking about where my eyes went when I thought about an answer. Was it the top left that meant you were thinking of a lie or was it bottom right? What was I doing? I ended up being escorted through security because I was losing it. But I didn't have it as bad as others. One woman on my trip's boyfriend has brown skin. They were both detained for near an hour being questioned.
My intro to everyone = Jewish was almost immediate. I don't believe one person in line for the El Al security check was of any other blood and if they weren't returning home, they were off to explore their roots. It felt good to be among people of the same creed, especially considering most of us are usually the minority. Happy to be with my fellow Jews I settled into my seat in on the plane with some women on my trip. The flight was miserable. It was full of Taglit Birhright participants of all ages, including the sugar high 18-22 year olds who were two beats short of a impromptu dance party in the aisles. The movie selection was weak, and Miley Cyrus's big face took up the tiny screen for four channels. Four out of eight. All of a sudden, many men get out of their chairs and I am a nervous flier so I immediately paid attention to what was going on. They couldn't possibly be about to jump into the dance party. Were they going to stone the kids or fulfill some other type of organized terror? I looked closer and they all were dressed in dark clothes. A gang. They all were very hairy. And shuffling around. They were digging into their pockets. I was getting really nervous. Then they all turned around and started to walk towards the back of the plane. Shits going down. I was mentally questioning everyone else's sanity for allowing these people to take over our plane. I whipped around in my seat to watch them in case I could save the day at the last minute. I saw the kepots on the back of their heads and the long curls. They were Hasidic Jews and it was time to pray. They reached into the pockets for prayers and to wrap themselves with tfelin. I laughed and shook my head. Not the worst place in the world to be when terror is about to strike...in the air with some of the most serious chosen ones.
I spent the rest of the flight socializing with a young man who is spending six weeks on a Kibutz. He didn't want to rise early to milk the cows (farming was the main point of this particular Kibutz, they all have different agendas) so he requested a job playing with children. His long blond surfer hair screamed trouble (well, actually it was the headband pulling his hair back that really did it) and I knew I was in for it when an hour into the conversation he offered up his single room if I wanted to visit. HoT. I didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't going to Israel share a bed with a kid who usually split his holidays between the Hamptons and the Hollywood Hills no matter how many sick cars his uncle had and let him drive whenever he wanted, even to go party. I decided to keep talking to him though because I figured I could get out a few laughs and I did.
The group met in Ben Gurion Airport, met our two guides, Ashley, a 22 year old attention whore and Jenny, a conservative New York Lawyer. Our Israeli guide was Argentinian, 42, and we'll get into him later. The group consisted of mostly 26 year old women teachers. There were four couples on the trip, one married, one engaged. Of the 41 participants there were 10 men (again four of them in relationships) and the other six made up a motley crew to remember. One of my favorites, Jason, was tall, dark with a bad ass mustache pushing handle-bar. His smooth jazz radio voice confused everyone and when he put on aviators he looked and sounded like a Porn star.
My internet time is running out but stay tuned for the details of the actual trip!
Much love,
MK
When I got to JFK to meet my tour group I got really scared. Not the good pre-camp-I-hope-my-bunk-mates-like-me butterflies I'm used to but a painful, heart sinking "ohhh shit" feeling that comes when (picture this) at the car unloading at the passenger drop off point at the airport are two skinny blonds with straightened hair (trust me, you can spot anything fake) in clothes similar to what Danise and I would wear to a Spanish disco-tech, each with a huge suitcase, a Vera Bradley duffel bag and designer clutch. Their make up hid their faces so I couldn't really judge their personalities from their expressions...or maybe it was the glare from the obsessive amount of jewlery they were wearing that made it hard to see them. Either way, I blinked twice and took my hand away from the interior door handle. Germain, smiled, laughed, and told me to get out of the car and make nice.
A half dozen dead-fish hand-shakes later I realized there were multiple Birthright trips leaving and the Outdoor Israel (hippy jews) crew were located in a different area, not to be confused with the Oranim (jappy jews) group. I quickly bonded with everyone else with back-packing gear and we took a collective sigh of relief that we were not with those other groups. The entire airport process was a mess though and I can't say for sure if it was because we were a group of hundreds of kids (each group is 40 ish) or because El Al is very concerned with security. Either way, each of us were interviewed before we were given our boarding passes by El Al reps. Forget, "did anyone give you anything to pack in your bag." These guys meant business and I got scared again. I was asked about where I was coming from, who I stayed with in New York, if they lived with family. What did they do for a living? What did I do? Why was I going to Israel? Do I have family there? Am I Jewish? What is my Rabbi's name? What holidays do I celebrate? Why do we celebrate Chanukah? It went on. I almost cried. I couldn't remember Germain's name, or how to say the phrase "8 candles." I kept thinking about where my eyes went when I thought about an answer. Was it the top left that meant you were thinking of a lie or was it bottom right? What was I doing? I ended up being escorted through security because I was losing it. But I didn't have it as bad as others. One woman on my trip's boyfriend has brown skin. They were both detained for near an hour being questioned.
My intro to everyone = Jewish was almost immediate. I don't believe one person in line for the El Al security check was of any other blood and if they weren't returning home, they were off to explore their roots. It felt good to be among people of the same creed, especially considering most of us are usually the minority. Happy to be with my fellow Jews I settled into my seat in on the plane with some women on my trip. The flight was miserable. It was full of Taglit Birhright participants of all ages, including the sugar high 18-22 year olds who were two beats short of a impromptu dance party in the aisles. The movie selection was weak, and Miley Cyrus's big face took up the tiny screen for four channels. Four out of eight. All of a sudden, many men get out of their chairs and I am a nervous flier so I immediately paid attention to what was going on. They couldn't possibly be about to jump into the dance party. Were they going to stone the kids or fulfill some other type of organized terror? I looked closer and they all were dressed in dark clothes. A gang. They all were very hairy. And shuffling around. They were digging into their pockets. I was getting really nervous. Then they all turned around and started to walk towards the back of the plane. Shits going down. I was mentally questioning everyone else's sanity for allowing these people to take over our plane. I whipped around in my seat to watch them in case I could save the day at the last minute. I saw the kepots on the back of their heads and the long curls. They were Hasidic Jews and it was time to pray. They reached into the pockets for prayers and to wrap themselves with tfelin. I laughed and shook my head. Not the worst place in the world to be when terror is about to strike...in the air with some of the most serious chosen ones.
I spent the rest of the flight socializing with a young man who is spending six weeks on a Kibutz. He didn't want to rise early to milk the cows (farming was the main point of this particular Kibutz, they all have different agendas) so he requested a job playing with children. His long blond surfer hair screamed trouble (well, actually it was the headband pulling his hair back that really did it) and I knew I was in for it when an hour into the conversation he offered up his single room if I wanted to visit. HoT. I didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't going to Israel share a bed with a kid who usually split his holidays between the Hamptons and the Hollywood Hills no matter how many sick cars his uncle had and let him drive whenever he wanted, even to go party. I decided to keep talking to him though because I figured I could get out a few laughs and I did.
The group met in Ben Gurion Airport, met our two guides, Ashley, a 22 year old attention whore and Jenny, a conservative New York Lawyer. Our Israeli guide was Argentinian, 42, and we'll get into him later. The group consisted of mostly 26 year old women teachers. There were four couples on the trip, one married, one engaged. Of the 41 participants there were 10 men (again four of them in relationships) and the other six made up a motley crew to remember. One of my favorites, Jason, was tall, dark with a bad ass mustache pushing handle-bar. His smooth jazz radio voice confused everyone and when he put on aviators he looked and sounded like a Porn star.
My internet time is running out but stay tuned for the details of the actual trip!
Much love,
MK
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Tribal Tribulations
So, I know that airport security are not the most humorous nor flexible group of people at large, but I think I caught them at on off moment seeing as it was 4:30 in the a.m. A frequent flier, I have memorized all airport staff scripts from check-in "and how many bags will you be checking today?" to the pre-security prep check "laptops out of their bags, shoes off, any liquids, gels or sprays," so you can imagine how caught off guard I was when one of the officials started to improvise. "hello miss," one of the the two officials greated me as I approached the security line. "Do you have mascara, lipstick or perfume on you?" Oh no he didn't.
"No," I raised my eyebrow, "do you?" I challenged. He looked at me oddly and said "what?"
"Do you?" I repeated. "Go on through Miss" his voice softened with further confusion and he waved me on. As I smilled passed him he whispered to his chuckling friend"what did she say?" I don't think I've ever had a laugh in the security cue before and I felt like singing "Take Me As I Am," boy I washed my face with soap this morning! But contrary to some popular belief, there is a time and place for Rent renditions and Heathrow airport isn't one of them.
Karma, I've noticed, comes around quickly. During my layover in Zurich (yes I flew backwards to go forwards. Maybe that was my first clue to the cyclical vortex I would spin through on my way to Auntie Germain's house in New York) I had to pee like you wouldn't believe and there wasn't a single bathroom between the gate I flew in on and the one I was going to which, by the way, was on the other side of another security check. Bouncing from one foot to the other the first security guard confiscated my unopened bottles of water and juice that I had bought at the last gate. Seeing my furry, she offered that I drink them before going through security and I hurt at the thought so I passed on the offer. That wasn't so much the karma kicker. The following security guard confiscated the duck confit that I was bringing for a gift! She shook it up and down, stared at it, shook it somemore, talked to her colleagues while I explained it was fat, not liquid or gels or sprays. I bitched at the woman until my flight was boarding, and she dumped the confit in the bin in front of me and walked away! I was shocked and livid and late for my flight so I stormed off to show her I was really pissed. In the process I lost one of my two indulgences - my cosmopolitan magazine (which I never read but bought since I lack room for books) and as I boarded the plane a kid kicked me. To make hell worse, I learned that the flight was 8 whole hours and if that weren't bad enough, there were thirty too many Yankee teens blabbing in the rows behind me. The upside was small: there were movies available and my second indulgence was intact (my Green and Blacks chocolate bar). Good thing the plane was air conditioned because if my chocolate melted and turned into liquid to soon be confiscated, shit would have gone down. If things weren't bad enough, one of the bratty teenagers just called her friend a hott mess. Oh the humanity. How long will I be punished?
I looked at one of the teens next to me and recognised the star logo on his shirt. Taglit Birth Right. They were Jewish, great. As if members of the tribe didn't have a bad rap already, these putzes really did us in. There was only one question I had to ask before I cancelled my trip. I turned to the kid next to me "Is this an 18-22 or 22-26 year old trip?" They didn't quiet for the entire journey and the birthright couple behind me (one happy family guaranteed on every trip or your money back!) were struggling to make the next birthright baby - or so it seemed from the repetitive jabs and kicks to the back of my seat. Seriously, Karma, spiritual cycles or irony what have you is at its peak today.
When I finally got off the plane I hightailed it to customs only to get the slow stamper who grilled me on why I didn't have an address for where I was going on my customs form. "Because I don't know it" I said carefully. He almost made me get out of line to call for the address but I told him that everyone was at work and I only had the home number and couldn't I just put my home address in San Francisco? He relented but not without calling me "dumb" first. I was twice stunned but knew better than to mouth off to another port authority for fear he send me somewhere else other than baggage claim or worse, take away my last saving grace - the chocolate. It was all I could do to not mutter anything except, "I have a college diploma" before I skedaddled. I thought my run-ins with airport a-holes and Yankee homelanders were over when I stepped into the toxic NYC air but little did I know.
An older (I'm thinking 60+) man caught sight of my padded bra which was funnily enough, central to the location of my Jewish star necklace and with bright eyes he spoke to me in Hebrew.
"What?" I asked.
"You don't speak Hebrew?"
"Not yet, I'm going to Israel on Sunday"
"Where are you from?"
"San Francisco" I responded to his curious face.
"No, where are you from?" (holla Danise)
"My grandfather's father is from Belarus. Where are you from?"
"Israel. How long are you going for?"
"A month."
"Must be nice to have a rich father. Enjoy your trip!"
"Ok, thank you goodbye" I smiled and shook my head as he walked away. That was silly, I thought, and then I noticed a priest staring at me from the curb. I laughed out loud for the second time in 10 minutes. As you can see, literally L.O.L.ing happens more often than not when I'm by myself. The first incident was when two little girls commented on their brother's wee-wee. The little boy later remarked in a no-nonsense manner, "everyone has a wee-wee." In metaphore, he makes sense. Smart kid.
"No," I raised my eyebrow, "do you?" I challenged. He looked at me oddly and said "what?"
"Do you?" I repeated. "Go on through Miss" his voice softened with further confusion and he waved me on. As I smilled passed him he whispered to his chuckling friend"what did she say?" I don't think I've ever had a laugh in the security cue before and I felt like singing "Take Me As I Am," boy I washed my face with soap this morning! But contrary to some popular belief, there is a time and place for Rent renditions and Heathrow airport isn't one of them.
Karma, I've noticed, comes around quickly. During my layover in Zurich (yes I flew backwards to go forwards. Maybe that was my first clue to the cyclical vortex I would spin through on my way to Auntie Germain's house in New York) I had to pee like you wouldn't believe and there wasn't a single bathroom between the gate I flew in on and the one I was going to which, by the way, was on the other side of another security check. Bouncing from one foot to the other the first security guard confiscated my unopened bottles of water and juice that I had bought at the last gate. Seeing my furry, she offered that I drink them before going through security and I hurt at the thought so I passed on the offer. That wasn't so much the karma kicker. The following security guard confiscated the duck confit that I was bringing for a gift! She shook it up and down, stared at it, shook it somemore, talked to her colleagues while I explained it was fat, not liquid or gels or sprays. I bitched at the woman until my flight was boarding, and she dumped the confit in the bin in front of me and walked away! I was shocked and livid and late for my flight so I stormed off to show her I was really pissed. In the process I lost one of my two indulgences - my cosmopolitan magazine (which I never read but bought since I lack room for books) and as I boarded the plane a kid kicked me. To make hell worse, I learned that the flight was 8 whole hours and if that weren't bad enough, there were thirty too many Yankee teens blabbing in the rows behind me. The upside was small: there were movies available and my second indulgence was intact (my Green and Blacks chocolate bar). Good thing the plane was air conditioned because if my chocolate melted and turned into liquid to soon be confiscated, shit would have gone down. If things weren't bad enough, one of the bratty teenagers just called her friend a hott mess. Oh the humanity. How long will I be punished?
I looked at one of the teens next to me and recognised the star logo on his shirt. Taglit Birth Right. They were Jewish, great. As if members of the tribe didn't have a bad rap already, these putzes really did us in. There was only one question I had to ask before I cancelled my trip. I turned to the kid next to me "Is this an 18-22 or 22-26 year old trip?" They didn't quiet for the entire journey and the birthright couple behind me (one happy family guaranteed on every trip or your money back!) were struggling to make the next birthright baby - or so it seemed from the repetitive jabs and kicks to the back of my seat. Seriously, Karma, spiritual cycles or irony what have you is at its peak today.
When I finally got off the plane I hightailed it to customs only to get the slow stamper who grilled me on why I didn't have an address for where I was going on my customs form. "Because I don't know it" I said carefully. He almost made me get out of line to call for the address but I told him that everyone was at work and I only had the home number and couldn't I just put my home address in San Francisco? He relented but not without calling me "dumb" first. I was twice stunned but knew better than to mouth off to another port authority for fear he send me somewhere else other than baggage claim or worse, take away my last saving grace - the chocolate. It was all I could do to not mutter anything except, "I have a college diploma" before I skedaddled. I thought my run-ins with airport a-holes and Yankee homelanders were over when I stepped into the toxic NYC air but little did I know.
An older (I'm thinking 60+) man caught sight of my padded bra which was funnily enough, central to the location of my Jewish star necklace and with bright eyes he spoke to me in Hebrew.
"What?" I asked.
"You don't speak Hebrew?"
"Not yet, I'm going to Israel on Sunday"
"Where are you from?"
"San Francisco" I responded to his curious face.
"No, where are you from?" (holla Danise)
"My grandfather's father is from Belarus. Where are you from?"
"Israel. How long are you going for?"
"A month."
"Must be nice to have a rich father. Enjoy your trip!"
"Ok, thank you goodbye" I smiled and shook my head as he walked away. That was silly, I thought, and then I noticed a priest staring at me from the curb. I laughed out loud for the second time in 10 minutes. As you can see, literally L.O.L.ing happens more often than not when I'm by myself. The first incident was when two little girls commented on their brother's wee-wee. The little boy later remarked in a no-nonsense manner, "everyone has a wee-wee." In metaphore, he makes sense. Smart kid.
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