go away, part 1-2

1. Teach for America. For the love of G-d, leave me alone. Stop emailing me, stop bombarding me with requests to meet with your recruiters, stop intruding on my classes- I know your spiel. I'm not doing your f-in program. If you really want to know, I have major issues with your program in general, and the fact that it's a stopgap measure that damages teacher morale and gives little in the way of long-term benefit to your kids or to the American school system at large. "Eliminate the achievement gap and effect long-term change," my ass. You've been around 15 years, and the achievement gap has grown exponentially, so how much of a difference ARE you making, exactly? But you don't have to answer any of those questions, you just have to back off, because you're barking up a tree so wrong it's not even a tree.

2. Gyms. My poor dad, he really excitedly asked me when we last spoke if I was doing anything "fun" like tennis or dance, and in this case fun also means "physically active," and I feel like I keep dangling this hope in front of him that I will become naturally active and athletic, and it has yet to materialize. But the topic at hand is really about gyms, and working out. I have nothing against being active in general, as long as there's some greater benefit to it- improving my skills at a particular game, or learning a style of dance, or whatever. Rotating on a machine for an hour? I cannot imagine a more futile activity. I've done it, oh yes, many a time. Yeah, endorphins, energy level, blah blah blah. I refuse to submit and put myself through some pointless motion that produces nothing. It's burning excess energy for its own sake. LAME. Really, screw you, fitness. And nature. You wanna give me a tummy? Whatever. Bring it on. I'll see your "inevitable decline" and raise you a "disdainful nonchalance," so bite me, cause I'm still gonna look good naked.

so what did YOU do last night?

Dude. Lesbian night at the club + free drinks = best. night. ever.

nobility in exile

Tonight I heard Ala Khaki, a poet and political activist from the days of the Shah in Iran. There is something so touching and heartbreaking about the elegance, the dignity, the soft-spoken kindness mixed with palpable sorrow that characterizes many of the Iranian (Persian?) diaspora that I meet. Khaki was a total professor-grandfather, with his impeccable V-neck argyle sweater and wire-rimmed glasses, reading poems so full of anguish in such a sad, clear voice. He spoke about the torture he endured in the Komiteh prison, his shocked reunion with his parents 12 years after the Revolution, in which they aged 30 years and his brother was murdered, their possessions ransacked, all of these depressing things that characterize so many exile narratives. And then he read a poem about returning to his garden, a garden that could be redeemed. Gardens are an important motif in Persian culture, along with a real value in aesthetics and beauty even amidst such oppression and brutality. Maybe that's what draws me to Iranian history, a respect for a romantic dignity that I perceive as part of their cultural heritage. What I know for sure is that I was unable to tear myself away from Khaki's reading, and his resigned, proud, weary, grateful, beautiful soul.

squeeee!

So I just had lunch (formal catering, no less) with one of my favorite "celebrities." I say that in quotes because the woman in question is a Harvard Law professor and totally brilliant scholar, as opposed to, say, Heidi Klum. Who is great in her own way. But Heidi Klum did not write my favorite book on post-conflict multiethnic societies, From Vengeance to Forgiveness, nor does she speak about challenges of minorities in the US school system. Words cannot describe my delight at getting to debate the merits and drawbacks of Teach for America with Martha f-ing Minow. That is probably the coolest thing I will do all week, and with that statement I cement my status as a New England academia-bubble obscure-scholar-worshipping cliche.

I'm hawking my DVD set on how to psych yourself out

I'm totally flipped out about a conversation I had with my father about Eric Fingerhut. Not the conversation, per se, but his reporting that some uber-politically active acquaintances of ours have what I consider exactly the wrong instincts, meaning they gravitate towards the perceived front-runner who is all about biography and not about innovative plans to actually improve Ohio....

You know what, I'm sorry, I had this really smart post I was going to write about Eric and what a great candidate and governor he will be, and my internal conflict about making my post-grad plans work. But the truth is, tonight, I have just been sucking at life. I freaking overmicrowaved bread. Over. microwaved. BREAD. And I just kept spazzing all over myself and dropping stuff and trying to make some declarative statement to Marissa only to have it circle back and contradict itself and it's just pathetic. My tennis game sucked today (something to do with the residual back pain from dancing yesterday?), I made an unfortunate choice in footwear for this slushy, disgusting day when I had to haul ass from Rabb to Spingold and back again- not my hottttt stiletto boots, my chunky-heeled brown ones that nevertheless have NO traction, and I am just going to stop trying to write something intelligent because we'll just end up with a verbal pratfall on our hands, to match the physical comedy that is today.

what does 100+ pounds actually feel like?

I found out today just how heavy I am, not necessarily in the overweight sense but in the my-muscles-are-atrophied-oh-god-I-am-so-out-of-shape way. My arm felt heavy as I tried to curve it over my head. my feet felt heavy as I tried to pivot and hop. Dance class was a truly humbling experience where I felt like instead of a network of well-oiled muscles, I was a bag of sand that just sags and shifts in different directions. Okay, okay, I'll stop, because I held my own just fine and the self-pity's over the top. but...damn.

Felicity Huffman is my favorite actress

Yes, I saw Transamerica over break and though FH was astonishing, and I always find her so charming and smart and down-to-earth in interviews and acceptance speeches. She deserves all the recognition she's received from Desperate Housewives and Transamerica, and it's cool that she's married to William H. Macy. But she became my absolute favorite because of her answer to Lesley Stahl on 60 Minutes when asked if motherhood was the best experience of her life.

"No, no and I resent that question, because it puts women in an untenable position."

Thank you, thank you, SOMEBODY finally punctured the whole Hollywood-embraces-the-feminine-mystique myth that all these celebrity moms, cooing over their perfect children who mean so much more than their careers (you know, the ones they spent years building and many hours per week maintaining). I mean, no male Emmy- and Golden Globe-winning actor gets asked if their children trump their personal accomplishments, ya know? And it's not that I believe children aren't all-consuming and wonderful and satisfying and probably are, for most people, the most important things in their lives. I just hate that actresses are constantly forced to downgrade their professional accomplishments below their children. Granted, Felicity didn't address that per se, since the rest of her answer was about how she would be considered a "bad mother" if she didn't give the accepted answer that yes, her children are the best experience of her life. Good or bad mother, the crux of the matter is that your identity as a mother trumps your identity as a person. Says I. But Felicity's answer also highlights an interesting angle, the idea that all these gorgeous, fashionable, fit actresses with nannies and personal trainers and clout to demand babies on set who gush over the nirvana of motherhood are the "good" mothers, an ideal which most normal women could never live up to, and shouldn't. I love that someone who could easily fit in that category has the balls (much like her Trans Am character, heh) to say "I don't know if I'm a good mother." I'm willing to bet you are, Felicity, since you're the kind of mom who would teach her kids to think for themselves and not believe their own hype, and you are a role model for awesomeness. And I offer you a standing lunch invitation, anytime, anywhere.

today's most random encounter award...

goes to Andy Sorrento, my gregarious Airporter driver AKA uncle of Paul Sorrento, one of my favorite and most nostalgia-inducing baseball players, Cleveland Indians third baseman from 1994 to 1998.

And today's kick-ass award goes to Michelle Bachelet, newly elected president of Chile, former socialist political prisoner. My favorite Chilean since Isabel Allende. Fascinating, this leftist trend in Latin America, first Hugo Chavez, then Evo Morales in Bolivia, and now, with an added bonus of feminist victory, Presidente Bachelet. It's like some Reagan-era Cold War nightmare- in your face, Ronnie!

abdicating outrage = apathy??

I am done with outrage. I am tired of getting angry and ranting to the choir on political matters. It is a waste of energy, accomplishes nothing, and leaves us drained, and what's more, positions us valiant liberals as merely reactive, which has been our problem all along. We know that the administration is corrupt, mendacious, unscrupulous, greedy, heartless, exploitative, misogynist, homophobic pricks. I can pretty much predict the strategies they will try to pursue both in the legislature and in the media (heck, the Farmer's Almanac can predict that). Likewise, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, Alito is going to get confirmed. And I refuse to be angry about that, because it was a foregone conclusion. This is a numbers game, and the hearings are all theater (clumsy theater, at that). We knew this day would come, and as passionate as I am about choice, at this point it's hard to create further restriction than already exists in some areas. If we have to form clandestine networks like doctors, clergy and activists did in the 60's, so be it. But above all, move on. Regroup. Win in '06.

And the only silver lining, by the way, is that I find it hilarious that Alito enters the Senate with people cheering and asking for autographs. It completely shows how D.C. is Hollywood for ugly people. Where else does a dorky technocratic attorney get to be a rock star? You KNOW this was the moment he planned for all through his con law exams, like, one day all those blond Republican girls will flock to me when I'm a pimpin Supreme Court Justice, WHAT!

Oh, fug girls...

Welcome home! I just chugged those updated posts like a mango margarita. mmm...delicious.

I have this thing for shomer guys

Disclaimer: content may not be palatable for blood relatives.

Every so often, I encounter a young shomer negiyah guy (an Orthodox Jew who does not touch members of the opposite sex) and am totally engrossed with the possibility of seduction. Not all, by ANY stretch, since most shomer guys are really awkward and not exactly the stuff of fantasy. But it's the ones with a certain magnetism, or charisma, who are really smart and can have a good conversation even though their beliefs differ radically from mine, and, most importantly, they've either been previously married or not religious so they know exactly what they are missing with no physical contact. Stop looking at me like I'm such a perv- lots of people have fantasies about "good girls," we all can appreciate forbidden fruit. Except here it's not forbidden to me, I just relish having that allure as the one-who-is-forbidden. I totally end up thinking "I could crack him. An accidental arm brush here, a little 'what do you think of this lotion,' piece of cake."

Okay, you're right, I am a total perv. And maybe a bit egotistical to boot- Angelina Jolie couldn't crack some of these guys. And now all my shomer negiya friends think I want to jump them. Well, you'll just have to live with that ambiguity, won't you? Actually, not. I am so freaking obvious that if I'm hitting on a shomer guy he knows it, his mother knows it and his rabbi in borough park knows it.

mind-song synergy. songergy? sondergy?

Ever have a thought and then the exact appropriate song for that thought comes on in some public place? like, say, imagining that you would love to live further uptown in NY than where you are currently staying, mentally joking that you would be a- you guessed it, “uptown girl” only to have the Billy Joel song start playing in the lobby? it’s almost like I DO have that omniscient musical DJ life-narration. inconsistent, but audible in brief, delightful flashes. If I can just get her to stop playing Because of You all the damn time…

Oh G-d, the miners

Tragic in any case, to be trapped underground with no air, no communication with the outside, any medical care, probably dying a slow and anguished death. But for the families to find out in a church “celebration” over the supposed miracle of their saved lives, and to have it blurted out to all present, including the name of the one survivor- I cannot imaging a more insensitive and devastating way to hear the worst news imaginable.

Yet another category of "slut" that I fall into

I just read an article entitled "Food Slut," expecting something ENTIRELY different from what I found, which was a sober reflection on years of sponsored gluttony, dazzling and shallow social functions, and a level of reverence for inanimate objects that definitely borders on idolatry. I myself have to concede this round to friends who find the quest to become a foodie unforgiveably self-absorbed and pretentious. Foodies are sometimes totally over the top, and the authors descriptions of fancy dinner parties where guests went into hysterical exultations over, like, a single pea (a new twist on the old story, I guess) or a tiny shred of meat, conversation that revolve around chef and resatuarant gossip- those all rang pretty true for me. So I want to be conscious of that embarrasing stereotype when I inch towards a lifestyle in which I can distinguish quality and freshness and subtlety in flavors, and delight in those things. I had to check myself, though, to see if I was not being persuaded by the supposed glamour and exoticism of the gourmet world that the article (and others) puncture as pathetic artifice. Really, the food writers I enjoy range from Amanda Hesser (who addresses the stigma of her profession admirably, if a bit too obviously, when she claims that one of her favorite foods is toast, and she constantly burns it) to Sarah over at The Delicious Life and Stephanie Vander Weide- people who are genuine in the appreciation, enthusiastic in their praise, and down-to-earth in their dining choices (by foodie standards). I never have patience for pomposity or self-congratulation, especially as far as obscure, elite topics go, least of all here, where it's nearly pandemic. Next time we can talk about why I love Project Runway while being baffled by haute couture's answer to foodies, "clothes sluts."

And since this is getting unbearably long anyway (I'm in the airport, whatever) I have to say, I am disappointed by overreliance on "slut" and "porn" as our descriptive terms for anything that refers to desire or appreciation. It is the opposite of the etymology of "eros," which uses physical desire or attraction as the demonstration for being able to appreciate and delight in anything, even the most abstract thing. Eros is about recognizing the desire we can have for everyone and everything, not just people with whom we want to have sex. It is deductive, it uses a concrete example to illuminate a larger reality. We acknowledge this when we talk about a "friend crush" or a "teacher crush" because we know we can feel drawn to people without wanting to nail them (well, not all the time). By contrast, the whole vocabulary of "food slut" or "fame whore" or "jewlery porn," whatever you got, uses the crudest and most reductive terms for sexual desire to apply to anything, which denigrates instead of elevating our experience of attraction by making it prurient and animalistic.

And somehow I managed to become the pretentious nitpicker I spent the first half of the post mocking. Dammit. Well, my flight's boarding, nothing to do now. If any friends read this and are in New York for the next ten days, call me.

it's fun when your brother fucks up words

The entire day has gone something like this:

Sam, trying to relay something I said to his friend Aaron: "hey, my Aaron said sister should..."
Sam again: "you know, like, being your own show, director having as you"

whatever, we all mix up words, it's not that funny, except for the final coup de grace:

Me: no, Sam can light the menorah, it's his last night at home.
Sam" no, Mom should light the menorah, it's her last birthday!

You know, written, it's not funny at all. It looks morbid and weird. But those who know my brother will know why this particular malapropism is so him, and why I was unsure for a second if it was unintentional or simply another manifestation of his warped, fantastic sense of humor. He already jokingly accused my father of a hate crime. Maybe you...had to be there...

On a different note, I finally, after several thwarted attempts, saw Brokeback Mountain and I am genuinely still haunted by images of Heath Ledger in shots that just creak with loneliness and desperation. It is a sad, beautiful movie, about which I have nothing more to say that isn't redundant.