Somebody

I want to be a somebody to somebody who needs me.

I want to be somebody's somebody.

I want somebody to want to be my somebody.

The more I say somebody, the stranger it sounds.

Strange.

I remember my father sitting outside the room I shared with my siblings, when we were younger. It was a regular nighttime ritual, he would plant a chair outside our room, and 'shush' us anytime someone made a noise. I guess my parents figured it was the only way to guarantee that we would go to sleep without killing each other. It worked, mostly.

I have been taking care of 3 little dependents for the past few days while their parents are out of town. Firstly, waking up while it is still dark out is no joke, I don't know how parents do it every day. And I don't drink coffee. I'm stumbling around trying to get 3 kids up and out the door, while getting myself dressed, doing my hair and makeup and trying to look presentable. I think I have it all together until I see a mom in heels waltz by me looking hotter than hot, while my eyes feel tired and blurry.

So I too sit outside their door, listening to them breath and waiting for them to fall asleep. The oldest is nine, he says he "can't sleep", which I take to mean that he is scared and wants me to come sit with him.

It is strange being the one to lock up at night, set the alarm, be a buffer between these 3 kids and all the bad on the other side of the door. I can no longer be afraid of the dark, or spiders, or potential home invaders, because if I am scared who will be brave for the kids?

For the record, I'm not scared of any of those things mentioned above. Mostly.

I am experiencing what is like to take care of people other than myself, and it is: thrilling, fulfilling, exhausting, annoying, accomplishing, taxing, and it's only been 3 days. I realize sleep is key, because I'm not a very nice person when I'm tired.

So I'm catching up on sleep while I still have the chance, which is why I vow to never wake up before 11 again.  

Trumped

trumped-up

adjective

adjective: trumped-up 

 

     invented as an excuse or a false accusation. 

        "he was arrested on trumped-up charges"

 

I remember driving to the country last Summer on a Thursday night. I was going to spend Shabbos with a family friend, and caught a ride with my friend's husband. We discussed Donald Trump's entry into the presidential race, and I insisted that it was a joke. I thought his campaign was as fake as his toupee. I watched and waited for him to jump out and say "Gotcha!", but that moment never came.

I admit I haven't really been involved in politics, until recently. Mostly because I couldn't be bothered to understand it. Funnily enough, the first time I actually pay attention to what is going on, it is pretty clear to me: I don't much care for my options. 

An article published in the New York Times entitled "No, Not Trump, Not Ever" by David Brooks puts my feelings more accurately into words. "Donald Trump is epically unprepared to be president. He has no realistic policies, no advisers, no capacity to learn. His vast narcissism makes him a closed fortress. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know and he’s uninterested in finding out."

 

I have watched him speak. From a purely emotional standpoint, I just don't like him. He appears to be a bully, and is grossly disrespectful to the other candidates. "He is a childish man running for a job that requires maturity. He is an insecure boasting little boy whose desires were somehow arrested at age 12. He surrounds himself with sycophants. “You can always tell when the king is here,” Trump’s butler told Jason Horowitz in a recent Times profile. He brags incessantly about his alleged prowess, like how far he can hit a golf ball. “Do I hit it long? Is Trump strong?” he asks."

 

The talk around the Shabbos table naturally turns to politics. When asked what people think of Trump, most say that he is funny and entertaining, like watching a game show. Perhaps so, but is that what you want for leadership? They say he is brutally honest, that he has enough money so has no need to take payouts or support anyone else's agenda, that the world is afraid of him because he speaks the truth.

 

Would you rather a candidate who lies outright, promising things that they will not deliver on, or one who makes such outrageous claims that they cannot possibly deliver on it? 

 

I don't see any real alternative at the moment, but I do know that Trump will crumble the carefully constructed political wall that so many politicians have worked so hard to build. Are you really prepared to see it come tumbling down? Do you really think a loud-mouthed #nofilter businessman with no political experience is the best way to go?

There are 8 months left for a viable candidate to come forward, and although it is unlikely at this point, miracles do happen. Hey, G-d split the sea in way less time than that.

Two Truths and a Lie

1) I read all 7 Harry Potter books, 2) I punched my sister in the nose the night before my older sister's wedding, 3) I feel aimless and alone right now.

In my defense, we were fighting over the TV remote and I backhanded her, it wasn't intentional. I got blood on the brides petty coat, (which she had already decided not to use), there was a big uproar, everyone was mad and yelling. Sounds about right. No wedding is complete without some yelling. (On that note, Catch My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 in theaters March 25. *I was not paid to endorse this movie.)

Recently, I received an email from a PhD student who is conducting a study "researching the personal experiences people write on the web about their everyday lives", and my blog came up in their search. He writes, "I’m interested in how the thoughts and experiences written by people like you on weblogs and other social media can be used to make conclusions about society as a whole."

My first instinct was suspicion, but he seemed pretty legit, and he had a website, credentials and a youtube video to back it up. I asked the right questions and decided to participate in the survey.

It got me thinking, why do people read my blog, or anyone's personal blog for that matter?  Unless someone writes about a specific topic, like fashion, food or literature, it is basically just a personal diary of thoughts, feelings and anecdotes that is shared with complete stranger all over the world.

Someone once tried explaining it to me, he said he just found it interesting to read about my life. I could not imagine why.

This video enlightened me.

It's about human connections, finding people who are like you, or who are so worse off than you that you can say "thank G-d my life is not as crappy as that." (I hope I fall into one of those two categories, I don't want to consider the alternative.)

I have been feeling like I've lost touch with my writing recently, or more accurately with myself. So I went to the library and sat there for an hour, trying to figure things out. 

Whenever I think about the past, it takes me on a trip down memory lane some of which is not very pleasant. I always used to try to suss it out, relive it, analyze it and try to understand where and how it went wrong. But I'm starting to realize that some things are best left forgotten. 

I spoke about this in a mini writing group I attended with two other women. One of them compared it to removing an old filling from your mouth. She said the dentist told her, better to leave it in place, because to remove it will stir up so much bacteria it would only cause more problems. 

I was trying to remember the last time I felt truly happy. My memories are attached to emotions rather than physical objects or places. I remembered a post I wrote about 6 years ago, it was the first snowfall of winter and I was running in the streets breathless, with snowflakes in my hair. I felt giddy, alive, carefree. 

I don't know what changed, all I know is that it doesn't matter. What matters is what will change moving forward. 

From Rabbi Simon Jacobson at The Meaningful Life Center: "We forget how to live a meaningful life because we believe in the power of what we don't have more than we believe in the power of our own resources." This resonated with me, because I constantly find myself focusing on negative aspects, of what I regret, what I don't do anymore that I used to do, what could have been, etc. 

The topic of our writing group was "What is your purpose in this world, and do you think you are fulfilling it?" 

One woman wrote about how she loves playing piano but she doesn't think she's very good at it, but when she plays for her kids and watches as they sit silently enthralled, it makes her happy, like she is doing something right. She spoke about how as a mother she gets caught up in all the parenting, she tries to be patient with her kids but ends up rushing them and getting frustrated. But she said amid all the things she wishes she could do more of or be better at, she finds small moments of brightness and clarity where she actually feels like she is fulfilling her purpose.

I liked that, because ultimately it means no one is perfect, not even someone who looks like they have it all together. But the purpose in life is not to be perfect all the time, but to find the moments in between all the chaos where the sun shines in and you feel your true self emerging. 

I'm in the process of making a vision board, in the hopes that having concrete goals in front of me will help me to actually pursue them, and to find a direction.

Rabbi Jacobson suggests that in trying to find your purpose, you should "listen to the call of your soul." 

The very best thing someone ever said to me was "You know what you have to do." By affirming that I know what is best for me, and that I already have the answers will encourage me to look inside myself and use my own resources to move forward, rather than feeling helpless and unsure of myself. Because ultimately, I do know what I have to do. It's the doing it that's hard work.

In that vein, I am moving back to New York. It's been fun here in the Sunshine State, but I never believed I would be here forever. 

For whatever reason you choose to read my blog, I hope that you can benefit from my struggles, and I bless you to find your own purpose in life. 

Points to Ponder

It was the same guy at the check-out desk as last time, the one with the long blond hair and a beard that reminded me of hippies. He had looked at my copy of Douglas Adams The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and commented that he had tried reading it but couldn't make it through the book. (I at least got through the first book before losing interest.)

He says to me, "Are you into anime?" No, I'm not. I have only a vague idea of what anime is, and lump it into the same category as sci-fi. Comic books? Not my thing. Then he invited me to an anime club, where they would watch a film and discuss it. I mistakenly thought he was hitting on me, and inviting me to join him and his geeky friends in some underground club for nerds who like anime.

Turns out, it is just an event at the library. For teens. So, do I look like a teenager? Or someone that would be into anime?

Hard to say.

~ ~ ~

I was in the house alone, doing laundry when the "gardener" stopped by. I use that term loosely. He's an old black guy who mows the lawn. Seemed harmless enough. I said hi, which invited him to talk to me. He looked to be in his 50's, at least.

Then he asked me out. Like, on a date. Kept going on about how nice I was, and how he'd like to take me out sometime. I tried to explain to him that I am Jewish and would only marry a Jew. Of course, that prompted him to discuss religion, and how we are all G-d's creations and surely G-d does not want us to discriminate, which means it is okay. 

I politely tried to extricate myself from the conversation and close the door.

He knocked a little while later, and handed me a piece of paper with his name and phone number scrawled on it. It looked like he couldn't write that well, as he had written and then rewritten the number trying to make it more clear. He said maybe I could call him sometime, and we could go out.

I wished him a good day, a little uncomfortably. 

We live in a time when it's okay for a black guy to ask a white girl out without getting whipped. But somehow he reminded me of slavery.

I kept the paper. It makes me a little sad; I'm not sure why.

Unsteady

I hate that crippling feeling I get sometimes, that I have no one to take care of me. Like if I don't buy food or do my laundry or sweep my floor, it just won't get done, because no one else will do it for me, it all falls on me. It is overwhelming at times, those times when I think about it too much or let it get to me.

My mom said that after she left, my apartment would feel so big, and I would be so grateful to have it all back to myself. She was right about the first part, but I miss them, even my sister with whom I didn't get along with most of my life.

But for a few days, almost a week, someone else held the reigns, someone else did the shopping, bought the food, made sandwiches, prepared dinner, decided where we were going and when. It was a relief, to give up the decision making. It felt like a team, a trio, we went swimming every day in a gorgeous heated 8 ft deep pool, and it all just felt so right.

Last time my mom came to visit, I asked her to bring me some towels. She was horrified to find out that I had only one towel. What's the big deal, said I. Use it and wash it, that's how it goes. I wanted a specific set of towels that I left at home, but she couldn't find them. Of course, while she was here my mom said she would buy me towels, but I refused. I don't need you to buy me towels, I told her, don't worry, I'll make due. That's what I've been doing all my life, I can take care of myself, I don't need your help.

She forgot, and that was that.

My mom and sister came to visit this week. My sister told me a whole long rambling story that I didn't pay much attention to, which ended in her having store credit at Macy's. She decided we would go there and buy me towels. So I went along with it, cuz hey, who doesn't like free stuff.

Of course, I couldn't decide, they all looked the same, I didn't know how to choose, some were soft, some rough, I don't know, I just don't know. Does it really matter? But of course it does, the first time that I am spending money on towels, like I'm setting down roots. This is an important decision. No, I didn't think I would be making this decision with my mother and sister, I live sparsely by choice because who ever comes over?

I looked around at all the things I could not have, did not let myself have. Money was always an issue, why did we deserve good things? I plopped myself down on a bed that probably costs more than I ever made in a year, the duvet cover alone was listed at a thousand. What's the point? Why invest money in things?

The perfect towel still eluded me. Should I choose yellow for a cheery, happy affect? Or is that just forcing it?

My mom pointed to an orange one, but I didn't like it. Finally, we stumbled upon a bright kelly green color. My mom said, "that was my mother's favorite color". We just spent the day in the cemetery surrounded by my dead relatives, so I had to believe that meant something.

I didn't see the matching hand towel, or the large bath sheet size. Not to worry, my sister went to the sales counter to see if they had it in stock. I sat back and let things happen.

Alas, I am the proud owner of a new beautiful kelly green bath towel and matching hand towel. Maybe nobody but me will ever see it, but hey, love of the color green is one of the things me and my grandma had in common.

I drove them to the airport at 4 in the morning, and stumbled back into bed. For the first time, I wasn't the one leaving.