Strongly Worded

Who Needs Civil Rights When You're White and Straight?

On the weekend I checked out Broad Comedy, a theatre/comedy act comprised of sketches and songs from a liberal feminist humorist perspective. Some of it was a little amateurish, but overall it was very clever, and I cannot get over my very favorite part, which I must share with you. Behold the United States Extreme Right Wing Cheerleading Squad.

Posted by Dori at 9:28 AM 0 comments

UpDATE

So. It's been a while since I've reported on a secret date (or a date of any kind, for that matter). After things fizzled with the last guy (the hot one who cooks), my dating has been on hiatus. First I was away in California, and then, since my return, I've been feeling kind of low, far from a radiant, guy-magnet place.

Alas. My friend Mel from grad school is a truly accomplished matchmaker (and also a faithful stronglyworded reader--hey Mel!). She has set up several couples who are married/living together, and apparently there is some clause in Judaism that gives you unencumbered access to heaven if you achieve three matchmaking successes. So when she emailed me out of the blue to ask if I'd meet this great cute guy from her hometown, a doctor (who is almost done with residency and whose professional madness has subsided somewhat), I happily agreed.

Even with Mel's matchmaking track record, I strived to manage my expectations, since I have sworn off medical professionals (unless they are opthalmologists or specialists of that 9:00-5:00 ilk). Alas. I received an email from him the very next morning, after which I did some googling and discovered that he is the founder of some famous medical website, and has authored a bunch of publications, oh--and--he's a general surgery resident. As you may remember, I had a not-so-successful liaison with a surgeon (now known as "Dr. Surgeon") about a year ago.

OK. Well. My hopes were pretty dashed by this point. Surgeons are known to be cocky and womanizing, and to have even less free time than oncologists. Well, I figured, at least I'll have a great brunch (he proposed brunch at a hip eatery downtown). And maybe, maybe, maybe Mel's skills will surmount the odds, and the guy will turn out to be Super Sensitive Surgeon.

So. He was standing outside the hip brunch place and let me say he is sexy. He was wearing this artfully-faded button-down shirt with jeans that complemented his strong features and hinted at a fit physique. Subtle but very alluring. We bantered while waiting for a table, and he asked me a whole lot of questions about myself (because he had googled me as well). He was racking up major points by asking me all these questions, still more points when he put his napkin in his lap and poured milk into my coffee (it's so hot when guys have good table manners!), and then I noticed his beautiful surgeon hands (I have a thing with hands, OK?).

Brunch was full of additional banter, during which he revealed that, in high school, he and his sister nominated their parents for the "Best Parents in America" contest, and they won, so the whole family was featured on Good Morning America. Oh, and then his sister (an OB-GYN) was featured on A Baby Story (a TLC daytime reality show that airs between A Wedding Story and A Makeover Story). Because she is pretty and accomplished, Fox News has asked her to be their medical expert correspondent.

We talked about a whole bunch of other things (again, in a very "how-witty-and-smart-are-we" manner), and it emerged that he is ostentatiously rich. He owns a condo in the South End. He belongs to the L.A. Sportsclub, along with John Travolta, Kim Catrall, and Katie Holmes. This gym features a concierge and a dry-cleaner to press members' clothes while they work out--so they don't get all rumpled in the mahogany walk-in lockers. Then there was talk about restaurants.

It's such a shame, said Dr. Surgeon II, that in Boston there's just so little competition among fine dining establishments. Clio and Mistral and No. 9 Park [three restaurants so fancy that the closest I've ever come to them has been--literally--pressing my face up against their glass menu boxes] just don't have to work so hard because there are so few other really upscale choices in the city.

Dr. Surgeon II very graciously paid the check with his platinum Amex card, and then offered to drive me home in his colossal SUV with GPS mapping technology. As I departed, he kissed me European-style, with no indication of any interest in seeing me ever again. I thanked him for the ride and the brunch and said (as I always say), "you have my email--definitely send me a message if you want to get in touch". And he nodded diffidently.

I went home and lay on my bed and cried. Why did he seem so uninterested? Did I come off as a gold-digger? Should I not have commented on the L.A. Sportsclub thing? Should I have acted less excited about A Baby Story? (Did that give off faint biological-clock-ticking?) Was my banter over-the-top? Should I have been more inquisitive about his impressive career? Did I come off as dumb? Did I come off as prudish? Did I have boursin-and-chive omelet in my teeth? Am I revolting? What did I do wrong?

And here's the most wretched thing. Surgeons have the reputation of being extraordinarily sex-centric. They do it with nurses and interns in the call room. They are known for their revved up libidos. So why, even if he thought my company was dull/painful/annoying, did this guy not want to at least have sex with me?

Friends, am I am losing my game? Am I losing my mind?

Posted by Dori at 6:58 PM 9 comments

Wimpiness, Rankling

As you may remember, my inner censor is pretty lazy. When I have regrets about my behavior, it is almost always about things I shouldn't have said. But recently I kept mum when I should have spoken up. And it's rankled for weeks.

I was sitting with a group of hyper-intellectual people in San Francisco (during my California trip), and the reflected on their travels. They talked about sightseeing and fellow tourists. They described the multitudes of Israel travelers, whom they deemed obnoxious, loud, and opinionated. But they conceded that Israelis tend to respect local culture, pursue adventure, and at least attempt to speak the language of locals. I listened to this with great bemusement, because I am a dual citizen of Israel and the U.S., and both my parents are Israeli, and all of my extended family lives in Israel.

I had no problem with the (quite accurate) portrayal of Israeli travelers, so I didn't say anything about my heritage--why embarrass them? Then someone said, casually, completely off-the-cuff: "It's no wonder the Israeli travelers are so aggressive. Most of them are fresh out of the army--and they need to blow off steam after three years of killing Palestinians."

There was no horrified silence. The conversation shifted to Australian travelers and then to prosciutto. I said nothing. After all, I didn't know the people at the dinner. And it was a casual remark. It would be weird to make a big deal of it. And I didn't feel equipped to have an intelligent, fact-based argument with a whole table of uber-intellectuals with whom I clearly disagreed. I had a bad feeling about this, the way I would have if I'd tolerated a bigoted remark.

I thought my mom might assuage my guilt. When I returned from my trip, I told her about the conversation. She was angry at me. "If you let people say things like that, you reinforce their beliefs", she said. I asked her what I should have said. In her direct, Israeli way, she retorted, "you could have said that every single member of your family has served in the Israeli army, and not one of them has ever killed a Palestinian or even come close to it."

I winced. "But aren't they the tiniest bit right? I mean, the whole point of an army is to kill people. I might say something like that about troops in Iraq--I might casually say that they get all crazy when they're on leave because they've been stressed about killing Iraqis."

Again, no holds barred. "You shouldn't say that either. The people in Iraq don't want to be there, most of them never thought they'd ever get close to conflict. And whether you agree with the war or not, the soldiers have jeopardized their lives and we need to respect that. AND," --she was just getting started--"even if you want to disrespect American soldiers in Iraq, which you shouldn't--people in the Israeli army have even less choice about their service, and they're defending their country, not instigating war."

So. Ever since then, I've been meaning to write this blog entry to set the record straight. While the uber-intellectuals won't be reading this, I can say it loud and proud over the Internet. My whole family has served in the army, not because they want to kill anyone, but because they've been born into a real war on terror. They eat in restaurants that have been bombed. Their high school yearbooks all have pages in the back dedicated to classmates who were killed in terrorist attacks. The live in buildings equipped with bomb shelters. They, like the vast majority of the Israeli mainstream, want peace, and acknowledge that Israel must make concessions to achieve it. But they also acknowledge that the leadership--or lack thereof--among Palestinians has consistently obstructed diplomatic efforts.

Had I perused the ADL website before sitting down to that dinner, I could have spoken up intelligently, and said:

"Israel has shown the greatest possible restraint and makes a determined effort to limit Palestinian casualties ... the Israeli military seeks to prevent civilian casualties, in stark contrast to the Palestinian terrorist organizations’ goal of killing as many civilians as possible. Israel has had no option but to go into Palestinian centers, since Palestinian terrorists and militia often deliberately position themselves in densely populated areas ... in the early days of the violence, Palestinian Tanzim shot at Israeli forces from behind groups of demonstrating children and young men. During these demonstrations, stones, firebombs, and Molotov cocktails were thrown by adults and children alike, and protestors were often seen carrying rifles and machine-guns.

Most Palestinian casualties are individuals who are directly engaged in anti-Israel violence and terrorism who aim to kill and maim as many civilians as possible in their attacks. Tragically, innocent Palestinians have been caught in the crossfire. In many cases of Palestinian casualties, the Israeli military conducts internal investigations to determine whether errors where made by its soldiers."

Writing this won't matter to the people at that dinner (saying it probably wouldn't have either), but it matters to me, and maybe it will matter to you.

Posted by Dori at 4:46 PM 0 comments

RSVP, Damnit

I am somewhat of an RSVP-freak. I find it agonizing to create a menu and seating plan without knowing who is going to show up. When the planning is going into a social event, I don’t mind quite as much as I do when it’s work related (although in social situations, caginess around RSVPing sometimes implies a the invitee’s desire to shop around for cooler opportunities, which is painful). With work, though, I’m working with a budget and caterers and other people who need NUMBERS, goddamned NUMBERS, before they can do their jobs. I also worry that I will look personally professionally lame if my events are poorly attended.

I am in the throes of such an event, and the event is TOMORROW, and it’s DINNER, which means that the caterer needs NUMBERS (did I mention the NUMBERS?), and a decision on whether we’ll have the event in a small scrappy room or a big fancy room. I can’t decide whether it’s better to be squished in the small room or to rattle around in the large one. (I think I’m opting for squished, in part because some sick part of myself wants the non-RSVPers to suffer for their flakiness. Yeah! They can fucking stand and starve! But this sentiment is mainly undermined by the Jewish Mother Within, who is wringing her hands and asking me how I can even think about making people hungry or uncomfortable).

In my work this RSVP things is a constant battle. I’ve planned trainings and events and endured no-shows (which is more enraging, I think, than showing up without RSVP-ing, because it’s so wasteful in terms of time, energy, and money). In my former job, we never knew which way it would go. Sometimes we had way too much food (eating away—ha ha—at our meager budget). Then we’d cut back, screwing over the handful of conscientious people, who ended up ravenous because we only ordered food for them, and it got eaten up by the others. The staff toyed with the idea of preparing individual bag lunches marked with the names of the RSVP-ers. Then the flaky ones would learn their lessons. Of course we never did that. It would be punitive, not aligned with our empowerment model, blah, blah.

I have seen successful RSVP crackdowns, however. My study abroad program offered flamenco lessons, but the director was wise to the flighty nature of Americans abroad. She made everyone pay a deposit (maybe the equivalent of $100 for ten lessons). At the end of the course, we’d get back the money for the classes we actually attended. It was very smart.

Of course I can’t do that now. I have to be gracious and welcoming and suck up the ambiguity of not knowing what the headcount will be. I have to just let it go and chill out about the food and the chairs. Which means—oy!--ignoring the Jewish Mother Within.

Posted by Dori at 5:33 PM 0 comments

House Hunter

So. The temperature in my apartment now vacillates between a roasting inferno and an arctic pit. The real estate market has "softened". It seems that half of the houses in my neighborhood are adorned with "for sale" signs. I spend a lot of my professional life encouraging other people to Realize the Dream of owning a home.

So I am exploring this notion for myself.

I went to six open houses today. All were condos, all were well under 1,000 square feet. They ranged in price from $289,000 to $385,000. I felt like the star of House Hunters, this very staged and awkward reality show on HGTV, which follows real-life people in their pursuit of the Dream. (The host is Suzanne Whang, formerly of "New Attitudes", a 1990s Lifetime daytime show I watched obsessively as a teenager.)

I felt a little stealthy showing up at the open houses. It was weird rolling up and letting myself into these unlocked buildings--I kept expecting to stumble on people having sex or something (Oops! Open house ended half an hour ago! I guess the realtor forgot to take down the sign!). Plus, I felt like an imposter buyer, since I am not exactly hooked up financially. (Understatement.)

But the realtors didn't care. They were friendly. They were accommodating. They fed me chocolate kisses. They gave me their cards. They showed me around. They made me sign in. Did I mention that the market has softened? One of the realtors confided that she hasn't closed a deal in six months.

This was an encouraging sign. It was also encouraging to be among a handful of open house attendees--no mob scenes today. I saw several other single women, no surprise since we are the fastest-growing buyer demographic. I'm of two minds on this. On the one hand, I don't want to defer the Dream just because my soulmate is still dating that bitch he needs to break up with before meeting me. On the other hand, making payments is going to be a real stretch on one income. It would be much, much easier--both emotionally and financially--to do this with a partner. (For a somewhat related article, finish reading my blog and then check out this New York Times Magazine piece on the quest for good sperm, and single motherhood by choice).

Either way, I figure it can't hurt to look, and I had an intriguing afternoon. I saw two horrible, horrible condos in a remote and ugly neighborhood. I also saw a very adorable one in a much cooler area, for around the same price. It a funny layout and almost no closet space, but still-- it has granite countertops! I saw two very fancy condos. And then I saw this amazing one, which would be absolutely perfect if it were substantially cheaper.

This is the tricky thing: looking without falling in love, exploring without fixating, enduring ambiguity. Is "house hunting" just code for personal growth?

Posted by Dori at 8:04 PM 3 comments

Family Fun Day

So in about 48 minutes, my parents and brother will arrive for a day of family fun. Tomorrow is my brother's 26th birthday, and today we are hitting Chinatown for some celebratory dim sum. This has become something of a family tradition.

Here's how it goes.

First, there are a whole bunch of phone calls coordinating the visit. My mom calls me. Then she calls my brother. Then she calls of each of us back with the agreed-upon time (11 a.m.). Any changes to the plan generate considerable kvetch and additional rounds of calls.

I wake up on the morning of the visit and spring into action, tidying up the apartment and removing any indicators of my sin-infested, counter-culture lifestyle (OK, OK, I put my clothes away and stack my mail in neat piles). At 10:40 my brother calls and says that he's running late, so please tell everyone he's on his way, since "they'll arrive at 11 on the dot as always".

At 10:46 my mom calls on her cell phone to announce that they're at Emerson Hospital, about ten minutes away. They indeed arrive at my doorstep precisely at 11:00 . They almost always bring big bags full of Trader Joe's groceries and other treats. Often my mom will bring me flowers. So there's initial chaos putting away all the stuff, getting the visitor's permit, and everyone going to the bathroom after the long drive. My dad parks himself on my couch with my laptop as my mom and I chatter and put stuff away and I show her my bridesmaid's dress/new curtains/new duvet/new pants-that-need-to be-deemed-flattering-or-unflattering. My dad checks his email.

My brother arrives. We exchange greetings. Then we get ready for dim sum. We walk to the subway with my dad leading the way a few yards ahead of everyone else. He buys us all subway tokens and we sit in a row on the train and my mom and I talk/yell to each other over all the noise. I warn everyone before the Chinatown stop, we get off the train, and then debate over which dim sum restaurant to choose. The one with the special spicy sauce? Or the one with more variety? Or the one with the shortest line? I never remember where the different places are so we wander around in the cold and then eventually choose one.

Then we stand in the lobby of the restaurant after pushing to the front of all the crowds and getting a number from the "host"/announcer/auctioneer. While waiting for our number to be called my dad gets all tense because they call out the numbers in random order so there's no way of knowing how many people are ahead of us. While we are waiting, I try to avert my eyes from the filthy carpet. And once we enter the dining room, I try to avoid all the little bits of meat and gristle that end up in some of the dishes.

I like all the shrimpy things, and I like the desserts. I do not like thinking about the labor standards that are definitely being violated as the exploited-looking servers push their carts around the dining room, calling out the incomprehensible names of their offerings. The carts are rickety and grease-splattered, and I cannot imagine they are regulated by the Board of Health. The dining experience is stressful, too, because even as we're eating, our eyes are darting around the room in constant search of Those Steamed Shrimp Dumplings (You Know The Ones With the Scallions). Invariably Those Steamed Shrimp Dumplings only materialize after we have gorged ourselves on everything else, including the coconut Jell-O, such that now consuming them is just a gross task to accomplish.

Anyway. I should get going. The phone just rang, and my mom says they're heading up Mass Ave.

Posted by Dori at 10:22 AM 0 comments

Manic Panic

Coming back from vacation is horrible. It just is. Even with a 3-day cushion (I got back Thursday night, and had Friday and the weekend for re-entry), I am still writhing with anguish about a number of scary work projects (of the "I'll worry about those when I get back from vacation" variety). On Tuesday night I had the privilege of watching democracy in action at yet another City Council meeting. I had to do some political kicking and screaming, and our issue was #9 on the agenda, right after an in-depth presentation about the energy efficiency of municipal buildings and a LONG discussion about the water billing schedule and the injustice in rising rates. I finally got to speak at 10:49 p.m..

Nor is my housing situation a cakewalk. My lease is up May 31st. After the altercation with the landlords about the heat, they have cranked it up to an insufferable level. This occurs at midnight, and again at 5 a.m., so I have to alternate between my cushy down comforter and a thin sheet. I wake up sweaty and disgruntled, but I am not going to say anything because then that would bring on more drama. So this raises anguish about whether I should move to another rental apartment (a huge, expensive pain), or try to wrangle homeownership (but no way could I get everything organized for a sale before by 5/31, so then, what to do?).

Yesterday my adorable car's muffler went out, poor baby. It's at Midas as I write this. My migraine medication has tripled in cost (per a lovely missive from my insurance company).My skin is acting up again, and I got an unflattering haircut over the weekend, and my desire to put myself out there in the dating world has shriveled up, so ...

... I think I'm going to get me some coffee and eat the chocolate cake bestowed upon me by my friend A..

A cooler post is forthcoming.

Posted by Dori at 10:50 AM 0 comments

One for the Team

Long-distance friends notice--and question--all your everyday quirks and sayings. I didn't realize how often I say "I'm not a fan" (in reference to things I don't like, aka "I'm not such a fan of cilantro/heavy metal/Alito") until a far-away friend pointed it out. Nor did I realize that, when I sit down, I tend to naturally sink into a posture in which I lean forward with my arms crossed.

During my California trip, I had to explain a theoretical framework that has lately governed my thinking about relationships. My Californian hosts had some insightful and fundamental questions about the framework, prompting my realization that my stronglyworded readers have not yet been presented with the Team Dori theory.

The seeds were sown during the beginning of my graduate program, in which all of us beleaguered, no-math-since-high-school students had to absorb a semester's worth of statistics, accounting, and economics in six weeks. To get through the aforementioned statistics class, I depended on prescription sedatives and the kindness of my classmates. My friend A., (whose friendship is among the best "takeaways" of the program), was able to thrive academically (and without sedatives) by also leveraging the power of "Team A." Friends and family members wrote encouraging words for her to post over her worktable, and she assembled a select group of loved ones to help with matters both personal and statistical. Later on, a mentor advised another friend to compile a team of professional allies--someone to bitch with, someone to strategize with, someone to network with, and so on. While the team concept was crystallizing in my mind, an acquaintance was hospitalized. Her boyfriend sent out an email galvanizing all her friends to visit and cook--and he included a spreadsheet with a detailed schedule on which we could sign up. Over the years, other friends' boyfriends have served the same function, spearheading campaigns to overcome thrombosis and emergency back surgery.

Over time, all of this coalesced into the idea of Team Dori. I've gradually come to appreciate how extraordinarily lucky I am to have friends with complementing abilities, including those who can kick my professional ass into gear, those who offer brilliant advice, those who provide unwavering, non-judgmental support, and those who enhance my life in so many other ways, bringing me love and joy and making me a better person. And while I've never been explicitly acknowledged as a member of Team Anybody Else, I consider myself a faithful and devoted member of countless teams, whether the other players know it or not.

Thus, my agonizing search for a soulmate is really a search for the captain of my team--the person who knows and loves all the members--and yet is the only one who has the success of Team Dori at the forefront of his mind (and he would also have the email addresses of all the team members, should their visits need to be coordinated in the event of a hospitalization (God forbid)). It should go without saying that I plan to kick ass as the captain of Team Soulmate, leading a skilled cadre to constant, glorious victory.

My Californian friends were bemused and puzzled by the theory. If your soulmate is your team captain, they asked, then what are you? Are you the ball? The star player? Who is the coach, who are the cheerleaders, and--most importantly--what is the game?

Excellent questions, all. I considered them on the plane on my depressing flight back to this godforsaken coast. And I think I'm going to stick with my initial response. I think the game is not, surprisingly, a team sport but an individual challenge--not running (I hate running)--but perhaps rhythmic gymnastics. Then the team members are in fact the coaches, physical therapists, sports psychologists, costume designers, choreographers, PR people, and fans. The combination of all their generosity and talent is transformative. They start with a tiny body, a flat surface, and some balls, clubs, and ribbons. And together, they create a graceful performance marked by skill and strength.

Posted by Dori at 6:05 PM 4 comments

Love and Culture Part II: Greater San Francisco

So I flew towards San Francisco. My friend C. was to pick me up. C. and I have been friends since middle school. Once, during the height of my adolescent depression and misery, she silk-screened a card for me. It had a skillfully rendered raspberry on the front, and a sweet, encouraging message inside. I always think of that kind gesture when I think of her.

Anyway, punctuality is not C.'s strong suit. After landing, I waited for a while near the baggage claim. She was nowhere to be seen. My terror mounted. What if I told her the wrong day? What if she forgot? What would I do? Where would I go??? I was panicking and too embarrassed to call her cell, but I eventually did, and she was, in fact, on her merry way but running late.

We had a joyful reunion and spent three days accomplishing still more lovely things:

- Wandering around the town of Davis, where C. is studying agricultural economy (or something like that). Everything was green and beautiful and smelled like fresh earth.

- Visiting the home of Jelly Belly Jelly Beans, and doing the "Best Factory Tour in the U.S." (per a 2005 Reader's Digest survey). In addition to observing the elements of the three-day Jelly Bean creation process, we also got to see several portraits of Ronald Reagan made up entirely of--you guessed it!--Jelly Beans. Apparently he was a real connoisseur and had little pockets carved into the seats on Airforce One--to store his favorite flavors. As C. said, a great use of taxpayer dollars.

- Snarfing down gelato from Naia in Berkeley, as well as incredible produce from the Berkeley Bowl Marketplace, which, according to A.P., is so wonderful that it justifies the existence of capitalism. This place met expectations. It featured so many vegetables and fruits that I had never seen before, including avocadoes for 39 cents.

- Continuing on the California Culinary Trail to eat both Mexican and Salvadorian food in San Francisco's Castro district. Then, stumbling along Valencia St. to check out an entire store devoted to pirate paraphernalia (yes, you read that right!), and gulping down a huge cup of coffee to offset both the food coma and the jet lag that dogged me for my entire stay.

- Eating another Berkeley meal at Jupiter's, with a whole crowd of C.'s friends who converged within a few hours of her invitation. (In my world, getting a crowd of people together requires days of reply-all emails and at least two weeks' notice). It was overstimulating. The restaurant was loud and crowded, we had nine people at our table, and, I have to say, the conversation was that kind of over-the-top-intellectual-snobbery of which I am simply not a fan.

People talked for a long time about how they were chipping in to buy a humanely-farm-raised pig. Apparently they'd recruited the chef of some famous restaurant to oversee their creation of proscuitto and other fancy pork products. Then there was a long, horrified discussion of some guy who wore a black short-sleeved T-shirt to a party. Worse, it had the google logo on it. (I'll make sure to cull my T-shirt collection next time I'm out West).

And then, an even longer discussion about Very Important Work Obligations. Two of C.'s friends were in CA to attend a conference on work/life balance, which was held at a remote retreat center without phone or Internet access. But, dammit, those two Vital Employees were working the system, having brought ultra-powerful wireless cards that would grant them access to 4 a.m. New-York-Based conference calls, which they clearly, absolutely could not miss!

- Spending the last day in San Francisco. C. got her hair cut at an edgy salon. We visited Alcatraz with the much-lauded audio guide. We ate Sourdough bread from the famous San Francisco Sourdough bread place, and then Ghirardelli chocolate.

Somehow we still fit into the car to drive back. C. made a slew of phone calls to find us a ride to the airport. One of her friends agreed to do it approximately 8 hours before our scheduled departure. (Again, in my world, nobody drives anybody to the airport, much less in the very early morning, and MUCH less with no advance warning. How great is California!)

My flight back sucked--two different delays. I was crabby and tired when I arrived in Boston. Then, the next morning, I drove to the gym for some re-entry stepping and sculpting. I hesitated for a nanosecond while turning left in a 4-way intersection, and of course the jerk behind me responded with a drawn-out, hate-filled honk. In my six days in California, land of the SUV and the freeway, not ONE person honked at us, even in the bumper-to-bumper traffic that snarled around as we left San Francisco during rush hour. So there you go.

Welcome back!

Posted by Dori at 10:41 AM 1 comments

Love and Culture Part I: Los Angeles

So I'm back from California, and let me tell you, all you West-Coast friends that keep asking me what the hell I'm still doing in this cold wasteland with the aggressive drivers and the dearth of local produce--I see what you're saying.

California is fabulous and my trip was fabulous--jam-packed with love and culture. I spent three nights in L.A., and three nights in the San Francisco area (which included a foray to Berkeley and an encounter with A.P., a beloved ex-boyfriend and a stronglyworded reader).

I'll start with the highlights of L.A.:

- Bonding with R. (one of my bestest friends) in her fabulous new condo with the white fluffy towels and her signature massaging showerhead (she sent me the same showerhead for my birthday a few years ago, and it remains on my Top 10 List of Greatest Gifts).

- Eating at the Rose Cafe, which was deemed "Best Brunch" by Bon Appetit.

- Doing an architectural tour of the Getty Museum (but not, unfortunately, the restored Roman villa, for which tickets are sold out until July).

- Checking out the Independent Spirit Awards. During my traditional rollerblading excursion on Santa Monica Pier, R. and I happened on a big white tent and throngs of people clustering around and gawking at the celebrities.

Most of the people in the crowd had also happened on the event, and not planned to go there with specific celeb-targets in mind, so we spent a lot of time squinting at the red carpet and then exchanging speculations: oh, I think that's the girl from that movie ... you know the one? It's a love story, came out a few years ago? And then someone would remember, shout out the name of the celeb and the movie, and then we'd all scream and clap, newly anointed fans. Some of the people, however, were so famous that there was no need for this. Melinda, are you paying attention? I saw, in the not-too-distant flesh: George Clooney, Felicity Huffman, Heath Ledger, Jake and Maggie Gyllenhaal, Sarah Silverman (comedian and the event's crude, tacky host), one of the Baldwins (I think it was Alec), the guy who plays Stanford on Sex and the City, Jennifer Jason Leigh, either Ebert or Roeper (can't remember), and a whole slew of others.

- Eating an amazing meal at the Inn at the Seventh Ray, which is in the hippy-haven Topanga Canyon. A very earnest waitress told us about their extremely pure water (filtered through a double osmosis process!). Then we gorged on an incredible brunch that featured all-0rganic food with heavy emphasis on the vegan and the raw. Highlight: watercress salad with daikon radishes in an orange miso dressing. We enjoyed the extremely new-age atmosphere as we sat among the rocks, overlooking a stream, with the sound of wind chimes in the background.

Then it was time to say goodbye. After a last night's hurrah in the hot-tub under the stars (R. lives in a complex not unlike Melrose Place), it was time to head North.

Posted by Dori at 10:03 AM 2 comments

Fasten Your Seatbelt!

I traveled a lot as a kid, with my parents and brother. My entire extended family lives abroad, and we’d visit them every year, stopping somewhere touristy on the way. So I’ve traveled to over 20 countries (mainly in Western Europe—I am still eager to see many landmarks in the U.S., especially Yellowstone Park). I anticipated my childhood trips with great excitement. I loved the pre-travel shopping and the packing. I'd start packing weeks in advance. And then a few days before a long international flight, my mom would take me out to choose books and word puzzles and snacks. Specifically, I'd stock up on Combos (those “cheese”-stuffed pretzel bits), and Caramelo bars. In an effort to prolong the joy of the Caramelo goodness, I’d take tiny bites over the course of the flight, so that by the end, the remaining chocolate would be a melted, sticky mess. But flying was great. This was the age of the friendly skies! We got movies and meals, and often, because my brother and I were little and cute, we’d get free pins with airline logos and (a few times) peeks at the cockpit.

Now I am grown up and travel fills me with stress. I worry about bad weather, about missing a connection, about getting on the wrong flight. When I board the plane, I read the safety manual and closely follow the safety demonstration. Also, I have become an X-treme Packer. I have unreasonable urges to pack as little as possible, leaving behind even tiny, light-weight necessities that I end up lusting for as soon as I arrive at my destination. I'll convince myself that I don’t really need to floss away from home, and then leave the tiny, featherweight floss behind, only to literally gnash my teeth in frustration once I get wherever I’m going. Or, ignoring my constantly cold-running metabolism, I’ll neglect to bring a sweatshirt or a fleece because of the bulk, and then curse and shiver the whole time I’m away. I expected my period on the last day of my last trip to Rome, and accordingly packed a half-day of feminine care, expecting to encounter free supplies on the plane.

Well. Planes no longer provide free feminine care (or any feminine care, or any customer care, for that matter—now they charge “transaction fees” if you book a flight over the phone with an actual human agent. ) But by the time I learned this, it was a moot point, since my original flight was cancelled. It was Sunday, all of Rome was closed, and I was stuck trolling the streets in search of tampons and Italian ibuprofen during the extra day before the rescheduled flight.

So. I am leaving for California on Friday morning, but tonight I am going shopping. Sure as hell I’m packing some floss, at least one trashy book, and a fleece. AND a little tranquilizer for good measure.

Posted by Dori at 3:38 PM 0 comments