31 January 2011

Temple of Gold - or - How my Education Failed Me

After a raucous conversation about the validity and unsettling prevalence of the phenomenon known as “lucid dreaming” I realized that maybe my brain isn’t quite up to the level it should be. If you’ve never heard of the phrase before, “lucid dreaming” is the idea that you can control your dreams while experiencing them, or at the very least, become aware that your dreams are entirely fiction. And if you’re anything like me, you’ve assumed that this concept was created by Christopher Nolan in Inception. However, apparently a lot of people experience this and I am just completely out of the loop.

“You mean you have dreams where you know you are dreaming?” I inquire.

“Yea,” my coworkers replied while casually buffing their nails, “every once in a while.”

I continued on.

“And in these dreams, when you realize this, you can change the course of action?”

“Well obviously,” they responded, agitated by my naiveté. “Why would I keep doing something I didn’t feel like doing?”

I was floored, if not by the concept, but by how nonchalant they acted- as if summoning the nightly powers of a Navajo medicine woman was completely blasé. One of my coworkers went so far as to say she controlled her dreams entirely, thinking about what storylines to experience before going to bed and then systematically executing each plot point with its corresponding REM cycle.

“It’s fun!” she said, “I’ll be hooking up with James Franco in my cabana house when George Clooney comes in to check out the pH levels in the pool!”

27 January 2011

At least nervous fidgeting burns calories.

It's customary that when you start dating someone, you should reveal certain things about yourself slowly, so as to keep the mystery and excitement alive. Don't tell him immediately that you once dabbled in glass blowing or that golden showers are kind of your thing. Just when he thinks he knows all there is to know about you, BAM. Pee on his face. These are the kinds of things that keep relationships humming.

I had (non-urine related) things that I was eager to slowly show off to my boyfriend of 3 and a half years and he also had (non-urine related) things to share with me. For instance, he pooped his pants (a tragic result of The Shart) on his first day of the 6th grade just as he made it up the hill to the bus stop. I heard this 2 years into our relationship and it definitely made us stronger.

Right now, at this moment, I'm in a situation where I'm wondering if I should reveal something about myself that will blow the barn door open on his understanding of my neuroses. He knows I'm mostly always either nervous, cold or scared so I'm not sure if I should bring him into this very dark, very inconvenient aspect of my already shaky personality. He's seen me park and re-park my car, wake up in the middle of the night to replace the batteries on the carbon monoxide detector JUST IN CASE and he's seen me steal temporary tow-zone signs so that if I get towed, I can cite the many mistakes on said sign. Do I really want to add one more heaping pile to the batch of crazy he's come to love?

I bought a dress while on Newbury Street in Boston. It is adorable and lovely and I can wear it with tall boots and I really really like it. I tried it on in a small. It fit great. Saw a tear in it. Grabbed another dress with no tear. Paid for it. Brought it home. Excitedly tried it on with said tall boots. It was massive. I had grabbed a large. I feverishly called the store. A very incompetent sounding sales girls said if she could find it, she would hold it for me. IF SHE COULD FIND IT. This is not sitting well with me and it's leaving far too much to chance. I need a plan. I casually ask my boyfriend if he'd like to have dinner in Boston. Now. He says he'll eat in Boston and he'll drive me to the store so I can return my dress. He's understood every facet to my desperate inquiry except for the very important part: NOW.

So I'm reading this blog to him as I write it, hoping he'll see through the comedic nuances and understand my struggle, hurriedly grab his keys, whisk me to his car and speed down Storrow Drive with his hand resting on my knee, assuring me that everything will be okay. Instead, he's eating hummus in his boxers and filling out his tax forms. WHAT THE FUCK. I'm using italics.

So basically, the quandary remains: do I continue to hide under the guise of comedy and nonchalance and hope that this dress will still be there in 2 hours (2 HOURS!!) or do I rush him out the door and risk revealing way too much about what goes on in my neurotic Jewish head?

This blog took me 20 minutes to write. That's how much time it takes for someone else to find, try on and buy a dress. Just think about THAT, because I know I will be for the next 2 HOURS.
A positive update will hopefully follow.

--Kate

24 January 2011

If his status ain't hood...

When it comes to dating and men in general, it seems that most people have their types. Some – the tall dark and handsome. Others – the blonde haired, blue eyed jock.

As for me?

It turns out I like thugs.

But not just hip hop loving men, or those dreadfully pansied homothugs that traipse up and down Christopher Street by the PATH train at 3 in the morning. No no. I’m talking hard ass thugs. Think Tupac and up the ante a notch or two. I’m interested in someone that could beat the shit out of me if I looked at him the wrong way and make it look like an accident. If you’ve been convicted of a felony I’m pretty sure we’re compatible and the more teardrops on your face the better. Because what’s sexier than danger? …And by danger I mean dating someone that may or may not have committed manslaughter in the last ten years.

How I long for the days when I can iron my boo’s dew rag while he’s passed out on the couch. How I yearn to polish his grill in a boiling pot of water and baking soda. How I crave… think of another blatantly racist and offensive stereotype and you’re not far off. That. Whatever you think that is, I crave that.

Now, I'm well aware that there could be some complications with this. But I promise, I've thought this through.

1) A lot of thugs, not all, but a lot are incredibly homophobic. Now to most, this would seem like a deal breaker - but to me it’s just another obstacle on our way to holy matrimony: who doesn’t fall for a game of hard-to-get? When 50 cent raps:

“look him hes a faggot kick him kick his fuckin ass”

one could see an example of bigotry and hatred – but, honestly, I just see a challenge. A challenge I’m willing to take on- with gusto!

2) Would I fit in with my new husband's friends? Would they think a Banana Republic wearing Jew would have any sort of street cred?

This is also not a problem. If my semester spent in Harlem teaching a crew of 12-year-old girls how to double-dutch taught me anything, it’s how to bullshit that you know what you’re talking about in regards to Hip Hop when you absolutely don’t. The first step is to immediately shit-talk Mos Def – if only for the sole reason that every other white person in America claims to like him. This will at least set you apart and make people curious towards your uneducated point of view. If you need to go further to prove yourself, name-drop KRS-ONE or Zulu Nation. These references are neither cliché, obvious, nor outdated and you need not know anything about them to make them land. These two simple steps are sure fire ways to land you street cred at any block party, church raffle, or baby mama’s niece’s baptism.

The good news in all of this is that I’ve already prepped my parents about my future husband. I admit, they seemed a little hesitant at first, but really opened up to the idea marvelously after I promised to give them an hour heads up before I brought my man home- enough to give them ample time to hide the valuables.

Because it’s worth it. As Destiny’s Child sang, I do need a soldier, but I’m not exactly sure when he’ll sail on into my life. But until then, I’ll be here, color coordinating my sweaters and baking shortbread cookies, just waiting, waiting, for my boo-to-be.

-Max

13 January 2011

Denial is a Drug

I pulled my chest muscle mixing brownie batter.

When I first realized that this had happened, I felt unjustly punished, seeing as I don't go to the gym and only people who work out should suffer muscle strains. It's a risk that every athlete takes and they just have to deal with the consequences. I, however, never signed up for that risk. In fact, I (not ran) but slowly walked away from that risk at a meandering to moderate pace so why am I being punished?

I am not a person who works out. I'm just not. Could I stand to lose a bit of pudge under my belly button? Yes, of course. But I was blessed with the family genes that Max missed out on, which is the gene that makes you appear as if you look AWESOME naked. Whether I do or not is debatable and solely dependent on the softness of the light filtering in through my white gauzy curtains. But when I'm clothed, I look like I'd be bangin' under a Brookstones magnifying mirror in fluorescent lighting. And that's good enough for me. Poor Max has to WORK at a gym to achieve that misleading effect. I envy him for both his efforts and well-deserved achievements. His regimen has recently earned him some pecs, or so it seems...the Family Effect does some powerful things.

My below the belly button pudge is telling me that the fact that I DON'T go to the gym is why I strained my muscle--that no self-sufficient adult relies on brownie batter-mixing as an aerobic workout. But for now, I'm just going to ice my battle wound, eat my brownies and stay in good lighting.

12 January 2011

At least I make this look good

So my boyfriend is nearing the end of a psych 101 course. Being a 101 class, it provides perfect, 1-dimensional explanations of psychological disorders to diagnose myself with. According to this class, I'm a raving lunatic. However, I think my most disturbing conclusion came today with a very quick, 5 minute phone call from my boyfriend after psych class.

Tonight, the professor spent the final 30 minutes of class talking about some of the more common neuroses and disorders. My boyfriend excitedly called me afterwards and told me he had discovered that I was a total narcissist. Apart from the conventional definition of a narcissist (my brother and I have made our vanity very clear), someone "suffering" from this condition has an overwhelming and unrelenting need to be coddled and reassured that they are indeed loved above all other things in this world. This need eventually becomes so suffocating that the person doing the coddling becomes exhausted and takes on the narcissist's mental issues as if they were their own. "You become physically exhausted just being around the person," my boyfriend recited. To which I replied, "you say that like it's a bad thing."

Because my boyfriend is an understanding guy, not one to throw stones in glass houses, he didn't judge me or express any real alarm at this discovery...which led me to the completely misguided conclusion that my psychological shit wasn't a problem that I should deal with before it worsens, but rather an enviable trait that sets me apart from all the mentally sound gals out there. It's charming that I will gently weep after a hard day at work and then ask my boyfriend "[sniffle] Am I special?" It's lovable that I decided early on in this post that I wanted to use the word "myriad" and haven't had a good spot for it yet, causing my anxiety to get higher and higher as the word count goes up. My being psychologically "complex" could be my thing--my je ne sais quoi. Some girls have infectious laughter, sparkling eyes--I have fleeting obsessive-compulsive symptoms that come and go with my menstrual cycle. Win.

Also, apparently people with excessive anxiety (this is the part where Max and I hold hands in solidarity) are startled by loud noises...like baby deer.

Myriad.

XOXOOOO Kate

11 January 2011

I'm the best fucking neighbor

So I'm sitting in my kitchen in my underwear eating sausage (insert joke) and all of a sudden I hear a knock on the door. Which makes me panic because I live in an apartment building, it's ten o'clock at night, I don't know anyone and I'm playing music too loudly to pretend like no one is home which is my usual tactic. So I freeze.

Obviously I do what any other normal person does, which is move my sausage from the kitchen table (visible by the door) and hide it on the kitchen counter. I do this because I find it embarrassing to be eating by yourself even in your own apartment. This, I imagine, is what fat people do and I'd prefer to give off the idea that I'm on a strict Black Swan diet- nothing but chewing gum and a dream. Regardless...

The point is, I turn off my music, hide my sausage, and finally open the door to see who's knocking. It's then that I realize that I'm not wearing pants. This, surprisingly, is secondary to the story.

Standing in front of me is a small frail, tired looking woman in her mid 30s with streaky blonde hair. She's wearing a pink and purple sweat suit, but you can make your own judgment calls on that one (I did.) Next to her is a giant white dog. She is holding two trays full of raw peanut butter cookie dough.

She is my downstairs neighbor that I've only heard of in folklore from other tenants. She is bat shit crazy.

This is weird. It's weirder when she walks right into my apartment.

"Hi" I say, as she sweeps into my house, dog in tow.

"Hi." She starts to look around my apartment, at my half eaten sausage on the counter, and then settles her eyesight onto my groin.

"Oh, I forgot pants. Sorry."

She doesn't smile. Why am I apologizing to her? Why is she in my apartment? Seriously, where ARE my pants?

"I hope it's ok for the dog to be in here."

Luckily it is, the dog is cute, but this is already REALLY weird.

"My stove is broken, and I need to bake these, so I was wondering if I could use your stove."

She continues to tell me precisely what temperature the stove should be, for how long the cookies should be baked, and what color and thickness they appear when finished.

"Thanks."

She then grabs her giant dog and leaves.

And I'm left alone with a pan full of raw cookie dough and very intensive baking instructions.

Let me recap:

So basically I have to cook this woman's baked goods and the success of failure of these peanut butter cookies relies solely on me. Sorry, bitch... what?!

I look at the cookies, and then turn the dial on the stove like she said. And suddenly my panic is replaced with a really unwarranted sort of RAGE. These cookies, quite frankly, look really unsubstantial. Shitty, is more like it, they look haphazard and shittily made, with a stupid fork indentation in a criss-cross pattern on the top to make up for a certain amount of effort, but it's not fooling anyone. These are bullshit cookies.

Look, neighbor, if you wanna use my stove, that's totally cool. If she had run up here in a cocktail dress, heels, and a tray of canapes and frantically explained that in the middle of her dinner party the stove had stopped working and she HAD to get the amuse bouche on the table - then FINE. You can use my stove, and then leave to entertain your guests. I'll help you out, I'll cook it. (And not even REALLY, i remember one dinner party where the stove literally caught fire and I couldn't cook my kugel, but we made do.)

The fact is, I at least need to see some effort on your part. I at least need to see that you TRIED as much as you could before you decided to walk upstairs and inconvenience someone else. Leave me to finish baking your cheap tollhouse imitation peanut butter cookies?

Let me ask you a question, lady: How much work did you really put into these cookies? Because the only effort I see is unwrapping the sad log of tollhouse dough, plopping it unceremonially onto a baking sheet, and calling it a day. This is unacceptable.

I call my sister to give me advice on how to handle this situation, but my sister has the rare gift of ignoring all my concerns and focusing on new parts of my problems that give me even greater anxiety:

"What did she look like?" she says

"I dunno, that's not the point. Um... young, ratty hair. Sweat pants."

"Sweat pants? She sounds like a clinger."

My sister informs me that this woman is either looking for a hot young lover, a new best friend, or is completely ready to slice me open and feed me to her dog. The latter makes me the most nervous, although the thought of listening to her banal problems or initiating any sort of sexual act with the woman is almost as horrifying.

"Stand OUT IN THE HALL. Put them on a trivet by the door. Knock and then stand on the first step: DO NOT GO IN," my sister warns.

Which would work if I had anything resembling a trivet in my kitchen.

"Cooling rack?"

Please.

Finally the cookies are done and I get some pot holders out and prepare to bring them downstairs. This time I put some pants on. I exit my apartment, making sure to lock the front door in case this whole thing is a sting operation and she has agents stationed in the staircase to go in and steal my shit while I'm delivering these peanut butter cookies to her. I know, I know, but after the conversation with my sister, anything and everything is up for grabs.

"Come in."

I don't. This is how people get killed; they walk into unsuspecting houses with trays of cooling baked goods, the last thing they remember is a chlorophyll soaked rag and for the next ten years they're working in a white slavery ring somewhere on the outskirts of Mumbai.

She opens the door and grabs the scalding hot plates with her bare hands. It is a staggering feat.

"Oh thanks. You want one?" she asks.

She stares at me and I stare at her. The plates are scalding hot but she doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink.

"I do," I say, giving in to the intolerable pressure. BUT I DON'T! A novice mistake. Slowly I take a cookie from the tray and she proceeds to watch me eat it.

It's poison, I think, keep it stored in your cheeks and spit it out when she closes the door.


But I don't. I swallow it. It's pretty delicious.

"Thanks again," she says. "You're the best baker."

Then she shuts the door, and I walk back upstairs into my apartment to decompress.

I'm left with a lot of questions:

Why does this woman not have a functioning oven? Peanut butter cookies are fine and simple, but what if this becomes a trend? What if she needs something souffled, or brings up a tray of delicately sugared puff pastries? What if the rest of her appliances fail and she leaves me in charge to freeze her ice trays or thaw her chicken? And why do I feel responsible for the success or failure of all these endeavors that have nothing to do with me?

I tell you why I feel responsible:

Because I'm a good fucking neighbor.

-Max