(x-posted from lj)
!!!JAPAN!!! -- that's what it's like here. lots of exclamation points, neon ones, surrounded by others, and katakana that it takes forever to decode and turns out to mean 'karaoke.' Karaoke is the one word I can definitely recognize at this point. we have not tried it yet BUT we have gotten some amazing things done:
1) talked to other foreigners. everywhere, all the time. we have no compunctions about striking up conversations with strangers.
2) the fish market! imagine Reading Terminal Market except three times as big and ten times as confusing, filled with fish carcasses and men with swords and other men smoking cigarettes while racing around on motorized carts and everywhere buckets of smaller fish that aren't quite dead yet and are thrashing about in a pathetic way. our first morning here we woke up at 5:30 and decided to make the most of it, so we got to see the market in all its wet, bloody glory.
3) fresh sushi for breakfast, post-fish market. this was one of those unforgettable experiences that we just stumbled on, having left the fish market. we saw a line and we queued up, figuring why not? and indeed, we were not disappointed. a chef served us sushi like we'd never had before, sushi that was only Mostly Dead, sushi from his hands to our mouths, sushi that it turned out cost $70 (7000 yen total) which was a problem when it came time to pay because we only had $28, or 3000 yen.
so what did we do? naturally i surrended myself and became a hostage, sitting on a stool in the corner of this tiny sushi bar, trying to be inconspicuous, as poor mr. ben raced around for an hour and twenty minutes trying to find an ATM that took international credit cards. not in japan 24 hours and we already created our own video game!
eventually i was redeemed. it was great.
4) walked. walked walked walked and walked some more. my legs are tired all the way up to my hips. the day before yesterday when mr. ben and i both reached that stage we took a break and got cheap tickets to watch one act of traditional kabuki. because this is how we relax.
5) bought tickets to a japanese baseball game! for someone who is utterly uninterested in sports, i am totomo excited for this-des. that means, I cannot wait.
6) shrines, temples, park with huge lake covered in lotus taller than i am.
7) noticed that japanese women do not wear bright colors. really! no red.
mr. ben and i have now landed in sapporo in the blessedly quieter northern region of the country where, we can only hope, the food will not be quite as salty.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
my honeymoon so far
Who knew there would be so much rejection involved?:
Then there's the poetry of the process:
We are not, however, making excellent progress on spending our 100 Frivolous Dollars. Mr. Ben's Uncle gave us this cash with the stipulation that we NOT merely bank it, but blow it on jello shots or bubblegum or the like. Originally we planned on riding it to Splish Splash!, the wateriest water park around, but when that fell through, all we managed to do was have brunch (frivolous for Mr. Ben only). Perhaps we'll find opportunities near the Potato Hostel ...
Dear sirA veritable sampler of disappointment. But! This is what we get for planning so late. There are some bright spots on the horizon:
It is no room, sorry.
thank you
kikuya ryokan
Dear Sir/Madam Ester
Thank you for your mail.
I am afraid that we have no vacancy for Sep 5 - Sep 6 at all.
Thanks and regards
Nakamuraya Ryokan
Dear & Hello Ester,
Thank you very much for your e-mail inquiry.
Although, we regret to inform you that Taito Ryokan is fully booked out for the nights you have requested. ... In a meantime, please have a wonderful day and wish you fulfill your journey in the rising sun country.
Faithfully yours and Sayonara,
Satoshi / Kenichi at Taito Ryokan
We were very happy to receive your e-mail for reservation as below, but to
our great regret
We are very sorry to say but your requested days,we are all of
the rooms fully booked.
We hope that we may be of service to you in the future.
Annex Katsutaro Ryokan
Dear Sir ,
Thank you for your inquiry .
We are terribly sorry that we are full of reservation
on 5th and 6th sep 2007 .
If you have a chance to go to Sapporo ,
please request our hotel again .
Regards ,
Hotel Sapporo Met's
Now there are no twin room available on September 6.Honeymoon in a twin bed! Well, it's a start.
We prepare for domitry room.
But it change for the twin room if anyone cancel.
We can prepare for twin room on September 5.
Then there's the poetry of the process:
To: Dear Ms.esterThe place I was most excited about, a hostel called Potato in a little artisty town called Biei near a fantastic-looking national park, Daisetsuzan, CAN accomodate us in a full-size bed (whahoo!) as can a somewhat-generic but reasonably priced and well-situation small hotel in Tokyo. So we're making progress, step by step, through the minefield of exceedingly polite rejections. Look what we're heading towards and tell me it's not worth it.
We are very welcome to your visit in Tokyo.
Thank you very much for your reservation e-mail .
We can accommodate you in Annex Katsutaro(NIPPORI).
If you are satisfied with this accommodation. Please notify.
We believe our Japanese style inn is comfortable and quite in Tokyo
We are delighted to confirm your reservation as follows:
You are requested to send back the confirmation by 29th August 2007 .
In the case when the confirmation is not received by the designated
date, your reservation is not received by the designated date, your
reservation is to become invalid.
We are not, however, making excellent progress on spending our 100 Frivolous Dollars. Mr. Ben's Uncle gave us this cash with the stipulation that we NOT merely bank it, but blow it on jello shots or bubblegum or the like. Originally we planned on riding it to Splish Splash!, the wateriest water park around, but when that fell through, all we managed to do was have brunch (frivolous for Mr. Ben only). Perhaps we'll find opportunities near the Potato Hostel ...
Sunday, August 19, 2007
fifty years ago, or, yesterday
Standing in the wedding aisle of the Hallmark Gold Crown Store for People who Love Porcelain Figurines and are Suspicious of Imagination Saturday morning, Mr. Ben and I tried to figure out what card to bring along to the celebration we were headed to. Friend wedding, fireman wedding, former Catholic priest wedding ...
"Where," I grumbled, "is the Unofficial Step-Sister-in-Law section?"
The card was for Lizzie, the daughter of the man Mr. Ben's mom has been with for over a decade. She and her three brothers and Mr. Ben are all basically the same age. Lizzie got married the weekend after we did -- awkward enough timing that Mr. Ben and I couldn't go. We could, however, make it up to her and that side of the family by attending Celebration #2 in the Catskills, hosted by Lizzie's grandparents for their friends.
We ended up grabbing a blank card with a picture of children pawing at each other on the front, which was really the only respectable choice.
The lakeside community where Lizzie's grandparents live half the year is only about 90 minutes north of New York City but oh, my friends, it is a different WORLD. The party was held in the upstairs room of the synagogue, the kind usually used for the kiddush after Shabbes services; upon entering, we discovered it filled with 90 senior citizens, Lizzie's grandparents' closest friends, all of whom migrate north for summer and south to the same communities in Florida for winter.
At first the party felt pretty low-key. Us kids (the under-40 set) huddled at either ends of the main table, eating potato chips and, once they emerged, cold cuts off of large platters, while the spry oldsters danced to the musical stylings of Hy on the saxophone and another tired-looking fellow on a synthesizer. By 9:30, we were beginning to yawn and wondering privately why we'd been told this event would go til midnight.
Then -- oh, mercy, THEN. A synagogue rep got up to introduce the evening's "entertainment," a woman named Ricki who bounded forward. The room buzzed with excitement; the kids' corners buzzed with confusion. Was it possible that the dumpy middle-aged Israeli lady in the synthetic, BeDazzled bell-bottoms and the mullet was going to sing for us?
"Hello, hello, hello!" she crooned, taking the mike and launching into an extraordinary rendition of the "Itsy-Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini." Although she possessed about as much sex appeal as my 9th grade Hebrew teacher, she moved her hips like she was channeling a slow-motion Elvis. Step, step, thrust, thrust, step, thrust, her chained glasses bouncing against her bosom. Mr. Ben and I watched in horror as, to illustrate the song, she described her own bikini line in the air, first on one side, then the other.
Ten minutes later, Ricki had butchered several other standards, including "Non, Je Ne Regret Rien" in the original French, and she had chided guests for getting up and dancing before being invited to. Now, the still-hostile Ricki declared, she was ready for people to dance, starting with the bridge and groom. "Where are Lisa and Greg?" she bellowed. "Come up to here! I need Lisa and Greg!"
Lizzie, being a trooper, went up grinning with her new husband, intended to whisper her correct name. Ricki didn't give her a chance, either then or after. She took us all back to the glory days of the Borscht Belt with stand up routines made out of bad puns and Jewish jokes. She made us form a congo line (headed by "Lisa," of course). She reintroduced us to the Electric Slide. "Unchained Melody," "Runaround Sue," "Besame Mucho," and "I Will Survive" all withered and died under the hot sun of her attention. And not ONE of her jokes was funny.
In essence, it was our anti-wedding, cheesier even than any bar mitzvah I can remember, and so thoroughly memorable that had Ricki been GOOD she couldn't have made the party better. Finally at 11:30, as she was trying to teach Holocaust survivors how to line dance, we slipped out.
We had a great time laughing and doing the Hora and not being the center of attention, although we did have to accept some secondary congratulations for having recently been wed. "So!" boomed out Felix, Mr. Ben's unofficial step-grandpa. "How does it feel to be Mr. and Mrs. [Ben's last name]?"
"We aren't, at the moment," said Mr. Ben. Then, responding to the confusion on the good man's face, he hurriedly explained, "I mean, we're still married, but Ester's kept her name. She's Mrs. [Ester's last name]. I mean, Ms.!"
This was not the answer Felix was expecting. Three hours later, he tracked me down and asked me again, "So! Mrs. [Ben's last name], how do you feel?" I answered correctly, grinning: "Great."
"Where," I grumbled, "is the Unofficial Step-Sister-in-Law section?"
The card was for Lizzie, the daughter of the man Mr. Ben's mom has been with for over a decade. She and her three brothers and Mr. Ben are all basically the same age. Lizzie got married the weekend after we did -- awkward enough timing that Mr. Ben and I couldn't go. We could, however, make it up to her and that side of the family by attending Celebration #2 in the Catskills, hosted by Lizzie's grandparents for their friends.
We ended up grabbing a blank card with a picture of children pawing at each other on the front, which was really the only respectable choice.
The lakeside community where Lizzie's grandparents live half the year is only about 90 minutes north of New York City but oh, my friends, it is a different WORLD. The party was held in the upstairs room of the synagogue, the kind usually used for the kiddush after Shabbes services; upon entering, we discovered it filled with 90 senior citizens, Lizzie's grandparents' closest friends, all of whom migrate north for summer and south to the same communities in Florida for winter.
At first the party felt pretty low-key. Us kids (the under-40 set) huddled at either ends of the main table, eating potato chips and, once they emerged, cold cuts off of large platters, while the spry oldsters danced to the musical stylings of Hy on the saxophone and another tired-looking fellow on a synthesizer. By 9:30, we were beginning to yawn and wondering privately why we'd been told this event would go til midnight.
Then -- oh, mercy, THEN. A synagogue rep got up to introduce the evening's "entertainment," a woman named Ricki who bounded forward. The room buzzed with excitement; the kids' corners buzzed with confusion. Was it possible that the dumpy middle-aged Israeli lady in the synthetic, BeDazzled bell-bottoms and the mullet was going to sing for us?
"Hello, hello, hello!" she crooned, taking the mike and launching into an extraordinary rendition of the "Itsy-Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini." Although she possessed about as much sex appeal as my 9th grade Hebrew teacher, she moved her hips like she was channeling a slow-motion Elvis. Step, step, thrust, thrust, step, thrust, her chained glasses bouncing against her bosom. Mr. Ben and I watched in horror as, to illustrate the song, she described her own bikini line in the air, first on one side, then the other.
Ten minutes later, Ricki had butchered several other standards, including "Non, Je Ne Regret Rien" in the original French, and she had chided guests for getting up and dancing before being invited to. Now, the still-hostile Ricki declared, she was ready for people to dance, starting with the bridge and groom. "Where are Lisa and Greg?" she bellowed. "Come up to here! I need Lisa and Greg!"
Lizzie, being a trooper, went up grinning with her new husband, intended to whisper her correct name. Ricki didn't give her a chance, either then or after. She took us all back to the glory days of the Borscht Belt with stand up routines made out of bad puns and Jewish jokes. She made us form a congo line (headed by "Lisa," of course). She reintroduced us to the Electric Slide. "Unchained Melody," "Runaround Sue," "Besame Mucho," and "I Will Survive" all withered and died under the hot sun of her attention. And not ONE of her jokes was funny.
In essence, it was our anti-wedding, cheesier even than any bar mitzvah I can remember, and so thoroughly memorable that had Ricki been GOOD she couldn't have made the party better. Finally at 11:30, as she was trying to teach Holocaust survivors how to line dance, we slipped out.
We had a great time laughing and doing the Hora and not being the center of attention, although we did have to accept some secondary congratulations for having recently been wed. "So!" boomed out Felix, Mr. Ben's unofficial step-grandpa. "How does it feel to be Mr. and Mrs. [Ben's last name]?"
"We aren't, at the moment," said Mr. Ben. Then, responding to the confusion on the good man's face, he hurriedly explained, "I mean, we're still married, but Ester's kept her name. She's Mrs. [Ester's last name]. I mean, Ms.!"
This was not the answer Felix was expecting. Three hours later, he tracked me down and asked me again, "So! Mrs. [Ben's last name], how do you feel?" I answered correctly, grinning: "Great."
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
more wedding pictures on flickr
I swear I'll get over this wedding thing soon. In the meantime, more pictures here!
However, I can, simultaneously, think about other things, like why I'll live longer by staying in New York as long as possible and whether Karl Rove's bizarrely sudden, though long-awaited departure has some hidden shotgun behind it, held perhaps by P. Fitzgerald. And: where should Mr. Ben and I go in Japan now that we're not limited by the prospect of crushing early August heat? In early- to mid-September, everything's balmy and welcoming ("yokoso!").
However, I can, simultaneously, think about other things, like why I'll live longer by staying in New York as long as possible and whether Karl Rove's bizarrely sudden, though long-awaited departure has some hidden shotgun behind it, held perhaps by P. Fitzgerald. And: where should Mr. Ben and I go in Japan now that we're not limited by the prospect of crushing early August heat? In early- to mid-September, everything's balmy and welcoming ("yokoso!").
Thursday, August 09, 2007
okay, *now* i'm ready
Having been thoroughly inspired by other retellings of the magical weekend, and having had my head finally settled back on my shoulders and with its hearing restored, I'm ready. Are you ready? It's time to hit the highlights!
PRE-WEDDING (thru Thurs.)
My office surprised me with Tiffany candlesticks in addition to the department lunch in my honor, which Mr. Ben got to attend. I was overwhelmed -- I couldn't believe I was lucky enough to have such a wonderful boss and to be surrounded by such sweet, smart co-workers. And funny, too. Said coworkers all signed cards, wishing me good luck. The best message came from N., a young editor and one of the few straight men around. "Dear Ester," it read, "May your first child be a masculine child."
I had to see the immortal Dr. L., also, for a refill of my rx. for adulthood. Though the office visit was quick and dirty, of course I still owed the $40 co-pay. Feeling a bit frisky, I asked, as I passed over the cash, "How is this different than a drug deal?" Dr. L. laughed. "Ha ha ha!" he said. "Ha ha! -- But seriously, drug dealers don't care about your health."
FRIDAY
Down in DC, I woke up early, met two of my 'maidz, and, for the first time in my life, visited the Mikvah. Ritual bathing -- i.e., skinny dipping for the Lord -- was not something I had really looked forward to, but it turned out to be one of the most moving parts of the weekend. The Mikvah Lady was calm and easy-going; being in the quiet water was strangely comforting; and the walk through the synagogue past where I had gone to nursery school lo these many years ago was a nice little bit of sentiment to start me off right.
A flurry of more secular spa treatments followed and then a huge Shabbes dinner for both sides of the newly blended family. People began to tell me I looked different. I wondered if it was true.
SATURDAY
Step 2 on our Path to a Jewish Wedding was an aufruf at my family's synagogue. It felt a bit funny to me to be observing all these religious customs when basically I don't practice in my real life. But when Mr. Ben and I got up to the Torah and read the blessing and were greeted with a rousing chorus of "Siman Tov en Mazel Tov!" twice over, the joy of it felt right. Community -- that's what religion is for.
Once everyone recovered from the Rehearsal outside in the 97 degree heat, Mr. Ben's father (Dr. Mr. Ben?) threw a rousing rehearsal dinner at an Indian restaurant; my mother countered by throwing a rousing dinner/dessert shindig back at the apartment for all out of town guests. Being the bride, I was passed from person to person, smiling, greeting, thanking, laughing. Before long, all that rousing left me giddy but woozy and it was up to my 'maidz to take me upstairs, figure out how to remove my jewelry, and then unhook my corset and let me fall out of it to sleep.
SUNDAY
Hair! Makeup! Get ready! Put the now-adorned corset back on (with help from the 'maidz)! Breathe deep! Don't smudge anything! Look up and realize, holy shit, it's going to rain.
It won't rain, said my mother, looking ravishing. Don't worry.
Once at Woodend and into my dress, I became a Bride. Cameras bloomed everywhere, cameras at every angle. Smile! Smile! I am an adult and can handle whatever comes along, especially when I've found the right chemical balance.
Outside (photographers trailing) I met up with Mr. Ben for the first time, all tuxedo-ed up. He looked fantastic. Walk a little way into that prettyish wilderness, instructed the photographer. We obliged and on the way, as cameras snapped behind us, Mr. Ben whispered, "Wanna hear something that'll freak you out?"
He'd forgotten his tuxedo jacket in New York. Luckily his best man had given him the coat of his back -- and more luckily, they're roughly the same size. Just don't tell my mother, I whispered.
Smile! Smile!
Back inside, we waited almost an hour for the rabbi to come sign the Ketubah. My little brother, the problem solver & sometime pirate, called him at home to hurry him along; and when he heard that Mr. Ben had (oops!) also forgotten his tallit to wear to the ceremony, he hopped over to the synagogue and nipped one out of the sanctuary, setting off alarms but not staying to get caught. And it was his birthday! Way to go, bro.
The rabbi arrived at last. The ink from our signing our lives away had hardly dried before the wedding planner started whisking everyone toward the grove. A light mist kept everyone cool, including some deer, who wandered up to watch as I joined my 'maidz, my family, and Mr. Ben looking magnificent in his borrowed finery under the chuppah.
After the exchange of rings and sips of wine, Mr. Ben broke the glass with real verve and we kissed and there were butterflies (real ones!) and to yet another round of "Siman Tov en Mazel Tov!" we were off, hand in hand, to the main house for a few minutes in private before the party.
And oh, then, WHAT a party it was. People everywhere, and food, and beautiful toasts (my older brother, polished and funny as always, gave about six of them), gorgeous tropical flowers, and a multi-colored cake that looked like a tower of presents, and music! The band played on and on and everyone danced until they were exhausted and beyond, and there was a Hora like nothing I'd ever experienced -- a whirling dervish of a Hora that just got madder and madder as guests ran in circles, singing their hearts out, grabbing each others' hands, lifting us up on chairs ... If, when the music medley finally stopped, everyone had fallen down on the ground a la "the Time Warp" I would not have been the least bit surprised.
And the best part was my father, chemo'ed and running on borrowed blood cells, Hora-ing right along with the rest. He didn't faint; he didn't so much as trip. He danced at my wedding.
We couldn't stop dancing even when the band took a well-deserved break because the best man put on 69 Love Songs. People I loved from across the country, some of whom I hadn't seen in years, bopped along to "The Ugliest Guy from the Lower East Side" and "Let's Pretend We're Bunny Rabbits" and it was perfect. Just perfect. Then the band came back and one of the singers -- a buxom black woman with a great voice and a huge, rhinestone Star of David -- came out on the floor to lead us all in "I Will Survive." Because -- why? Because it's a wedding, fool! Dance!
At midnight, Mr. Ben and I were pulled reluctantly away from the shining mass of goodwill and we made it to our honeymoon suite where we were really alone for the first time in days. There, gently and painstakingly, he disassembled what the hairdresser, the makeup artist, six 'maidz, and my mother had put together, and, transformation complete, submerged the post-bride in the bathtub.
It was an amazing weekend, one I'll never forget, and I have my parents to thank for all of it -- as well as everyone who came for enjoying it so much and Mr. Ben for looking so radiantly happy. I can't believe it's over but then, I can't believe something so beautiful and transformative could have really happened.
PRE-WEDDING (thru Thurs.)
My office surprised me with Tiffany candlesticks in addition to the department lunch in my honor, which Mr. Ben got to attend. I was overwhelmed -- I couldn't believe I was lucky enough to have such a wonderful boss and to be surrounded by such sweet, smart co-workers. And funny, too. Said coworkers all signed cards, wishing me good luck. The best message came from N., a young editor and one of the few straight men around. "Dear Ester," it read, "May your first child be a masculine child."
I had to see the immortal Dr. L., also, for a refill of my rx. for adulthood. Though the office visit was quick and dirty, of course I still owed the $40 co-pay. Feeling a bit frisky, I asked, as I passed over the cash, "How is this different than a drug deal?" Dr. L. laughed. "Ha ha ha!" he said. "Ha ha! -- But seriously, drug dealers don't care about your health."
FRIDAY
Down in DC, I woke up early, met two of my 'maidz, and, for the first time in my life, visited the Mikvah. Ritual bathing -- i.e., skinny dipping for the Lord -- was not something I had really looked forward to, but it turned out to be one of the most moving parts of the weekend. The Mikvah Lady was calm and easy-going; being in the quiet water was strangely comforting; and the walk through the synagogue past where I had gone to nursery school lo these many years ago was a nice little bit of sentiment to start me off right.
A flurry of more secular spa treatments followed and then a huge Shabbes dinner for both sides of the newly blended family. People began to tell me I looked different. I wondered if it was true.
SATURDAY
Step 2 on our Path to a Jewish Wedding was an aufruf at my family's synagogue. It felt a bit funny to me to be observing all these religious customs when basically I don't practice in my real life. But when Mr. Ben and I got up to the Torah and read the blessing and were greeted with a rousing chorus of "Siman Tov en Mazel Tov!" twice over, the joy of it felt right. Community -- that's what religion is for.
Once everyone recovered from the Rehearsal outside in the 97 degree heat, Mr. Ben's father (Dr. Mr. Ben?) threw a rousing rehearsal dinner at an Indian restaurant; my mother countered by throwing a rousing dinner/dessert shindig back at the apartment for all out of town guests. Being the bride, I was passed from person to person, smiling, greeting, thanking, laughing. Before long, all that rousing left me giddy but woozy and it was up to my 'maidz to take me upstairs, figure out how to remove my jewelry, and then unhook my corset and let me fall out of it to sleep.
SUNDAY
Hair! Makeup! Get ready! Put the now-adorned corset back on (with help from the 'maidz)! Breathe deep! Don't smudge anything! Look up and realize, holy shit, it's going to rain.
It won't rain, said my mother, looking ravishing. Don't worry.
Once at Woodend and into my dress, I became a Bride. Cameras bloomed everywhere, cameras at every angle. Smile! Smile! I am an adult and can handle whatever comes along, especially when I've found the right chemical balance.
Outside (photographers trailing) I met up with Mr. Ben for the first time, all tuxedo-ed up. He looked fantastic. Walk a little way into that prettyish wilderness, instructed the photographer. We obliged and on the way, as cameras snapped behind us, Mr. Ben whispered, "Wanna hear something that'll freak you out?"
He'd forgotten his tuxedo jacket in New York. Luckily his best man had given him the coat of his back -- and more luckily, they're roughly the same size. Just don't tell my mother, I whispered.
Smile! Smile!
Back inside, we waited almost an hour for the rabbi to come sign the Ketubah. My little brother, the problem solver & sometime pirate, called him at home to hurry him along; and when he heard that Mr. Ben had (oops!) also forgotten his tallit to wear to the ceremony, he hopped over to the synagogue and nipped one out of the sanctuary, setting off alarms but not staying to get caught. And it was his birthday! Way to go, bro.
The rabbi arrived at last. The ink from our signing our lives away had hardly dried before the wedding planner started whisking everyone toward the grove. A light mist kept everyone cool, including some deer, who wandered up to watch as I joined my 'maidz, my family, and Mr. Ben looking magnificent in his borrowed finery under the chuppah.
After the exchange of rings and sips of wine, Mr. Ben broke the glass with real verve and we kissed and there were butterflies (real ones!) and to yet another round of "Siman Tov en Mazel Tov!" we were off, hand in hand, to the main house for a few minutes in private before the party.
And oh, then, WHAT a party it was. People everywhere, and food, and beautiful toasts (my older brother, polished and funny as always, gave about six of them), gorgeous tropical flowers, and a multi-colored cake that looked like a tower of presents, and music! The band played on and on and everyone danced until they were exhausted and beyond, and there was a Hora like nothing I'd ever experienced -- a whirling dervish of a Hora that just got madder and madder as guests ran in circles, singing their hearts out, grabbing each others' hands, lifting us up on chairs ... If, when the music medley finally stopped, everyone had fallen down on the ground a la "the Time Warp" I would not have been the least bit surprised.
And the best part was my father, chemo'ed and running on borrowed blood cells, Hora-ing right along with the rest. He didn't faint; he didn't so much as trip. He danced at my wedding.
We couldn't stop dancing even when the band took a well-deserved break because the best man put on 69 Love Songs. People I loved from across the country, some of whom I hadn't seen in years, bopped along to "The Ugliest Guy from the Lower East Side" and "Let's Pretend We're Bunny Rabbits" and it was perfect. Just perfect. Then the band came back and one of the singers -- a buxom black woman with a great voice and a huge, rhinestone Star of David -- came out on the floor to lead us all in "I Will Survive." Because -- why? Because it's a wedding, fool! Dance!
At midnight, Mr. Ben and I were pulled reluctantly away from the shining mass of goodwill and we made it to our honeymoon suite where we were really alone for the first time in days. There, gently and painstakingly, he disassembled what the hairdresser, the makeup artist, six 'maidz, and my mother had put together, and, transformation complete, submerged the post-bride in the bathtub.
It was an amazing weekend, one I'll never forget, and I have my parents to thank for all of it -- as well as everyone who came for enjoying it so much and Mr. Ben for looking so radiantly happy. I can't believe it's over but then, I can't believe something so beautiful and transformative could have really happened.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
still not THE wedding entry
But in the meantime, please enjoy this nonsense, courtesy of the NYT:
Inane
Priceless quote: "Yet like other working-class millionaires of Silicon Valley, she harbors anxieties about her financial future."
Inaner
Priceless quote: "Fat is no rutabaga" (and death I think is no parenthesis?)
Inanest
Priceless quote: "Pink armbands for misdemeanors are a start. Stronger measures could be next for corruption and extrajudicial killings."
Inane
Priceless quote: "Yet like other working-class millionaires of Silicon Valley, she harbors anxieties about her financial future."
Inaner
Priceless quote: "Fat is no rutabaga" (and death I think is no parenthesis?)
Inanest
Priceless quote: "Pink armbands for misdemeanors are a start. Stronger measures could be next for corruption and extrajudicial killings."
Monday, August 06, 2007
quickly
I don't have the patience to tap out a whole entry on the joystorm that was this past weekend, The Wedding, but I want to recount one story.
Sunday, at about 1:00 PM, I sat outside the salon where my hair had just been done. Now, I should explain that I had two responsibilities over the course of this weekend: to
(a) look progressively prettier, day by day, until finally my appearance could only be described in the language of the angels;
and (b) not fall down.
In service of (a), I was at the salon to have this crazy headpiece made out of pearls and fake white flowers and silver wire woven into my hair, and frankly, I was apprehensive. It had been last worn by a member of my family in the 1970s, although it also looks like it could do quite well in a regional production of Midsummer Night's Dream. Hours after I went in, I emerged from the salon, headpiece attached, make up done, as classy as I was ever going to look, and as I sat on a bench wating for my brother to pick me up, I attracted quite a lot of attention from passersby. Trouble is, when people stop and stare at you, you can't automtically tell whether it's because you look like a semitic Jackie Onassis or because you look like you wandered out of their last acid trip.
Luckily, one lady didn't just do a double-take; she actually doubled back to speak to me.
"My GAWD," she twanged, hand over heart, "you look so beautiful! You look just like I did before MY first marriage!"
And that was how I knew everything was going to be all right.
Sunday, at about 1:00 PM, I sat outside the salon where my hair had just been done. Now, I should explain that I had two responsibilities over the course of this weekend: to
(a) look progressively prettier, day by day, until finally my appearance could only be described in the language of the angels;
and (b) not fall down.
In service of (a), I was at the salon to have this crazy headpiece made out of pearls and fake white flowers and silver wire woven into my hair, and frankly, I was apprehensive. It had been last worn by a member of my family in the 1970s, although it also looks like it could do quite well in a regional production of Midsummer Night's Dream. Hours after I went in, I emerged from the salon, headpiece attached, make up done, as classy as I was ever going to look, and as I sat on a bench wating for my brother to pick me up, I attracted quite a lot of attention from passersby. Trouble is, when people stop and stare at you, you can't automtically tell whether it's because you look like a semitic Jackie Onassis or because you look like you wandered out of their last acid trip.
Luckily, one lady didn't just do a double-take; she actually doubled back to speak to me.
"My GAWD," she twanged, hand over heart, "you look so beautiful! You look just like I did before MY first marriage!"
And that was how I knew everything was going to be all right.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
how did we get here?
Everyone keeps telling me how calm I am, which is rather funny, because I feel hyper in a sometimes-sluggish kind of way. I wish I had something to DO -- sweaters to knit for soldiers, or a political campaign to manage (ideally one for a Person Of Cleavage). As it is, I just get to play tetherball with my anxiety and answer questions as they are sent from my sainted mother's Blackberry.
Mr. Ben's grandmother is somewhat responsible for planting notions of marriage in our heads. She visited our studio and, being at any point no more than fifteen feet from it, couldn't help but notice the double bed. So! she said, sternly, turning to me. When do you plan on making this legal?
I fended her off as best I could. However, the onslaught continued. A friend of ours proposed to a girl he'd only met four months before and, when we visited, we found him and his fiancee sparring lovingly over who got to sit in the other’s lap during dinner.
THEN a couple Mr. Ben and I knew got engaged -- we found out about it via LiveJournal. As a present in lieu of a ring, he bought her a tea set. That really hit a nerve with me, although apparently I wasn't alone. Several other college friends noted how romantic it would be to receive a tea set of their own.
Still, I tried to tuck these thoughts away. What use would a tea set be, after all, if I didn’t want the three-bedroom two-bath house in suburbia to put it in?
Mr. Ben proposed like an Irish husband, with scarcely a "Brace yourself, Bridget." I’ve had over a year to get used to the idea of being a "wife." I’m not quite there yet. I am more comfortable with the idea of being a "bride," anyway, but that’s largely because my mother has made it easy on me. And now the wedding is in five days. FIVE DAYS!
I go down to DC thursday evening after work. I just have to make it til then.
Mr. Ben's grandmother is somewhat responsible for planting notions of marriage in our heads. She visited our studio and, being at any point no more than fifteen feet from it, couldn't help but notice the double bed. So! she said, sternly, turning to me. When do you plan on making this legal?
I fended her off as best I could. However, the onslaught continued. A friend of ours proposed to a girl he'd only met four months before and, when we visited, we found him and his fiancee sparring lovingly over who got to sit in the other’s lap during dinner.
THEN a couple Mr. Ben and I knew got engaged -- we found out about it via LiveJournal. As a present in lieu of a ring, he bought her a tea set. That really hit a nerve with me, although apparently I wasn't alone. Several other college friends noted how romantic it would be to receive a tea set of their own.
Still, I tried to tuck these thoughts away. What use would a tea set be, after all, if I didn’t want the three-bedroom two-bath house in suburbia to put it in?
Mr. Ben proposed like an Irish husband, with scarcely a "Brace yourself, Bridget." I’ve had over a year to get used to the idea of being a "wife." I’m not quite there yet. I am more comfortable with the idea of being a "bride," anyway, but that’s largely because my mother has made it easy on me. And now the wedding is in five days. FIVE DAYS!
I go down to DC thursday evening after work. I just have to make it til then.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
help!
The most amazing question I've ever seen asked of an advice colmunist comes from this week's Dear Prudence column on Slate. Viz:
Dear Prudence,Prudence's response was perfectly fine but I'd love to have a write-in contest for the best possible answer. The pithier the better, folks, although profundity is not prohibited.
I am happy. I'm 23, and I have a wonderful life, the best husband (of three years) any woman could ask for. He is my soul mate. We crack jokes to each other, about each other, and we don't take offense. We are honest and trust each other 100 percent with everything. We have two children, 4 and 2; they are happy. We take them out, we play with them, we read to them, they are our little miracles. They are so well-behaved in every way. We are not rich, in fact, we live paycheck to paycheck. We don't have a lot of extra money, but I believe the things we really want will come in time, after paying what little debt we have left. We don't have a lot of friends, mostly because all our old ones are off doing drugs and other things we don't approve of. My husband and I come from really bad family situations, horrible divorces, abusive family members, and we have grown up less than fortunate. We made the best out of our lives so far and really look forward to our future together and with our children. Are other people this happy? Or are we just weird?
—Always Smiling
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
beaten eggs
This is how I've felt lately:
Now that Mr. Ben is taking the Bar even as we SPEAK, it's even worse. I can't concentrate on anything. My joints hurt; I'm tugging at my hair like I'm nine years old again and going to CTY for the first time with the big kids. ... God, I remember how scary that was. The funny thing is of course that the fear never went away. Any time I approached a summer camp experience, even if I'd been at the very same place the year before, I worked myself into a Gordian Knot of anxiety about the unknown. Once I spent the first few days of camp in the infirmary recovering from what should have been excitement.
I'm older now! More resilient! And Xanax is my back up plan. (That's a bit like "God is my co-pilot," what?) I did manage to make gnocchi this weekend from scratch, with the help of a chipper friend, in between meals out with my two brothers and sundry male cousins. And I took my new shoes to Ditmas Park, to Chinatown, and, as a reward for them because they'd been so good, on a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. That last was a bit too much for them, or rather for me, but what is life if not one learning experience after another?
Now that Mr. Ben is taking the Bar even as we SPEAK, it's even worse. I can't concentrate on anything. My joints hurt; I'm tugging at my hair like I'm nine years old again and going to CTY for the first time with the big kids. ... God, I remember how scary that was. The funny thing is of course that the fear never went away. Any time I approached a summer camp experience, even if I'd been at the very same place the year before, I worked myself into a Gordian Knot of anxiety about the unknown. Once I spent the first few days of camp in the infirmary recovering from what should have been excitement.
I'm older now! More resilient! And Xanax is my back up plan. (That's a bit like "God is my co-pilot," what?) I did manage to make gnocchi this weekend from scratch, with the help of a chipper friend, in between meals out with my two brothers and sundry male cousins. And I took my new shoes to Ditmas Park, to Chinatown, and, as a reward for them because they'd been so good, on a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. That last was a bit too much for them, or rather for me, but what is life if not one learning experience after another?
Friday, July 20, 2007
this is happening right now
Scene: Ester sits in bed, agreeably pantsless, browsing the internets. Mr. Ben, in his bright orange Ukrainian revolution t-shirt and pajama bottoms, paces and mutters, which is how he studies for the Bar.
All of a sudden, Mr. Ben stops and turns to Ester, a huge grin splitting his face. "I got it!" he cries.
Ester stares at him.
"It's a mnemonic. A great one!"
Ester, dumbfounded. He points a finger straight at her chest and announces, "DUSTPELTS!"
Nothing happens. Apparently this isn't a Harry Potter spell. But Mr. Ben looks very pleased with himself. "Wills, baby. It's all about wills."
Some minutes later, after Ester has stopped laughing, he begs, "Can I please tell you what it stands for?"
All of a sudden, Mr. Ben stops and turns to Ester, a huge grin splitting his face. "I got it!" he cries.
Ester stares at him.
"It's a mnemonic. A great one!"
Ester, dumbfounded. He points a finger straight at her chest and announces, "DUSTPELTS!"
Nothing happens. Apparently this isn't a Harry Potter spell. But Mr. Ben looks very pleased with himself. "Wills, baby. It's all about wills."
Some minutes later, after Ester has stopped laughing, he begs, "Can I please tell you what it stands for?"
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
around the corner
In less than three weeks, I'm going to get married. Well, first I turn 25 and have lunch at Bolo, courtesy of Restaurant Week. Then I find out whether little Harry lives or dies (no nasty cheating spoilers for me). Then Mr. Ben takes the bar and either lives to tell about it or keels over from the exhaustion of constant studying, the celebratory champagne bottle his law firm sent no doubt clutched in one hand. THEN I jump the broom.
Holy shit.
Thank god for Harry Potter VII. What could be better distraction? Except, perhaps, the most amazing pair of shoes and best birthday present EVER. Writhe with jealousy over that picture. Covet, even. Go ahead, it's okay, God understands.
On Sunday, while recovering from much joyous wandering about in the sun -- to Governor's Island, at last!, among other places -- and doing chores, I rewatched all of the A&E Pride and Prejudice. Appropriate, since it's about marriage, more or less from start to finish. It's a good reminder to be grateful that marriage is an option, not something I have to do to get out of my father's house or because there's no other way to be financially secure. To further encourage myself along those lines, I've also been thinking about the gay marriage advocates out there (more power to them). If they're willing to fight as hard as they've been fighting to form a more blessed union, then there must be something to it, mustn't there? I mean, besides salad bowls.
Perhaps if gay marriage were legal I'd be calmer about getting married. The world needs more queer wives, and I'd feel better about being compared to them than to the great straight wives of history.
Holy shit.
Thank god for Harry Potter VII. What could be better distraction? Except, perhaps, the most amazing pair of shoes and best birthday present EVER. Writhe with jealousy over that picture. Covet, even. Go ahead, it's okay, God understands.
On Sunday, while recovering from much joyous wandering about in the sun -- to Governor's Island, at last!, among other places -- and doing chores, I rewatched all of the A&E Pride and Prejudice. Appropriate, since it's about marriage, more or less from start to finish. It's a good reminder to be grateful that marriage is an option, not something I have to do to get out of my father's house or because there's no other way to be financially secure. To further encourage myself along those lines, I've also been thinking about the gay marriage advocates out there (more power to them). If they're willing to fight as hard as they've been fighting to form a more blessed union, then there must be something to it, mustn't there? I mean, besides salad bowls.
Perhaps if gay marriage were legal I'd be calmer about getting married. The world needs more queer wives, and I'd feel better about being compared to them than to the great straight wives of history.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
it gives a lovely light
After that moment of dithering on Saturday, I decided to Go With Things. One can really only make choices and Go With them, can't one? There's no point whining about being pulled in two directions.
So! Up at 5:15 on Sunday and off to Central Park to wait in line for tickets for the last show of Romeo and Juliet, armed with a blanket, a novel, a crossword puzzle, a water bottle, morning rations, and a determined Mr. Ben. When we arrived, however, we found to our dismay that people had preceded us. Several hundred people, to be exact. Damned Manhattanites and their home court advantage! Some even showed signs of having spent the night.
It didn't seem likely that there would even be a point in waiting, but remembering that life's a journey, not a destination, or something, and it being a lovely morning, we settled in.
From 6:20 to 1:00 we guarded our place with the zealousness of gold rush prospectors. (I was Humphrey Bogart; Ben was the other guy.) A friend came with three dogs to keep us company -- and luckily she brought us breakfast, as leaving the park to acquire food is strictly prohibited by the Laws of the Line. By 1:00 we had been pre-heated to 350 degrees and well broiled and I was beginning to get irritable; just then we were all motioned onto our feet and forward, in slow-motion single-file, to the box office. At 1:45 we arrived at that hallowed spot, the Jerusalem to our Crusade, and managed to snatch two of the very last standby tickets available.
Standby tickets being, of course, no sure thing, we then had to return at 6:30 and remain rooted in place from 6:30 to 8:00 to see if we -- and the cadre of friends we had assembled -- could all get in. They kept us waiting to the very last moment and then! oh, glory be to Heaven: they handed us tickets.
All that sunshine and heat and sitting around and anxiety were worth it. The play was wonderful. Lauren Ambrose was a fantastically fidgety, physical, giddy Juliet -- you actually believed that she was 14 and moreover *understood* the world from her point of view. This was also the first time I got how smart she was, how much respect Shakespeare has for her, how true the last line is, that this is the tale of Juliet, and her Romeo.
Romeo meanwhile was also striking. The whole supporting cast was, in fact, I thought -- they deserve an apology from The New Yorker. Hilton Als apparently couldn't stand Camryn Manheim as the nurse, whereas I thought I'd never seen that character so fully realized. Als was put off by Mercutio too. He has something against actors who emote, perhaps? Those *characters* are annoying, but you can't really pin that on their portrayers. I agreed much more with the enchanted NYT review.
In any event, it was a worthwhile if exhausting day and I considered sleeping in the next morning to let myself recover a bit. In the end I didn't and it's a good thing too: I had thought I was to travel to Boston for work on Wednesday; actually I was to go Tuesday. Glad I got that straightened out! And so yesterday I had Baby's First Business Trip (TM). I kept thinking of my mother, who travelled for work a lot when I was younger, although of course I was just flying in and out of Boston, whereas she was hopping off to the Marshall Islands. Even with my numerous and lengthy flight delays, I can't match that.
Today I rewarded myself for that second worthwhile if exhausting day by seeing Harry Potter V: The Best of the Bunch So Far. Whee! I had never been so excited to be at Hogwarts, and no matter how big a dork it makes me, I can't wait to be back.
So! Up at 5:15 on Sunday and off to Central Park to wait in line for tickets for the last show of Romeo and Juliet, armed with a blanket, a novel, a crossword puzzle, a water bottle, morning rations, and a determined Mr. Ben. When we arrived, however, we found to our dismay that people had preceded us. Several hundred people, to be exact. Damned Manhattanites and their home court advantage! Some even showed signs of having spent the night.
It didn't seem likely that there would even be a point in waiting, but remembering that life's a journey, not a destination, or something, and it being a lovely morning, we settled in.
From 6:20 to 1:00 we guarded our place with the zealousness of gold rush prospectors. (I was Humphrey Bogart; Ben was the other guy.) A friend came with three dogs to keep us company -- and luckily she brought us breakfast, as leaving the park to acquire food is strictly prohibited by the Laws of the Line. By 1:00 we had been pre-heated to 350 degrees and well broiled and I was beginning to get irritable; just then we were all motioned onto our feet and forward, in slow-motion single-file, to the box office. At 1:45 we arrived at that hallowed spot, the Jerusalem to our Crusade, and managed to snatch two of the very last standby tickets available.
Standby tickets being, of course, no sure thing, we then had to return at 6:30 and remain rooted in place from 6:30 to 8:00 to see if we -- and the cadre of friends we had assembled -- could all get in. They kept us waiting to the very last moment and then! oh, glory be to Heaven: they handed us tickets.
All that sunshine and heat and sitting around and anxiety were worth it. The play was wonderful. Lauren Ambrose was a fantastically fidgety, physical, giddy Juliet -- you actually believed that she was 14 and moreover *understood* the world from her point of view. This was also the first time I got how smart she was, how much respect Shakespeare has for her, how true the last line is, that this is the tale of Juliet, and her Romeo.
Romeo meanwhile was also striking. The whole supporting cast was, in fact, I thought -- they deserve an apology from The New Yorker. Hilton Als apparently couldn't stand Camryn Manheim as the nurse, whereas I thought I'd never seen that character so fully realized. Als was put off by Mercutio too. He has something against actors who emote, perhaps? Those *characters* are annoying, but you can't really pin that on their portrayers. I agreed much more with the enchanted NYT review.
In any event, it was a worthwhile if exhausting day and I considered sleeping in the next morning to let myself recover a bit. In the end I didn't and it's a good thing too: I had thought I was to travel to Boston for work on Wednesday; actually I was to go Tuesday. Glad I got that straightened out! And so yesterday I had Baby's First Business Trip (TM). I kept thinking of my mother, who travelled for work a lot when I was younger, although of course I was just flying in and out of Boston, whereas she was hopping off to the Marshall Islands. Even with my numerous and lengthy flight delays, I can't match that.
Today I rewarded myself for that second worthwhile if exhausting day by seeing Harry Potter V: The Best of the Bunch So Far. Whee! I had never been so excited to be at Hogwarts, and no matter how big a dork it makes me, I can't wait to be back.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
not really a problem
Since July is the best month of the year, at least in New York, I actually have a moderately hard time with it. In a free moment, write or read? Read a beloved mystery or a new, acclaimed novel? Or the Saturday New York Times? Start the Sunday puzzle or eat some more? Eat in or brunch out? Yesterday we had excellent Korean before seeing Ratatouille. But tomorrow: camp out for Shakespeare in the Park tickets or finally get to see Governor's Island?
For the past couple hours, since extricating myself from the embrace of the Floating Pool Lady, I've wandered in my happy, happy state from one pastime to another, not committing to anything, not even clothes. I did manage to take off my bathing suit and hang it in the bathroom. Gold star!
Summer is too short. And sometimes it rains! as it did on Fourth of July (no problem: we assembled to watch Angels in America and eventually we did get to enjoy fireworks off the Promenade) and this past Thursday, on what would have been a fantastic showing of Princess Bride. We as a country need two Julys, I think. Three if you count Miranda.
For the past couple hours, since extricating myself from the embrace of the Floating Pool Lady, I've wandered in my happy, happy state from one pastime to another, not committing to anything, not even clothes. I did manage to take off my bathing suit and hang it in the bathroom. Gold star!
Summer is too short. And sometimes it rains! as it did on Fourth of July (no problem: we assembled to watch Angels in America and eventually we did get to enjoy fireworks off the Promenade) and this past Thursday, on what would have been a fantastic showing of Princess Bride. We as a country need two Julys, I think. Three if you count Miranda.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
"what's an iPhone?"
My office gave us a free half day today -- to prepare us for the glories of a free day tomorrow, I imagine. I live such an exciting life that my first thought was, "Terrific! I can go to the library!"
But it's weird, you know? That the library is generally only open during work hours, and I, um, *work* during those hours. To fill my obsessive need for the library (or rather its resources) I spend a decent amount of time trolling its website and planning my Saturday mornings. But today! With my unexpected freedom, I skipped over at my convenience carrying three books to return (Handler, Eisenberg, Sayers), and skipped back, carrying three books that I found on the hold shelf with my name stamped on their spines (Vowell, Ferris, and more Sayers, cuz I can't get enough). I am not ashamed to admit I was giddy both ways. At least those writers would forgive me for my unrepentant dorkitude, unlike my brother, who rolls his eyes at me just because I occasionally use the word Accio.
In an ideal world, my job would be to read a lot of books and write some of my own, with occasional breaks to shop for shoes. My hobby would be watching movies. To serve God, I would spend time with my friends, encouraging them to read/write books and watch movies. And to disturb the monotony, I would eat excellent food.
Oh, and I'd have a dog. And a lovely apartment somewhere by Prospect Park. And though the city would be Brooklyn, the weather would be Berkeley's. Is that so much to ask?
Mr. Ben survived his bachelor weekend. I suspect he and his friends spent 48 hours and $30K at Scores, but I will not debase myself to ask. Frankly, even if they did, they could not have matched the fun my friends and I had over my bachelorette weekend: our landlord neglected to mention that the oven had a gas leak and so, in cooking our first night there, we were merrily sauteeing on the range while filling the kitchen with propane. He also neglected to mention that by, "You can boat" he meant, "If you try to boat, the neighbors, who have a restraining order against me, will try to get you to testify as witnesses in the ongoing civil suit."
No thanks to him, we really did have a lovely time. And last weekend, which I spent in DC with my parents and my grandmother doing wedding stuff and being thrilled that my father seemed much more like himself, was also productive & worthwhile. I am not really, when I think about it, too far from my ideal world. Today I also got to buy a pound of dates from Sahadi's and Mr. Ben and I get to eat them. Even Scooter "Scot Free" Libby isn't that lucky.
But it's weird, you know? That the library is generally only open during work hours, and I, um, *work* during those hours. To fill my obsessive need for the library (or rather its resources) I spend a decent amount of time trolling its website and planning my Saturday mornings. But today! With my unexpected freedom, I skipped over at my convenience carrying three books to return (Handler, Eisenberg, Sayers), and skipped back, carrying three books that I found on the hold shelf with my name stamped on their spines (Vowell, Ferris, and more Sayers, cuz I can't get enough). I am not ashamed to admit I was giddy both ways. At least those writers would forgive me for my unrepentant dorkitude, unlike my brother, who rolls his eyes at me just because I occasionally use the word Accio.
In an ideal world, my job would be to read a lot of books and write some of my own, with occasional breaks to shop for shoes. My hobby would be watching movies. To serve God, I would spend time with my friends, encouraging them to read/write books and watch movies. And to disturb the monotony, I would eat excellent food.
Oh, and I'd have a dog. And a lovely apartment somewhere by Prospect Park. And though the city would be Brooklyn, the weather would be Berkeley's. Is that so much to ask?
Mr. Ben survived his bachelor weekend. I suspect he and his friends spent 48 hours and $30K at Scores, but I will not debase myself to ask. Frankly, even if they did, they could not have matched the fun my friends and I had over my bachelorette weekend: our landlord neglected to mention that the oven had a gas leak and so, in cooking our first night there, we were merrily sauteeing on the range while filling the kitchen with propane. He also neglected to mention that by, "You can boat" he meant, "If you try to boat, the neighbors, who have a restraining order against me, will try to get you to testify as witnesses in the ongoing civil suit."
No thanks to him, we really did have a lovely time. And last weekend, which I spent in DC with my parents and my grandmother doing wedding stuff and being thrilled that my father seemed much more like himself, was also productive & worthwhile. I am not really, when I think about it, too far from my ideal world. Today I also got to buy a pound of dates from Sahadi's and Mr. Ben and I get to eat them. Even Scooter "Scot Free" Libby isn't that lucky.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
my party!
Look, it's my bachlorette party!
Just kidding. Actually, my bachlorette party was more like this:
Okay, okay, actually it was like this:
Up in the Catskills, where those oldest wonderfullest friends of mine took me for a weekend escape, the most risque thing I did was sleep in a super bed for debauchery. It was only afterwards, once we'd returned to the city, that we indulged in my newest favorite thing, Yolato, and everyone's all-time favorite thing, nudity.
The weekend was refreshing and nostalgic and lovely, and I've hardly had time to think about it (let alone blog) since. Too much to do! After feasting with a friend n her parents into the wee hours last night, I had to rise at 6:45 for an office day trip to Connecticut: 8+ hours on a bus for 4 hours of New England sun -- fun, but an investment in bonding that I'm not eager to repeat anytime soon.
And Friday afternoon I get back on a bus to toodle off to DC for the weekend while Mr. Ben has his bachelor fun in Philly. After that things will calm down for a bit. Or, um, until the wedding, I guess. Which is really *awfully* soon ...
Just kidding. Actually, my bachlorette party was more like this:
Okay, okay, actually it was like this:
Up in the Catskills, where those oldest wonderfullest friends of mine took me for a weekend escape, the most risque thing I did was sleep in a super bed for debauchery. It was only afterwards, once we'd returned to the city, that we indulged in my newest favorite thing, Yolato, and everyone's all-time favorite thing, nudity.
The weekend was refreshing and nostalgic and lovely, and I've hardly had time to think about it (let alone blog) since. Too much to do! After feasting with a friend n her parents into the wee hours last night, I had to rise at 6:45 for an office day trip to Connecticut: 8+ hours on a bus for 4 hours of New England sun -- fun, but an investment in bonding that I'm not eager to repeat anytime soon.
And Friday afternoon I get back on a bus to toodle off to DC for the weekend while Mr. Ben has his bachelor fun in Philly. After that things will calm down for a bit. Or, um, until the wedding, I guess. Which is really *awfully* soon ...
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
ho hum
There are things I'm supposed to be doing besides agonizing over Michael Bloomberg. It only makes me feel slightly better to realize that everyone else is agonizing too: now that he's an Independent, will he run? Will 2008 be a joke that begins, "So an Italian New Yorker (R), a WASP New Yorker (D), and a short Jewish billionaire New Yorker (I) walk into a bar. Who do you want to have a beer with? SUCK IT UP, MIDWESTERNERS: YOU HAVE TO CHOOSE"?
Personally, I'm glad Bloomie (no relation except via the Global Conspiracy) has turned all (I) on us. He was always too good for the stodgy gay-bashers and immigrant-hating Scrooges of the GOP; and now it's like he's giving those of us who like him so much license to continue without feeling dirty. You know what I like about Bloomie? Congestion pricing -- I've walked by three car accidents recently, not counting the one that nearly took down Mr. Ben's best man. Get the cars off the streets of Manhattan!
Also thanks to Bloomie: no trans fat lurking in the french fries and no smoking in the bars. He's working on schools and affordable housing and he gives off the sense that if he were running the damn 9/11 monument project the ribbon would be cut already. To me, he combines sensible "big government" policies with intelligent mad managerial skillz, and he does it without incurring the wrath of the unions or the ACLU.
Not that I would vote for him for President in 08. My eyes are not that starry. We need a big D in office, if only for the symbolism. But hang in there, Bloomie -- maybe in '12? '16?
Meanwhile, I need thoughts of '08 to distract me from August 07, which is like a giggly little kid crouching behind a door ready to jump out and yell, "Boo!" This weekend I'm going to be Bachlorette-ing with four of my oldest female friends (they knew me when I was angry and bitter!) at a lakehouse in the Catskills. It will be fantastic. We will kayak and go see waterfalls and cook food and talk about our sex lives and reminisce about how I used to be angry and bitter before I had a sex life and oops family members sometimes read this blog. Well, anyway. I'm going to be an honest woman soon, or some feminist approximation thereof.
This chicks-only getaway was one of the few concrete wedding-related things I really wanted. I am super excited. Thinking about the wedding itself makes me palpitate a little bit -- walking down an aisle? Really? How surreal. Will everyone be crying? Will I? How will I NOT be crying? -- but this trip, and the 2-week trip to Tokyo & Hokkaido that Mr. Ben and I are planning for early September, are much easier to fathom.
Personally, I'm glad Bloomie (no relation except via the Global Conspiracy) has turned all (I) on us. He was always too good for the stodgy gay-bashers and immigrant-hating Scrooges of the GOP; and now it's like he's giving those of us who like him so much license to continue without feeling dirty. You know what I like about Bloomie? Congestion pricing -- I've walked by three car accidents recently, not counting the one that nearly took down Mr. Ben's best man. Get the cars off the streets of Manhattan!
Also thanks to Bloomie: no trans fat lurking in the french fries and no smoking in the bars. He's working on schools and affordable housing and he gives off the sense that if he were running the damn 9/11 monument project the ribbon would be cut already. To me, he combines sensible "big government" policies with intelligent mad managerial skillz, and he does it without incurring the wrath of the unions or the ACLU.
Not that I would vote for him for President in 08. My eyes are not that starry. We need a big D in office, if only for the symbolism. But hang in there, Bloomie -- maybe in '12? '16?
Meanwhile, I need thoughts of '08 to distract me from August 07, which is like a giggly little kid crouching behind a door ready to jump out and yell, "Boo!" This weekend I'm going to be Bachlorette-ing with four of my oldest female friends (they knew me when I was angry and bitter!) at a lakehouse in the Catskills. It will be fantastic. We will kayak and go see waterfalls and cook food and talk about our sex lives and reminisce about how I used to be angry and bitter before I had a sex life and oops family members sometimes read this blog. Well, anyway. I'm going to be an honest woman soon, or some feminist approximation thereof.
This chicks-only getaway was one of the few concrete wedding-related things I really wanted. I am super excited. Thinking about the wedding itself makes me palpitate a little bit -- walking down an aisle? Really? How surreal. Will everyone be crying? Will I? How will I NOT be crying? -- but this trip, and the 2-week trip to Tokyo & Hokkaido that Mr. Ben and I are planning for early September, are much easier to fathom.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
it's early for fireworks
It sounds like the city is practicing for the Fourth of July outside my window. Sadly my apartment faces the wrong way -- even if I go out onto the fire escape, I can only see towards Manhattan, whereas the city sends the fireworks in the other direction, over the river by the Promenade. Maybe we'll keep that in mind when Mr. Ben and I opt for a bigger apartment in this neighborhood.
Technically I should be in Prospect Park at the free Joan Osbourne Sings the Blues concert, one of countless free events NYC has begun to offer in honor of the delicious weather. Just the other night I was swaying to the enthusiasm of Sharon Jones in Rockefeller Park. But this evening I felt compelled to attend to one of the characters in my novel, the mother, Abby. She's been sort of shortchanged. Things tend to happen around her, not to her, and it occurred to me I should fix that. And I haven't had time: this week has been as packed as last week was.
Yesterday, for example, after some necessary but fucking expensive dental work, I wandered around, continuing to make purchases, on the assumption that solace could only be found in the hair of the dog that bit me. Although this experience in the dentist's chair wasn't as bad as the last one with the x-rays that left me in tears, it wasn't fun. Once again I resorted to reciting poetry in my head to keep my mind off the fact that my jaw had been hanging open for an hour.
It's funny, the poems that go through your head at such awkward moments. In fifth grade, when my teacher assigned us all to memorize and recite a piece, most people came in trotting Shel Silverstein behind them. When it was my turn, I got up in front of the class and began at verse 52 of Macaulay's Horatius at the Bridge:
I'm also very partial to the Pied Piper of Hamelin from listening to Gielgud recite it over and over again on a tape I had as a kid. But my memory of it is spotty, sadly. You should read it if you haven't: it's fantastic, full of wickedly clever rhymes.
I have one more dentist appointment before this horror series is over (it's my fault for putting off visiting one for three and a half years--and, um, for not flossing). Maybe I'll work on memorizing something meaty and substantial in preparation. Let me know if you have recommendations.
Technically I should be in Prospect Park at the free Joan Osbourne Sings the Blues concert, one of countless free events NYC has begun to offer in honor of the delicious weather. Just the other night I was swaying to the enthusiasm of Sharon Jones in Rockefeller Park. But this evening I felt compelled to attend to one of the characters in my novel, the mother, Abby. She's been sort of shortchanged. Things tend to happen around her, not to her, and it occurred to me I should fix that. And I haven't had time: this week has been as packed as last week was.
Yesterday, for example, after some necessary but fucking expensive dental work, I wandered around, continuing to make purchases, on the assumption that solace could only be found in the hair of the dog that bit me. Although this experience in the dentist's chair wasn't as bad as the last one with the x-rays that left me in tears, it wasn't fun. Once again I resorted to reciting poetry in my head to keep my mind off the fact that my jaw had been hanging open for an hour.
It's funny, the poems that go through your head at such awkward moments. In fifth grade, when my teacher assigned us all to memorize and recite a piece, most people came in trotting Shel Silverstein behind them. When it was my turn, I got up in front of the class and began at verse 52 of Macaulay's Horatius at the Bridge:
But meanwhile axe and leverI was an overachiever but more importantly, my father was. I still think about poor Horatius from time to time, like when I'm immobilized and Novacained and being prodded with sharp silver sticks.
had manfully been pried
and now the bridge hangs tottering
above the boiling tide ...
But fiercely ran the current,I rose; I tried to ignore my lopsided facial numbness as I ran errands. Shopping for flatware when you can't feel your mouth is an experience, let me tell you.
Swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armour,
And spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.
I'm also very partial to the Pied Piper of Hamelin from listening to Gielgud recite it over and over again on a tape I had as a kid. But my memory of it is spotty, sadly. You should read it if you haven't: it's fantastic, full of wickedly clever rhymes.
I have one more dentist appointment before this horror series is over (it's my fault for putting off visiting one for three and a half years--and, um, for not flossing). Maybe I'll work on memorizing something meaty and substantial in preparation. Let me know if you have recommendations.
Monday, June 11, 2007
... and it's over
I have been a media glutton lately. Observe:
WEDNESDAY - Knocked Up. And if you think my reaction was conflicted, compare it to the spitting ire of the Flick Filosopher.
THURSDAY - An advance free screening of Becoming Jane, essentially Shakespeare in Love-lite with James McAvey as a hotter version of Joseph Fiennes. Where did all these smoking hot British men come from all of a sudden? Back in the day, our selection was limited to the admittedly more-than-acceptable Ewan MacGregor. Now he's jostling for space with Colin Firth, Clive Owen, Daniel Craig, and Glen Hansard from Once, not to mention the whole cast of Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Where were they before I got engaged?
FRIDAY - LA Story for Mr. Ben's sake. I fell asleep halfway through since, before we settled in, we'd spent an indefensible amount of time trying to pick out the Perfect Bedset. What this means in practice was that we spent several hours with our ears to the computer screen, waiting to hear the sweet song of the Comforter-Pillow-Sheet-Duvet Combo that would really complete us as a couple.
SATURDAY - Chapter 2 of Angels in America with my viewing posse. I own the DVD so that, when I mention it Kushner's version in conversation and someone hasn't made the 6-hour chunk of time available to subject themselves to it, I can offer it up. (This is also why I own the A&E Pride & Prejudice, Pulp Fiction, and any number of other pieces of Essential Viewing.)
SUNDAY - and the reason I began writing this entry: the final episode, at long last, of the Sopranos, widely recognized as the best television series I've ever watched through my fingers. The fact that I -- with my famously low tolerance for violence -- have found it worthwhile to experience almost a decade of this show should testify to how impressive the acting, pacing, and scripting are, if anyone needs convincing. But you don't, right? You've seen the show, starting from Season 1? Cuz if you haven't, I have the DVDs ...
In a way I'm glad we've gotten the final episode out of the way. I'm the sort of the person that likes to have suspense done with so that I can reread or rewatch and focus on details, not plot. But I did like the finale. Very few people can do suspense as well as David Chase; I nearly fibrillated during that last scene at the diner. When the screen cut to black and a string of curses rose up from the entire East Coast, I felt the same immediate frustration and disappointment I imagine everyone did. But I also think there was something genius about that Brechtian move on DC's part -- calling attention to the medium (how many people thought their cable had gone out?), reminding us that this is just art, that we shouldn't let our emotions overwhelm us.
Also, whether or not you think Tony died in that moment when the screen went black, you have to believe that the best of his life is behind him. He's caught in the same self-destructive, self-obsessed patterns, only now he doesn't have Melfi to help him pan for small shiny bits of insight. He has his wife's and his son's loyalty but only because he bought them; and two of the closest members of his work family are gone forever. Instead of saving babies the way Tony hoped she would as a pediatrician, his daughter will spend her life trying to save mobsters as a lawyer and it's because of Tony. He'll always have to live looking over his shoulder and even if he isn't killed, the specter of Junior lies ahead of him: wasting away toothless in a New Jersey state hospital with no memory of the pride or glory that made "this thing of ours" worth dying for in the first place.
WEDNESDAY - Knocked Up. And if you think my reaction was conflicted, compare it to the spitting ire of the Flick Filosopher.
THURSDAY - An advance free screening of Becoming Jane, essentially Shakespeare in Love-lite with James McAvey as a hotter version of Joseph Fiennes. Where did all these smoking hot British men come from all of a sudden? Back in the day, our selection was limited to the admittedly more-than-acceptable Ewan MacGregor. Now he's jostling for space with Colin Firth, Clive Owen, Daniel Craig, and Glen Hansard from Once, not to mention the whole cast of Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Where were they before I got engaged?
FRIDAY - LA Story for Mr. Ben's sake. I fell asleep halfway through since, before we settled in, we'd spent an indefensible amount of time trying to pick out the Perfect Bedset. What this means in practice was that we spent several hours with our ears to the computer screen, waiting to hear the sweet song of the Comforter-Pillow-Sheet-Duvet Combo that would really complete us as a couple.
SATURDAY - Chapter 2 of Angels in America with my viewing posse. I own the DVD so that, when I mention it Kushner's version in conversation and someone hasn't made the 6-hour chunk of time available to subject themselves to it, I can offer it up. (This is also why I own the A&E Pride & Prejudice, Pulp Fiction, and any number of other pieces of Essential Viewing.)
SUNDAY - and the reason I began writing this entry: the final episode, at long last, of the Sopranos, widely recognized as the best television series I've ever watched through my fingers. The fact that I -- with my famously low tolerance for violence -- have found it worthwhile to experience almost a decade of this show should testify to how impressive the acting, pacing, and scripting are, if anyone needs convincing. But you don't, right? You've seen the show, starting from Season 1? Cuz if you haven't, I have the DVDs ...
In a way I'm glad we've gotten the final episode out of the way. I'm the sort of the person that likes to have suspense done with so that I can reread or rewatch and focus on details, not plot. But I did like the finale. Very few people can do suspense as well as David Chase; I nearly fibrillated during that last scene at the diner. When the screen cut to black and a string of curses rose up from the entire East Coast, I felt the same immediate frustration and disappointment I imagine everyone did. But I also think there was something genius about that Brechtian move on DC's part -- calling attention to the medium (how many people thought their cable had gone out?), reminding us that this is just art, that we shouldn't let our emotions overwhelm us.
Also, whether or not you think Tony died in that moment when the screen went black, you have to believe that the best of his life is behind him. He's caught in the same self-destructive, self-obsessed patterns, only now he doesn't have Melfi to help him pan for small shiny bits of insight. He has his wife's and his son's loyalty but only because he bought them; and two of the closest members of his work family are gone forever. Instead of saving babies the way Tony hoped she would as a pediatrician, his daughter will spend her life trying to save mobsters as a lawyer and it's because of Tony. He'll always have to live looking over his shoulder and even if he isn't killed, the specter of Junior lies ahead of him: wasting away toothless in a New Jersey state hospital with no memory of the pride or glory that made "this thing of ours" worth dying for in the first place.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
knocked up and out
Considering that when Mr. Ben and I spent Memorial Day Weekend lounging in his mom's house in Chappaqua with friends we rewatched 40 Year Old Virgin, rediscovering exactly how funny that movie is, we naturally wanted to see Apatow's second major at bat, Knocked Up, ASAP. Truly and duly, we laughed very hard throughout Knocked Up, but there were times that I was also squeezing his hand; there was one time that I cried; and at least once I blessed the fact that I was still off sugar. Apatow coulda given me an anxiety attack.
Nobody told me it was a horror movie! was my first comment when the lights came on, and I was only partly kidding. Knocked Up is impressive for dealing with serious topics without melting into sentimentality. But (excuse the cliche) partly because it was so good, I wanted it to be better.
As some critics have noted, Apatow can't really do women. The main character Alison's sister, played by Apatow's real life wife, is a frightening, controlling, hysterical mess who does almost nothing right from start to finish. She and her husband, played by Paul Rudd, communicate so badly they barely bother to try. As even Alison, who for some reason loves her sister, points out, they're miserable and utterly wrong for each other.
In real life, they would divorce. In this movie, that's not an option. Following that same strange moral code, the idea that Alison would consider an abortion when she finds herself unexpectedly pregnant is only discussed briefly by other, minor characters who suggest darkly that Alison should "take care of it." Did Doc Brown abduct these characters and transport them to 1903? On Gray's Anatomy -- a network TV show! -- they dealt with the subject more straightforwardly; and this movie is rated R.
I would have no problem with Alison choosing to have a baby, but you never see her make the choice -- you know, consider her options, make a list, decide what she really wants. You don't even get her looking longingly at kids or something to indicate she has a deep current of maternal instinct. It's Life With Baby Forever or Nothing for this chick, and I just didn't buy it. Why would a twenty-something well-off professional single woman in LA unquestioningly change her life around to have the baby of a shlubby guy with whom she'd had a drunk one-night stand? Even though Ben (the fella in question) is funny and sweet and relatively charming.
That's problem #1 I had with the movie. Problem #2, which I alluded to earlier, is that the main model of marriage is the natural disaster of a couple of Alison's sister and her husband. I've never seen a better ad for homosexuality than this movie. It seems to be saying that men & women are incurably different and can only be "trained" to live together in pseudo peace, because men are wild children at heart and women are appearance-obsessed mysteries who don't know how to have fun.
To be fair, Katherine Heigl has some moments where she shows she's more honest and more human than her sister. She's not judgmental about Ben's drug use or his layabout lifestyle (something he accuses her of, later). At one point she breaks it to him gently that he's fine the way he is; just, the guy he is isn't the guy for her. Great! Plus, she's right -- they would be better friends. Part of me wished the movie would leave it there, giving them full points for trying. But, yeah, part of me enjoyed the rom-com ending.
But there are also plenty of parts where she's CRAZY, too crazy for hormones to function solely as an excuse. Why, female characters? Why must you be so off your rockers, so bats-in-the-bellfry, bricks short of a load? Could you not have pulled Apatow aside and explained in your nicest indoor voices that there's an alternative? Catherine Keener in 40 Y.O.V. must have done that, cuz she did not fare nearly so badly.
All of the fringe characters, by the way, are hilarious. My favorite are the Good Cop/Bad Cop E! TV executives for whom Alison works, but everyone's pitch perfect, ad libbing their hearts out and clearly having a great time. I'd give the movie an 8 for the Vegas sequence alone. Maybe it's because I'm getting married so all of this cuts close to home. But I really wish it had been just a little bit better.
Interesting factoid: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Lindsey Lohan, and Anne Hathaway were all considered for the part of Alison. Throw Selma Hayek and Jessica Simpson into the mix and you have a regular Rockette line of the bustiest thin ladies of Hollywood. Clearly the character needed to be pneumatic, but why? Did the first draft featured a huge flood that Alison needed to survive? Not that I'm complaining; it makes me feel less alone to see the stacked ladies. Although for all the gratutious tit shots, it's worth noting that Heigl keeps her bra on throughout. You see three shots of the baby crowning but not so much as a nipple. Oh, Hollywood.
Nobody told me it was a horror movie! was my first comment when the lights came on, and I was only partly kidding. Knocked Up is impressive for dealing with serious topics without melting into sentimentality. But (excuse the cliche) partly because it was so good, I wanted it to be better.
As some critics have noted, Apatow can't really do women. The main character Alison's sister, played by Apatow's real life wife, is a frightening, controlling, hysterical mess who does almost nothing right from start to finish. She and her husband, played by Paul Rudd, communicate so badly they barely bother to try. As even Alison, who for some reason loves her sister, points out, they're miserable and utterly wrong for each other.
In real life, they would divorce. In this movie, that's not an option. Following that same strange moral code, the idea that Alison would consider an abortion when she finds herself unexpectedly pregnant is only discussed briefly by other, minor characters who suggest darkly that Alison should "take care of it." Did Doc Brown abduct these characters and transport them to 1903? On Gray's Anatomy -- a network TV show! -- they dealt with the subject more straightforwardly; and this movie is rated R.
I would have no problem with Alison choosing to have a baby, but you never see her make the choice -- you know, consider her options, make a list, decide what she really wants. You don't even get her looking longingly at kids or something to indicate she has a deep current of maternal instinct. It's Life With Baby Forever or Nothing for this chick, and I just didn't buy it. Why would a twenty-something well-off professional single woman in LA unquestioningly change her life around to have the baby of a shlubby guy with whom she'd had a drunk one-night stand? Even though Ben (the fella in question) is funny and sweet and relatively charming.
That's problem #1 I had with the movie. Problem #2, which I alluded to earlier, is that the main model of marriage is the natural disaster of a couple of Alison's sister and her husband. I've never seen a better ad for homosexuality than this movie. It seems to be saying that men & women are incurably different and can only be "trained" to live together in pseudo peace, because men are wild children at heart and women are appearance-obsessed mysteries who don't know how to have fun.
To be fair, Katherine Heigl has some moments where she shows she's more honest and more human than her sister. She's not judgmental about Ben's drug use or his layabout lifestyle (something he accuses her of, later). At one point she breaks it to him gently that he's fine the way he is; just, the guy he is isn't the guy for her. Great! Plus, she's right -- they would be better friends. Part of me wished the movie would leave it there, giving them full points for trying. But, yeah, part of me enjoyed the rom-com ending.
But there are also plenty of parts where she's CRAZY, too crazy for hormones to function solely as an excuse. Why, female characters? Why must you be so off your rockers, so bats-in-the-bellfry, bricks short of a load? Could you not have pulled Apatow aside and explained in your nicest indoor voices that there's an alternative? Catherine Keener in 40 Y.O.V. must have done that, cuz she did not fare nearly so badly.
All of the fringe characters, by the way, are hilarious. My favorite are the Good Cop/Bad Cop E! TV executives for whom Alison works, but everyone's pitch perfect, ad libbing their hearts out and clearly having a great time. I'd give the movie an 8 for the Vegas sequence alone. Maybe it's because I'm getting married so all of this cuts close to home. But I really wish it had been just a little bit better.
Interesting factoid: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Lindsey Lohan, and Anne Hathaway were all considered for the part of Alison. Throw Selma Hayek and Jessica Simpson into the mix and you have a regular Rockette line of the bustiest thin ladies of Hollywood. Clearly the character needed to be pneumatic, but why? Did the first draft featured a huge flood that Alison needed to survive? Not that I'm complaining; it makes me feel less alone to see the stacked ladies. Although for all the gratutious tit shots, it's worth noting that Heigl keeps her bra on throughout. You see three shots of the baby crowning but not so much as a nipple. Oh, Hollywood.
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