Quick Brilliance to Brighten Up Your Day

Just to show how silly can be genius. I don't know how it's physically possible, but no matter how many times I watch this 16 seconds clip, I laugh out loud (snorting including, for those who know me....). Keep it at arm's length, and use as needed:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhJQp-q1Y1s

(Oh, yes, and this is my little homage to 40 Years of Monty Python, who's been magically crossing generations and cultures, and I'm sure will keep doing so for a long long time!)

My King-dom for High Rating: Musings on Last Night’s Interview with Ahmadinejad

“Thank you, Mr. President. Always good to see you”, was how Larry King ended his hollow hour-long interview with Ahmadinejad last night.

You seemed so timid, Larry, so meek, that I’m not sure you had such a good time with Mr. “Allow Me”, after all. But oh my, Mr. King, did you indeed “allow” him....and then some. Is it out of fear? I mean, I promise he would have not thrown a nuclear bomb at you had you dared to challenge him (he might actually come closer to doing that if he’s NOT challenged, but that’s another story…)

And speaking of challenging an interviewee, can you please refresh my memory and tell me how many decades of experience you have...? Isn't it 50 years? Something like that? Now, I do understand that you are most comfortable interviewing about the real issues, like reality TV and beauty pageant controversies. But cut us some slack, Larry, you had an opportunity last night, to sit face to face with someone who is one of the world’s major threats, who wants to make our future a very very dark place. And instead of telling this overwhelmingly dangerous man “all of your answers are absolute lies and allow ME now to confront you with some truth”, you sit there and every 120 seconds, on the dot, you say “we gotta go to break”.

Yesssss, commercial breaks is really what you needed last night, to fill 75% of a crucial interview. Not to mention you needed a break to squirm in your seat without the world watching (the president of Iran saw it though, I wonder if he offered you some xanax). But commercials mean money, and apparently money is what you needed to provide last night, more than anything else, to your excellent reputable Network.

Has anyone prepared you for this interview? Do you understand how important this interview was? How come you were more prepared for your John Gosslin interview?!
Why would you let this man go on and on about the wonderful democracy that is Iran, where it’s so sad that people just don’t seem to know how to honorably lose an election? Would it have been so hard to articulate some facts for Mr. Allow Me?!

And one more thing, Larry: When somebody tells you how it’s so unfair that people maliciously ostracize him simply because he goes against “common opinion” about the Holocaust, you ask him if he ever heard of the Final Solution, and then you talk to him about facts, and if it’s necessary, you explain to him, very slowly, the difference between Opinions and Facts. Okay?

You can also ask him if he’d like to see for himself any of those pretend showers that instead of water, poured Zyklon B gas on millions of people, in order to systematically mass slaughter and annihilate a whole nation.

I only wish, Larry, that you mentioned the gas chambers, the crematoriums, and the extermination camps. And more than that, I wish you offered to take him on a tour.

If Larry King represents the current attitude of a world seeking a peaceful future (or a future at all, for that matter), all I have to say now is:

We Need to Wake Up!

And on that note, I will also say “Gmar Chatima Tova”, to those of us who observe Yom Kippur. As a Jew, this is one of the most important days of my year.
...And while at it, Shana Tova: Happy New Jewish Year!

A Tribute to Billy: September 2001- May 26, 2009

I received a sad message this morning from my ex. Our cat Billy, Bill, Billbillon, Billbilloni, passed away a couple of days ago from a kidney disease.

He was a lot more than a cat. He was a rare creature that brought endless joy and laughter to anyone who knew him.

I read the message over and over again, and my brain knew what it meant, but all I could do was to write back a “be strong” reply, delete the message like it never existed, and continue my day.

Early this evening, sitting with my eyes closed in the beginning of my yoga class, when you “set your intention” for the next 90 minutes, tears started streaming out. When I opened my eyes, my face was wet. Billy. Billy is dead.

It wasn’t love at first site. Not at all. I’m a dog person, always have been. Actually only German shepherds. Never cats. Frankly, pre-Billy, cats used to scare the hell out of me, partially because when I was seven I was haunted to read this scary story about how they had nine souls.
When I fell in love with a guy who had a cat, I had to adjust, but I didn’t know how to handle Billy’s presence, so I simply tried to ignore him whenever I visited the boyfriend up in Maine.

But every time I slept over he would come to bed in the middle of the night and sleep on my face. Now, if you know me, you know that no one in this whole world is allowed to wake me up, ever (!), unless asked, let alone a skinny little orange cat, a peculiar cross-breeding of a chirping bird and a fierce tiger (not to mention that the nine souls trauma didn’t work well with this particular way of being woken up…).

I didn’t know what to do. I was in love, and had to somehow come to terms with Billy’s existence. We had a couple of bonding experiences, here and there, especially when the ex left us alone for a few hours, but that was about it. Deep inside I was hoping that befriending him would make him stop sitting on top of my head every night at 3 am.

A couple of months have passed, and we decided to move in together. There was no way Billy was coming to New York City, I thought. Living with me under one roof was not an option.
I knew the boyfriend would not be happy about it, but there was no way I was going to live with a cat, doesn’t matter what cat!! (quite naïve I was, wasn’t I…?)

Needless to say, after one short fiery conversation, I learned that Billy was here to stay. Billy was not going anywhere. Well, he was, actually. He was moving to New York! And was going to live with me! Despite the million conditions I laid out (for instance: I don’t take care of him, his poop, his anything), I wasn’t happy about the situation.

And then we fell in love…..Billy and I. I was, without a doubt, his new mommy.
He became the most gorgeous cat in the whole wide world. He was irresistible. And I was proud to have him and to show him off.

Billy. Billy loved to talk (or chirp), and we used to have lively discussions for hours.

Billy knew how to play fetch better than any dog I knew.

Billy was obsessed with my banana bread. I can still see him now, attacking it right as it comes out of the oven, acting like a sneaky panther, chirping like there’s no tomorrow.
And…passionately eating brown rice out of Chinese takeout. And…my biscotti. And pooping. He really liked to poop.

He didn’t like our fights. Fighting when Billy was around was tough. He would come between us and then it was hard not to laugh.

Billy made me laugh at times when no one else could.

When we broke up Billy went back to Maine. It tore my heart, I wanted to keep him, but that’s how it works: even though I became his mommy, he belonged to my ex first.
I would get updates about him once in while.
Now there will be no more updates. Billy is gone.
But he will always remain in my heart, and my happy memories of him will never go away.

The Pow(d)er of Love

I have my own private powder of love. Cinnamon- kee-naa-mon in Hebrew. Keee.Naa.Mon.
It’s sweet but it has this kinda sneaky quality….cunning. Scratch that. Don’t mean to give it a negative connotation. My point is that cinnamon is sophisticated and rich. You know? It doesn’t only represent one pure and simple flavor, or essence. It’s not like when you think of sweet- you think honey. Cinnamon is definitely not a second name for sweetness. No. It’s actually a spice. Now, you think spice, you think of something exotic. Even semi mysterious. Spice. Spices.

Being a spice means you must be creative. It’s not like you’ve all of a sudden emerged in this world. No. Somebody actually thought of you in advance, and decided that you must be here. Somebody consciously and meaningfully cultivated you.

With all due respect, what is honey? God wanted to show us what sweetness meant, so he brought us honey, you know? Simply to illustrate a point. That’s all. Then people started giving it all those medicinal qualities because they felt bad, because it didn’t look very appetizing …… you know, like this gross sticky sap you find on trees.

But cinnamon? Oh, No! It has class. Status. It’s deliciously fascinating. You wanna have a conversation with it. It takes you to places far far away, but it also elegantly and effortlessly brings you back home once it’s done with you. Grounds you right back into your center. You’re safe with it. It enters your soul majestically, just as it enters your stomach. It allows you to truly celebrate, but nothing too crazy or wild. I mean… no one is gonna think something is wrong with you. Because it’s ok!! It’s ok with cinnamon! You can be lusciously stimulated by it to your very core and still maintain your sense of normalcy. It’s the wackiest you can go within the realms of sanity. You will never be hospitalized because of cinnamon. Or be sent to jail.

When cinnamon is in the picture, you know that delightful spirits are coming your way. Thrill and pleasure. It’s crystal clear to you from the start that it’s going to be a profound and positive experience. And even though it’s so very predictable, it’s also always so very new. Because it comes to you with a different message each time you meet. It depends on where it catches you in your day (or night), what your state of mind is and what happened prior to that.

My cinnamon…. My kee-naa-mon. My cinnamon inspires me. And it makes my stomach smile.
It always appears exactly when I need it. And once it joins forces with my food or drink, I know there can be no evil in this world. It’s the taste of vitality and balanced confidence.

My cinnamon stops by and says hello to all of my senses, and while at it, it tells us (me and all my senses) that everything is going to be just fine.
Vigor. Courage. Elation. Fearlessness.
Peaceful and secure.

I am sprinkling my magic powder all over my soul and am as ready as can be to go swallow the whole world, one flavor at a time.

Yummy.

(for those who celebrate it, and for those who would like to...):
Happy Passover- Wishing you the deepest experience of liberation, from all negative forces, inside and out, and the most delectable immersion in Spring!!!

I Have Fingers or Winter Wonderland

On my way to the gym I realize that I forgot my gloves at home. Oh, well. I’m wearing enough layers and gym is only five blocks away.

Walking out of the gym, in my post workout smiley-high, I have a strong urge to go food shopping. Not just an urge. Refrigerator is also in desperate need of replenishment.

Ok, supermarket is pretty close, 5 minutes and I’m there, then 5-10 more minutes of outside endurance and I’m back in my boiling hot apartment. Deal. It’s been like 8 or 9 New York winters for me already… I should be plenty toughened-up by now. Hands should certainly survive the… what….15-20 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, for you Celsius speakers..)? For sure! My fingers should be well immune to mere ten naked minutes. Am NOT gonna run home just to get gloves. Decision made.

Coming out of the supermarket. Jolly. Each hand holding two relatively light shopping bags. No biggie at all. Will be home in no time.

Ooooooooo-Kayyyyyy. 60 seconds into my walk home and fingers are beginning to go on strike, i.e. freeze. Horrified I realize that on my way to the supermarket, hands were in pockets, but now it’s an impossibility since carrying groceries… Ooops.

Major tactical error.

But I’m soooo close to home. I can do this. Cab please?

One more block and I do not feel my fingers anymore. No fucking cabs. Koos Emeck!! (ask someone else what that means…).

Bursting into following mantra: “I have fingers. I have fingers. I have fingers”. I am forcing myself to come to a meditative state: “…have fingers….have fingers”.

It’s not helping. But the only choice I have right now is to continue walking. CANNOT stop! MUST NOT stop!

Walk. Walk. Walk. But I can’t. I can’t anymore. No more fingers. They froze to death. Bags feeling really really heavy all of a sudden.

%^&*####@@@%#######......

That unbearably painful second when I felt the bags were about to pull away from me and drop down, taking bloody disintegrated fingers and messy flesh with them on their way to the ground (frozen blood, wonder what that looks like), I found myself standing outside my building. I was ecstatic to see a neighbor opening the door, What a relief! Now I don't have to deal with the excruciating struggle of searching for my keys in coat pockets. But she can’t see me. I am 5 feet behind her. She can’t see me!! Where is my voice?!!!!! Up to two minutes ago I was singing out loud that I still have my fingers, but now…what happened to my voice?!!!

The door closed behind neighbor, and my salvation evaporated. I’m outside. Bags on the ground. But I CANNOT help my agonized screaming fingers travel into my coat pockets in order to get my keys! God please help me! I am praying for another neighbor to come.

No one. No one walked in. No one walked out. Miraculously I managed to pull out my keys, and I will save you the boring description of how long it took me to bring those light shopping bags into the building, through the lobby, to the elevator and into my apartment….

Cut to- I’m home!! On the verge of unconsciousness. Fingers glued to loving radiator. I make my way to the sink, letting hot water caress my hands and bring them to life again. What an enchanted sensation. Color back to fingers, I am starting to feel them again.

Frozen versus frozen, I pull out a popsicle from the freezer and crash on the couch.

You can never forget your gloves at home, says my mom’s voice from deep inside my head, and adds: I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young lady.

I have.

Happy Channuka!

Merry Christmas!

If I Could Turn Back Time

I am back in my homeland for the Holidays, my very special time of year. Soaking in all the family time and love that I can, acknowledging my sweet inhalations of what I always miss between visits, constantly reminding myself what a sentimental freak I am….

Last night was a special party night, as the clock went back one hour at 2 am, bestowing upon the working people that delicious extra hour of sleep (FYI- Sunday is a working day here in Israel).

After sampling a few hot spots and enjoying what Tel Aviv has to offer at night (a lot!), including a few sips (which is all my mutant system needs to make me think that I'm trashed drunk...) of my favorite alcohol (that I can NEVER find in NY- Arak- can somebody help me import it pleeeez??), I crash at my dear friend Karin’s place. Her cat Gandolfini (James, she has a crush) is the sweetest snugilicious kitten ever- among the ugly cats, that is (although she truly believes he’s the most beautiful cat in the world).

Karin forgot her cell in the car. I convinced her not to walk drunk the five blocks to her car, and instead- to use my own Israeli cell to wake us up in time to drop off a Gandolfini’s gift to the world at the vet’s office and make it to (her) work on time, after dropping me off.

Karin got all kooky OCD on me, and checked the time on my phone twelve hundred times, cuz she didn’t trust me when I assured her again and again that in the States the cell phones change the times automatically.
It didn’t cross my intoxicated mind for one second that we’re actually IN ISREAL and this is an ISRAELI PHONE, and here you have to change the clock manually…. What’s so much more incredible is how I managed to convince HER that my cell clock was magically showing the new time….. But when you’re drunk and tired, it all makes sense (after testing the alarm 300 times).

Cut to….

10:15 am: Am waiting half asleep for Karin in the car, when she storms in, yelling:
“I can’t believe these f---ing potheads! They are supposed to open at 10!!!!!!!!!. What am I gonna do?”. Not waiting for my response (not that I had one), she storms out of the car, looking like a crazy woman about to vandalize anything that stands in her way to figure out what’s wrong with Gandol’s poop.

10:20 am: She’s not back. Now I’M getting worried I’m gonna miss my 12 noon appointment. If we don’t leave NOW, I’m not going to be able to stop by home first to change! I call home, in an effort to tailor a contingency plan. My dad answers the phone, and when I finally let him plug in a word, I hear it : “But it’s only 9:20, re-lax!”. Noooooo.

9:21 am. I call Karin, right before she breaks vet’s office door. I tell her the real time. She screams and then threatens to kill me. She comes back to the car, and after describing how she’s gonna kill me (strangulation), I hear: “You’re gonna pay for this. You’re gonna pay BIG time. I want at least 2 hours of sleep from you. From your OWN stock!!!”. She’s very serious. So I agree. I will give her two extra hours, taken directly from my personal quota, even three. Only then do we finally calm down and stop screaming at each other. And we both take responsibility. And then laugh hysterically.

It happened this morning, I swear, but I’m still not quite sure that it did. Regardless, instead of letting it be an embarrassing occurrence that should be kept between the two of us (and my dad, who’s still laughing at his ditzididoo offspring), I am telling the world. I am owning my absurdities and accepting them. I highly recommend it to you all!!!

Happy and Sweet New Jewish Year!

I am beyond exhausted, which leads to more typos here than real words (Word is my co-writer tonight. Many thanks!). It’s been a long day and I am crashing.

Goodnight! Sleep well, and sweet dreams, wherever you are!

(Gandolfini’s poop is spotless, thanks for asking)

Underwear and the Art of Adulthood Maintenance

The train is coming. I am rushing. I can hear it. I am running. I am wearing a skirt, buttoned down shirt, jacket, and heels. I am a lady; I am dressed like a lady, a lady of importance and substance. Business.

It’s not me. I am the most me with my jeans and a tank top. That’s how I’m comfortable. I change “costumes” in my daily life all the time, but it always boils down to my comfort place- my jeans-tank-flip flops.

I can’t really run like this, heels are killing me. I am changing to the flip flops I always keep in my bag, while running (special skill, remind me to teach you how), in order to minimize my obstacles in making the subway that is rapidly approaching the station. I can’t run barefoot cuz I’m a lady. An adult. Now, if I were a kid, it would be a different story. I could avoid changing to flip flops. I would run barefoot and still look normal (but then again, a little kid wouldn’t wear what I’m wearing now… catch 22). But I won’t let it stop me. I am sprinting like a mad woman the remaining half a block and the stairs that I have left to gulp in order to make the subway and not to be late. Flip flops are not letting me run as fast as I can, but a lady can’t run barefoot, right?

Oh, NO, this is not really happening! Underwear, oh not now!! You see, I don’t like wearing tight underwear so…..while running, my underwear is beginning to slip down (no pun intended!) my thighs. My instinct tells me to just take off underwear and continue running. That’s the natural thing for me to do. But I am NOT a little girl! Imagine how THAT will be perceived on one hot & humid summer city afternoon. It’s more like some sexy scene in a racy movie.

Oh, no! It has just very strangely dawned on me that I am a woman, not a little girl, just because I could not take off my slipping underwear and run barefoot… That was a very odd and distractive thought that should be obvious (and IS obvious, don’t get me wrong), but still hit me in such an overwhelming and mentally gushing manner…..

And so… one flip (or one flop) flew off my foot and I tripped, trying to pull up said underwear.

And so I missed my subway. Noisy train leaving the platform just as I arrive, limping… My foot is hurting so much, and now it hurts to walk. And I’m late.

But all I could think of is how unnatural and costumed I feel when I wear that get-up and how there is a possibility that somewhere inside, I don’t wanna grow up. I’ve pondered that conundrum before, and I know that I’m not that special, as a lot of adults deal with such issues at one point or another. But oh- My-God can I be analytical….If I “wanna go there”, in seconds I am capable of convincing myself that I wanna stay a little girl forever just because I wanted to take off my underwear while running to make a train….

But apart from accepting that it has little bit of natural truth to it, and instead of beating myself up over it, maybe it just means that I just don’t fit in a serious corporate world, maybe it’s ok that my version of adultness does not include business “uniform”. Maybe it’s ok that once in a while I have the primal urge to run naked and free.

And maybe it’s all because I grew up in Israel, where dress code was always so casual…even at weddings people show up wearing jeans and sandals (sometimes flip flops!!).

Cut to – Couch. Home. My damaged foot is iced on a big comfy pillow. I am dressed as comfortable as can be. No jacket, no business skirt, no heels, and duhhhh, NO underwear. Liberated in my confines. I can still be a lady, right? Balance, as always, is the solution. I am soaking up all the physical comfort I need so I can go out there again, dressed up like a power lady of substance and importance.

(Note to self: When wearing “business” skirt, remember: very serious formfitting underwear, or if said skirt long enough- none at all. Just in case I need to run).

(Note to You: Try not to neglect who you REALLY are, even, and especially, when it’s challenging).