Where do you begin a book?

Today, I'm going to squirrel away some time trying to figure out chapters and topics I want to discuss in THE BOOK.

Meanwhile, I guess the best place to start is talking about my mother because it's all due to her general neglect that I spent most of my childhood "talking" to G-d like other children spoke to their imaginary friends.

Did I ever tell you that when I told my mother I wanted to be Jewish, she slapped me? Well, when my sisters decided to be Wiccan, she took them to a Pentacostal church for an exorcism.

Lines of the Day

My mother was a student of Machiavelli who believed it was more important to be feared than loved.

Growing up, I thought my mother was the source of all evil. By the time I was an adult, I knew she was.

Christianity is about getting to heaven. Judaism is about bringing heaven to Earth.

He's sending me a contract

I guess I survived the interview process if he's sending me a contract. Hubbie thinks the publisher is underestimating my writing ability, I think Hubbie is overestimating.

Now, a case of nerves. I am exhausted. Jetlagged from flying to Berkeley and back for an extended weekend, exhausted from one too many fibromyalgia flare-ups, underexercised and overworked...and I'm supposed to write a book?

Possible titles:

American. Dominican. Jewish.

Becoming Jewish in a Multicultural World

BEFORE & AFTER Jewish

So, I married a Rabbi (snicker)

To Be a Jew (lame)

Dominican? American? Jewish.

Becoming & Being Jewish

Funny, You Don't Look Jewish

Dominican to Jewish and Back Again

A Nice (Dominican.American.Catholic.Orphan.Runaway) Jewish Girl

Runaway Jew

Once Upon a Time I was Catholic

So, I'm Jewish, now what?

Giving up Christmas & Other Tales from Becoming a Jew

Jew-by-Choice

Not-so-Accidentally Jewish

By special request: Jewminican, I prefer Jewminicana

Your guess is as good as mine. No, that's not a title, silly.

Paranoia?

Everyone is staring at my head!

Hair Today. Hair Tomorrow.

So, today, I went to my Ouidad hair model appointment. Ouidad is the pre-eminent expert on cutting and styling curly hair. I only agreed to grow my shorn hair (circa 2007) because the hubby said he'd shell out the cash to support the hair. Her hair products are pricey but deliciously wonderful for my hair. Her haircuts run about $100 and up, $150 and up if she's styling you herself. I had a newbie working to carve and slice hair. They made it look fabulous.

Sad, sad things:

1. My hairline is receding. (The culprit? Covering my hair.)
2. My hair is thinning on top. (The culprit? Covering my hair.)

As if it isn't bad enough, covering my hair often exacerbates my fibromyalgia because there are several very sensitive nerve endings on my little skull.

So, what am I wearing on my head today? Gulp. Nothing.

Email to Rabbi:

Okay, you know that it's been an issue and now there are more just building on top of it.


My hairline is receding and my hair on top is thinning from covering my hair.


Even loose coverings like berets/scarves are setting off the nerve endings on my head and creating pain.


So, now, it's all about...when I cover my hair, when I should cover my hair and is it even worth it to wear a headband or will that just make G-d get a good laugh?


Can I walk around with a doily on my head?

The Ten Commandments According to Mom

Notes from The Ten Commandments According to Mom:

Ah, so I’m dying to submit my writing for this;

THINGS I'D NEVER Tell My Mother. Seeking first-person, nonfiction essays exploring actions, thoughts, or feelings you would never share with your mother. Can be from childhood, adolescence, or adulthood. Humorous to heartbreaking. We especially need humor writing (crazy, funny things you did and laugh about now), dangerous activities (driving the car before you had a license, breaking the law), sexual encounters (losing virginity, rape, incest), secrets about other family members (attempted suicides, sexual orientation, abortions). Relate to specific incidents. The author may use a pseudonym. Maximum: 5,000 words. Include cover letter with bio and SASE. Deadline: February 29. Send to: Editors, Things I’d Never Tell My Mother, P.O. Box 7231, Norfolk, VA 23509

It’s not a contest, but it does sound like they’re putting some sort of anthology of shorts together. That would be awesome.

So, my idea is called “The Ten Commandments According to Mom.” Here are my notes so far:

This one time, my sisters staged a walk-out in protest of my mother’s fascist regime. Belle ran away the last week of February, and then Alys followed the week after.

There are Ten Commandments according to my mother:

1. I am the Lord your mother, who brought you out of my uterus and into slavery. Obey.

2. You shall not have any other gods before Me. You shall never be idle.

3. You shall make no wrongful use of my name. I know when you’re talking about me behind my back and I will beat you.

4. Remember the Sabbath day? You don’t get one.

5 Honor your father and your mother. Not in that order.

6. You shall obey or be murdered.

7. You shall have no love life to speak of. Love no one but me. Loathe no one but me.

8. You shall steal if I tell you to.

9. You shall bear false witness when I make you.

10. You shall not covet anything you want or need, especially things in the neighbor’s house, because we cannot afford them.


Excerpt:
Because of all the lies my mother forced me to tell, she will never know. She will never know…where I live. She won’t know that I got married. She won’t know when I’m pregnant with her first grandchild. She won’t know when I’m giving birth to my last child. That I have been married a year. That I converted to Judaism. That I married a rabbi. .And more importantly, my mother won’t even know my name. Because I changed it. And I didn’t tell her that either.

Excerpt:
When my mom entered a room, the room trembled. We would cuddled up together, readying ourselves for we knew her plan of attack was always: divide and conquer.

Excerpt:
At three years old my mother beat me with her hands. Apparently I had taken to the habit of pulling everything out of all the drawers in the house. And then I would play with all the delightful things I’d found. You know, I was trying to assert my self as a three year old. My mother beat me so hard, that my father found me in shock, covered in bruises and sobbing. At least, that’s the way my mother tells the story. My father told her that she was never to hit me again. So, she didn’t. When he was looking.

Excerpt:
My mother doesn’t know where I live. In fact, I’ve been withholding that information from my mother for ten years. The last time my mother knew where I was living was 10 years ago, the day before I ran away from home. See I picked up all my stuff on the last day of my senior year and never came back home. I wonder if most runaways leave a note. I didn’t. I wanted to be untraceable.

Excerpt:
I’m not a member of the Witness protection program. Although, if you knew my mother, you’d wonder why I Wasn’t.
My mother was a weapons expert. She could wield knives, telephone cords, telephones, brooms, poles, belts, wet towels, heels, sneakers, and chancletas (ask your Hispanic friends about this little slipper’s special place in the world) with unfathomable dexterity. When nothing was available, she used her hands. When that wasn’t enough, she used words and pet names. My pet name was “hija de la gran puta” (daughter of the grand slut). When I told my mother that this meant, she was the slut, she got this terrible look on her face. I didn’t know what happened afterwards because I ran out of the room so fast, I probably gave her whiplash. My sister, Belle’s pet name was “hija del Diablo” and my mother said the proof of this was that there were at least two sixes on the back of my sister’s skull. Alys was spared a nickname because my mother preferred to throw her against a wall like a rag doll when Alys got in her way. Splat.

Excerpt:
When people tell me that your mother is always your mother or that my mother and I will reconcile, I ask them how they feel about theirs. Generally, they can go for hours talking about what an amazing role model their mother was or that even if she ever took out the belt on them, it was for their own good. When they’ve got a glazed look over their face, I tell them about my mother’s ten commandments. If looks could kill, the horror that registers on their face might cause them heart palpitations. My husband talks to his mother and father several times a day. When his mother calls me like that, I think she’s being weird. I don’t know what you all feel like. How you love your mothers. How you wouldn’t be who you are now without her love and support. I am who I am because of her utter negligence, the manner of her torture, the mental illness that warped her mind. I stopped loving my mother when I was seven years old. I can remember that day like it was yesterday. People tell me that I’m missing out and they tell me they feel sorry for me. I would feel sorry for myself too but I don’t know what I missed.

Update on Publisher

Okay, I have fallen behind on blogging. That’s because I’ve been busy. Busy, you say? First things, first here are a couple of tititaling tidbits from the last couple of days.

I finally finished the book the publisher, who’s interested in publishing a memoir of my conversion, sent me. If you haven’t been keeping track, the book was called Ordained to be A Jew and it followed the conversion of a former priest. Here’s the email I sent to the publisher regarding the book:

Hello, again, Bernie!

I've just finished Ordained to Be a Jew. Usually, I'm not so sluggish when it comes to reading a novel but I must say, the first of the book was tough. It felt a bit like a autobiography, while the second half of the book felt more like a memoir, really juicy stuff. I especially liked how well he was able to discuss his connection to Judaism and his struggles on the way.

I noticed that my writing style is certainly a bit different. Much more emotional and madcap, I suppose. I can churn out a short story of about 5,000 words in a day or less if the topic moves me. I guess that's about a chapter. Also, my path to Judaism was a bit more winding and unlike John, I know a hell of a lot more about Santeria than I do about Catholicism. And though I've wanted to convert since I was 12, I didn't convert until I was 26. I've only been a Jew for a year and living as a Jew for two. There are definitely some tales of adventures and misadventures there.

I would like to discuss the multicultural aspect of converting if I were writing a book. Friday, two of my converting friends, one is a dark Dominican woman and the other a Chinese woman, were stopped at the front desk what they were doing at the shul. When they explained, the guard asked, "No, really." I'll be sending a letter to Rabbi Weinstock, of course.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Apparently, he found the email uproarious. We spoke for a couple of minutes (he called me at night to discuss things further) and he interrogated me. Asking me questions about my conversion, culture, race, and everything else. With total sincerity, he finished up the conversation by saying: “You are really interesting.”


Meanwhile two days ago I went shopping for my Jew ‘fro as my usual beret beanie was holding on quite precariously to my head. I went into a store and I figured while I was there, I’d try on some clothing. Then I spotted the hats. Ohhh.

When you have hair as big as mine, you don’t pass up the opportunity to try on a hat. It could be a perfect fit. Or more likely, it won’t even cover half my head. What can you do?

The lady manning the dressing room was a young, Muslim woman who was strict about the rule: “No accessories in the dressing room” and there was an older guy hanging about with his girlfriend. I asked her if I could try on the hats in the dressing room and she pointed to the sign with the rule. I told her that I didn’t show my hair to men, hoping she’d understand but she said “Rules are rules.”

Okay, these semi-Rastafarrian hats were just aching for me to take them hope. So I changed into them the way I used to change into my gym clothes in high school. In high school, I had mastered the art of taking off my clothes and hanging into my gym clothes without ever being naked in front of my nosy friends. When the Muslim woman saw my desperate attempts to recreate my childhood by changing hats while still wearing a hat, she let me into the dressing room nearest the door. Of course, I thanked her profusely. It was interfaith dialogue or anything but it was a nice little experience.

Fat and frustrated

As I sit here slouched over my computer, I can feel my lovehandles falling over my longjohns and worse, my tummy is sticking out. Ew. I've gained 10lbs since I went to LA. Laziness, a side effect of fibromyalgia. I feel like crap but then if you ran around all day, didn't eat very much, carried your own weight (well 1/3 or something) and got home and had to skip improv and the gym because of it, well then you'd be me on a down day created by yours truly herself.

In other news, I finally finished Ordained To Be a Jew. I write better. I didn't say that in the email back to the publisher or anything. It's not the ex-priest's fault that he didn't have crazyass parents, a chronic illness, amazing students and lived to tell the tale. I better make some money off those crazyass parents, let me tell you.:)

Meanwhile, in the spirit of the book, I'll write a little Jewish tidbit. Ever since I started the journey to my new Jewish world, I noticed that I prayed more and more. And I mean outside of the blessing for bread, fruit, pottie breaks and all that jazz. I mean that I literally walk around and ask G-d for the seemingly insurmountable (could you just make the pain stop for today? okay, forever?) and the seemingly minute (please make the train come!)

Today, I caught myself praying for my former students. I was roaming around Circuit City when one of them happened upon me with the line, "Hey, you still teaching?" "No, actually. Now, I write." We ooh and ahh over the laptop I have my eye on (the touchscreen works as a notepad so you can write and it'll type it in to your computer or you can save your handwriting). Then we discuss George's (that's the student) life since leaving high school. George was one of the brilliant but lazy kids who didn't have enough self-esteem and discipline to get it together. I don't ask him about college.

For the next half hour when I should be at the gym, we discuss love, life, work, parents and all that. George was always a sweet kid, though, a sleepy one in class. He's engaged to his high school sweetheart (who still does that!) and working full-time at Circuit City. We pretended (well, he really was helping me!) that I was a real customer and we discussed HDTVs (because I love mine) and computers (because this stupid desktop won't connect to my HDTV). We also talked some dirt on the school, former teachers or shall we say, administrators and the like.

We googled the former assistant principal who refused to get me a microphone when I could barely talk. He's got a McMansion in the Bronx and is principal of some Brooklyn school. Then we googled one of my former students who was immortalized in a NY Times article about my former place of employment (Arts & Tech HS) where a teacher did a tell-all about the shennanigans behind how students who don't deserve to pass are promoted because the principal is all underhanded and stuff. Ah, the good old days.

After, during, talking to the boys (turns out two students work there!), I prayed my little heart out that they'd be okay. College didn't seem in their future and these days, you need a Master's to get a decent job. Soon, you'll need a Master's to work at McDonald's. That's a scary thought when I think back to how many of my students thought that going to college was a choice and they could choose to do without it. Those students have permanently saddled themselves in the "paycheck-to-paycheck just above minimum wage" world that most of us have nightmares about.

Growing up, I prayed all the time, mostly to understand why G-d had given me such a terrible life, I didn't have the energy or the space to pray for anyone outside of the four walls of the insane asylum. Judaism gave me a leg up in a lot of ways. A family, some stability and a reminder to pray for all sorts of things all day. People tell me they pray for me, for my health, for my future and it's funny that when they tell me this, I know that I've prayed for them too. I've sat around and done a good deal of praying for babies, for health, for wealth for my friends and family.

So, special prayers today:

1. I pray that in an hour, I will have the energy/strength to do some yoga and cardio before I go to bed.
2. I pray that I win all these contests and score a fancy laptop so I can pretend to be a pseudojournalist/writer on the run.
3. I pray that my damn computer will connect to my HDTV so I can watch Itunes and Netflix on it in HDTV glory.
4. I pray for my little siblings (as always) to get all their little hearts desire and everything they need.
5. Last and not least (and not just because now I might make money off his deadbeat gig), I pray that my Dad and people like him will shape up and realize that they don't have to be so lonely. And that they'll, you know, learn to work on themselves and help others.

I know, it wasn't very cute and funny, but give me a break. Back to the writing!

Mothers

Okay, I'm cheating. I am working on my Daddy's Little Girl entry now for two writing contests and the hubbie and I are running back and forth between "our offices" to finetune it.

This is actually something I wrote for Writing Workshop on 11/12/04 for my ninth grade students to get them writing about their own mothers.

Everyone has a mother whether they like her or not. I never liked my mother. I stopped loving her before I turned ten years old. I know it sounds crazy but she was crazy and hurtful and that made it very difficult to love her. Her unbridled hate for her children sent us running for cover a couple of times.

When I was seven years old, my mother was late in picking me up from Sunday school classes. I was really shy so instead of telling anyone she was late, I waited out front and cried. My true fear was that my mother had left me like our father had three years before. I was so terrified that I started to cry hystericaly until my mother finally showed up.

When my mother arrived, she looked at me and laughed. I told her how scared I had been. I couldn't stop crying. To make me stop, my mother slapped me in the face more than once. At least, twice I was slapped that day.

I will never forget that day. I think it was that day that I stopped loving my mother. My sisters and I stopped celebrating Mother's Day when our mother took to beating us on that holiday. Father's Day made us even more uncomfortable since we were never comfortable discussing our father.

It seems that to make up for my lack of parental guidance, I have been quite fortunate to have replacements of some sort. My mother's sister acted as both my mother and father for most of my life. My eighth grade English teacher, who I still keep in touch with, has been the closest thing I have ever had to a father. My first real boss bought me lunch every day and always gave me a shoulder to cry on when I needed one.

Lucky for me that though we can't pick our family members, we can pick our friends.

Needless to say, the students were so shocked by my emotional piece that they worked their little butts off to write detailed missives about their mothers, mothers they had lost to disease, mothers who had forsaken them to foster care and yes, even mothers who they worshipped and were ever grateful for each day.

Lost

Thanks to everyone who gave me feedback on the short story. The contest deadline is January 25th so I hope to have a finished piece out then to the Bronx Council of Arts.

In other news:

Binny Freedman, director of Isralight, spoke at KJ, where we went for Shabbat. I miss the UES. He gave a moving speech about many things but the thing that stuck with me was about being lost. I feel lost. I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be or what I'm supposed to be doing. And that's something very new to me. Not having a purpose. He says you can can't really find yourself until you know what you want and you're willing to do anything to get there. Then, if it's meant to be, it happens and if it's not, it's not and you find another goal, another purpose.

All my friends live there and my favorite Jewish community is there. Riverdale is so boring. It's funny of mommies and babies (and no offense to anyone), that's just not a circle I'm ready to be in. If anyone, whenever I see a legion of mommies and babies together, I just want to run the other way! And often, if this Shabbos is any example, I do run the other way.

Drisha turned me down for the Arts Fellowship I wanted to land for next year. Basically, if you're an artist, they give you a $10,000 stipend for the year and tuition remission. I would get to work on writing and work on learning more Jewish stuff. The dream. The bubble burst Thursday when they told me I wasn't accomplished enough (or far along in my "artistic" career") to merit a fellowship. Thanks but no thanks.

My brother-in-law came for a visit right after Shabbos and bounced around the apartment which was a nice treat. I like hearing about the world he lives in because it's so different from mine. Every time he comes over it's like we're two aliens in outerspace visiting each other's planets. I haven't really visited his, he learns at a yeshiva in Far Rockaway, but I hope to do so soon.

Daddy's Little Girl

WARNING EXTENDED BLOG: (Fit to print!)

Did you know that you can get paid to write? There is a whole slew of contests out there just waiting to be won. Money up for grabs.

I have my eyes on a "contest" through the Bronx Council of Arts called: " Individual Art Grant and ACE." Twenty-five people in several different artistic mediums are chosen to win a $3,000 grant and then perform some type of community service as part of the grant. Sounds good to me. The husband has already submitted some poetry.

That said, here's, what I hope is, the first draft of a winner. This is what they call an extended blog. You have been warned. If you are supposed to be at work working or at school learning, hop to it.

(Had to center it to get any kind of margins!)

Daddy’s Little Girl
by AM Hausman

I used to think that my father lived in a drawer. Literally. Until I was fourteen years old, my mother kept a drawer for my father. Even though he had been gone for as long as I could remember, a drawer full of his old sweaters, shirts and pants sat in my mother’s mahogany dresser. When the sock drawer threatened to overflow, I asked my mother if I could move my father’s things elsewhere.
“No. It’s your father’s drawer.”
On Father’s Day at my elementary school, all the fatherless children would make Father’s Day cards. Every year, it was the same card. On the front, I drew a shirt with a tie. My father didn’t own any ties but every Macy’s commercial leading up to Father’s Day seemed to suggest that he should. When I came home from school, I would show the brightly decorated card to my mother.
“See, Mami, I made a card for Papi in class today. Look, Mami, mira!”
Every year, my mother would pause, a faraway look overtaking her. She wouldn’t look at me.
“Put it in the drawer.”
¨¨¨
Read the rest of the story here: Daddy's Little Girl

White People Sensitivity Training

"White people sensitivity training" was a subject that came up in conversation the other day amongst my friends. We were really discussing how people from disparate cultures, classes and backgrounds can react in a "peculiar" way to different situations. Sometimes, the disconnect between two groups of people is so unsurmountable that they might need "(insert culture/race here) sensitivity training." Unfortunately, we learn most of that training "on the job" in every day life. On a good day, we think, well, she's just different. On a bad day, we think, um, are all (insert culture/race here) people like THAT, like so BIZARRE.

Being a minority (though honestly living in New York City makes being Hispanic look like a majority), I grew up hearing that so-called people of color had to 'walk the line.' You couldn't screw up and fall off the tightrope because if you did, someone, somewhere, would think that all Hispanic people were like that. Selling drugs? Well, of course, all Dominican people sell drugs, it's the family business. (Groan.)

I think that because as a Jew, one is part of a minority, Jews also have to tread carefully. I mean, I don't have a kippah strapped to my head and most people think I'm Pentacostal covered from head to toe, so unless people know I'm Jewish, I'm not too worried about my actions. (Though, probably I should always be.) But I think of all the guys , like my husband, walking around with kippahs on their head and that if they screw up in some way, everyone's going to think...oh, those Jews. And that's how horrible stereotypes are born...one misstep takes down a nation.

So, last night during improv group, I was wondering whether or not my coworkers needed sensititivy training. We had to create characters, pretend to be students on Show & Tell day. Our partners would then pick a position to hold during the Show & Tell presentation and the presenter would decide what kind of object the partner had decided to be. At one point, I did a yoga pose, I think, tree pose, with my hands up in the air and my partner decided I was a giant nutcracker and then engaged the class by describing in detail all my lovely attributes. Of course, someone made some comments about 'little nuts' and 'big nuts.'

Most of improv was great but I became uncomfortable, in the sea of white people, when some of the group members decided that they were going to pretend to be well, "ghetto," students. Somewhere deep inside, I felt uneasy. These "white people" could pretend to be ghetto students, all fun and games, but most of my Hispanic and African-American students struggled daily to learn how to codeswitch from acting "ghetto" to adopting societal norms.

During lunch with my rabbi, earler in the day, I told the rabbi and his wife about my husband's latest cultural experience...watch Sir Mix-A-lot's Baby Got Back music video. My husband says until he saw that music video, he hadn't clearly understood the affinity that some cultures have with a large tuckus. When the Rebbitzen complained about worked out her tush, I told her she should tell people she was Hispanic and call it a day. I like big butts and I cannot lie.... The rabbi said that I was Jewish and I couldn't make those kinds of racist jokes anymore. Damn, no one told me my Hispanic ethnicity card was getting revoked when I converted!

Should I be offended that these crazy white people were holding their own Ghetto Appreciation Day? Even though they've probably never lived in one? Was it bothering me that even though I'd actually lived in a ghetto, I couldn't talk ghetto the way these white people could?

Reflecting later on the game, I realized that when it was my turn, I had picked a persona that I didn't understand and that my improv group found amusing but not offensive. I decided that for my improv scene, I was a white trash kid snapping my gum and talking about a stuffed lion I got on the Las Vegas strip when my parents decided to abandon me for hours of gambling and imbibing alcohol. When the audience asked what I had decided to name my lion, I said that I had named it "Shitty," because it wasn't holding up really well after having been thrown out in the trash, flung out of the hotel room and run over by something. I probably should have throwin in that I was a Hilton, no?

Everyone was too focused on the fact that I had used a cuss word to think about who I was pretending to be in that instance. Strange, huh? My groupmates decided to be poor, black ghetto kids and during my turn, I flipped it to poor, white trash kids. I'm not sure what that says about anything.

Just one of those days

Oy, another deadline missed. I mean, if I can't make a self-imposed deadline...! My husband is grumpy. It's 12:22am and he wants me to come to bed. Something about me being a workaholic. Lots of guilt, etc.

I woke up this morning and ran to the post office, then the bank and then off to the Metro North to get to my allergist. Missed the train, developed unsightly blisters on the soles of my feet. When I finally trudged my way to the allergist, I coached one of the administrative assistants on how to apply to the NYC Teaching Fellows program. No teaching experience? No problem! It's a crash course in teaching public school and a free Masters degree to boot!

Then I had to buy myself some cheap ass ugly sneakers at Payless and I still couldn't walk to the train. I hobbled into a cab with no cash and so, of course, the credit card machine in the back didn't work. Nifty, I love that the cabs have credit card machines AND family cable with CNN and everything. I can't afford family cable. Damn then.

I had a great Starbucks meeting with a Drisha Arts Fellow who is working on a documentary about converts. We wowed each other with our mutual wowness. (Shut up, it's late. Grr.) We started our own mutual appreciation society and a nice little bond. She's going to hook me up with some more Dominican converts. That's it, I'm starting a club. Jewminicans unite!

I took the train home. Ow. Ow. Ow. Every step was misery. As soon as I got home, I strapped myself to my computer and only left for food, bathroom breaks and angry tirades in my husband's directions. In his defense, he doesn't know where I keep anything important or how to use the scanner/copy machine in our office or how to use Microsoft Word or when I'm talking to my computer and not him.

Here are some of my ideas for my presentation at LimmudLA in February. The theme is the Kaleidoscope of LA Jewish Life. Oy, I'm technicolor all by myself!!!

Funny, You Don’t Look Jewish/Conversion to (Orthodox) Judaism:
What is an Orthodox conversion? Why/how do people convert?
What’s it like to survive an Orthodox conversion? Painting a picture of the before, during and after of an Orthodox Conversion.
Should one convert for marriage? Boy meets girl. Girl converts. Boy flees…. Now what?
How do you balance the new culture/traditions and the old culture/traditions?

New Jews: How converts are changing the face of Judaism:
How are converts (and adoption) changing Judaism?
How does race and culture affect one’s Judaism?
How does a convert’s race and culture affect everyone’s Judaism?

Conversion: America vs. Israel:
How does the conversion process differ between different rabbis and batei din? Should the RCA conform to the Israeli rabbinate? How are local conversions, rabbis and batei din affected by the Israeli rabbinate?

The challenges of integration: What how we treat our converts says about us
As we integrating converts into the fold, what race relations and culture clashes arise? What does this say about the Jewish people? How does/should the community treat converts?

Jewish People: How gentiles view us
Exploring how Judaism and Jews looks to the outside world. How do gentiles look at Judaism and the Jewish people? How does this affect the Jewish people? Anecdotes from gentiles to Jewish relations.

Challah con Platanos: Mixing different Jews in Relationships
Convert marries Rabbinical Student. Sephardim marry Ashkenazim. Boro Park meets Beverly Hills. How do different Jews relate in relationships? What are their struggles and foibles? What can they teach everyone else.

The Blues

I thought growing up that I was depressed. Life was pretty depressing between the psychotic mom, the deadbeat dad, the suicidal siblings and the pooping/screaming baby half-sister whose pseudo-mom I had become as soon as she popped out.

(Hold on while I yell at my husband. Dammit, yes, I ate all the chocolates, yes, I shouldn't type. Let me write!!!!)

I always excelled in school. Honestly, school was easy. Since I had a high school reading level in elementary school and a beyond college level reading level in high school, nothing except math and science fazed me. Luckily, I knew enough math to get straights Cs in math and science and still come out with a A- average. I graduated number 21 out of abot 350 students.

When I got to college, reeling from running away from home and a break-up with my first (gay) boyfriend, I figured it was time for therapy. Since the university offered counseling services, I signed up during one of those depression awareness weeks. I ended up in counseling for all four years. My main psychologist was great, though, she didn't understand my culture issues at all and as far as complaining about my mom's abuse, I hid the truth about what my mother still did to my siblings because I didn't know how to handle that.

I think my last psychologist in college had to go to therapy over my sessions. She was appointed my therapist when my former psychologist of four years transferred elsewhere. Suddenly, all my "post traumatic stress disorder" issues and "body dysmorphia" was the least of my problems. I was 21 and ignoring most of my friends, I helped my sister run away, kidnapped the other and petitioned for full custody. I remember the therapist being wide-eyed through my rants.

At 25, like Devora writes in her blog, I felt like a REAL grown-up. My sister was away in college and doing well. I was in a financially precarious position but I was figuring that out. I had to get rid of my cats because of terrible allergies but I was dealing with that as best I could. Then my allergies worsened tenfold and fibromyalgia hit.

By 26, I didn't feel really grown-up. I felt depressed. The pain was so terrible that I was in agony by the end of my wedding day. When my friend Esther walked over to hug me, I was so afraid of her touch that I burst out in sobs. She apologized to ME and walked away. Suddenly, I was married, Jewish and really depressed.

I tried to snap out of it. Hello, no one is beating you with telephone cords? Hello, no one is stalking you? No boys are playing mind games with you. You have the perfect husband. You never starve. So, your skin feels like it's on fire and you joke that if you were a superhero, you'd be that dude in the Fantastic Four that sets himself ablaze. You know, at least he can fly.

But nothing seemed to work. Not therapy. Not the combination of pain medications that didn't work and the antidepressants prescribed for pain that also didn't work.

I didn't realize something had to change until I noticed how little I spoke to my friends. I ignored their calls. I didn't feel up to talking to anyone but my therapist. The final nail in the coffin (sorry) came when a friend's uncle committed suicide. Everyone was distraught but I was numb. I felt sorry for the family but I also wasn't shocked. I had read earlier that week that depression and mental illness can kill.

My newest Nat-shaped friends who had meant me when I was down in the dumps and loved me anyway convinced me to go to help when they started to offer to do ANYTHING for me to make me happy. They offered a limited supply of hugs and love and free meals. When I didn't call right back or I acted totally crazy, they hung in their for me. One would carry my bag if I was in pain, the other would send cute emails and check up on me.

One thing that the Hispanic AND Jewish community have in common, I think most communities do, is that there is a great stigma to being mentally ill or being a little more sad than usual. People don't really know how to react, especially those who have never been depressed or had family or friends that had seen someone through a mental illness. I can understand that.

My worst fear growing up was becoming crazy like my mother but now, I can see how being a little "crazy" according to some now makes me empathize and sympathize with people so far removed from my realm of understanding. People feel comfortable telling me when they're in pain because I know they know that I've suffered. I consider myself very lucky to be someone that my friends confide in and put up with even when I'm not the greatest friend in the world or even a good one.

XOXOXO

High School Reunion

Well, I missed writing my daily blog post yesterday. My bad. Shabbos was a blur of reading People (thanks to my mother-in-law) and Entertainment Weekly. Kudos to Nicole Kidman's gestating Aussie spawn and um, poor Britney needs more than Dr. Phil to help her out of this one.



Last night, we watched Paprika, an anime about...well, if I tried to explain it, I wouldn't do it justice since I didn't understand it myself. By the end of the psychedelic film, all I could think was "?." I'm going to stick to Netflixing episodes of Smallville. As my friend agreed while we watched some episodes of the super soap opera last night, Superman is hot. 'Nuff said.


Meanwhile, in other news, unlike many of my blogger friends, I don't have half as interesting a life to discuss so I dusted off a book I have which helps with journal writing by providing a daily prompt. I figured I'd just open up to a page and see where it takes me.


"Do you think you'll attend your high school reunion? Mabe you will think it will be fun to see how everyone's doing; maybe you can't stand the people at your high school and can't wait to see the last of them; maybe you don't know what you'll feel in ten years. What do you think?"


It's actually been ten years since I finished high school. Wow. There are rumors that there will be a 10th year reunion at my art high school but I'm paying them no mind. I don't think I really want to be any closer to most of my high school friends than I already am on MySpace and Facebook. If I listen too closely, I hear some pretty painful stories about divorce and single parenthood or just plain growing up. And then there are some stories of homosexuality and some cute babies that have been born since then to people I still remember as 17-year-olds.


When I reconnected with some of my high school friends recently on MySpace and Facebook, I think I just confused the heck out of them. So much of my life seems surreal to me right now so I can't imagine what it looks like for people that missed the 10 years that led up to who I am today.



For instance, here's a couple of very important things that have changed in the last 10 years:



My hair:


From big "poof" as it was lovingly referred to in high school or "looks like pubic hair" by a guy who was trying to pick me up (I kid you not), my hair only makes appearances on special occasions for my husband and my closest friends. Years later my husband used to find me at synagogue by looking for my hair height in the crowd but at 17, any friend back in high school would probably have started to describe me by discussing the complexity, length and volume of my "poof." Still, though the hair's still in the picture, there have been some dramatic changes.



I have a year's worth of hair now that makes for quite the Jew 'fro since shaving it off from hair covering angst after getting married. Since my husband is obsessed with my curly locks, I have promised him not to shave it off again and am supposed to get around to deep conditioning it with ultra expensive, for curly-hair-only, conditioners. Sigh. Still, it's about a foot shorter than it was in high school so instead of being weighed down, I really do look more like a cherub with a punky 'fro more than the midget with a curl-halo that I once was.



My religion:


Oh, that's been a big hit for people who can actually find me on MySpace. Um, you're Jewish? Since when are you Jewish? Everyone thinks that's a little odd but the killer is when I explain that I'm not just Jewish, I'm an Orthodox Jew. ("Did you shave your head? Do you have sex through a sheet?") And my husband is going to be a rabbi. And I eat a diet of mostly potatoes over Pesach (Passover, to some of you).


Changing my religion has also meant changing the way I think. At 17, I wasn't just well-known for the height of my hair, I was known for my hot pants and tight tees and wearing minis in below freezing weather. I thought then that dressing like that meant that I had high self-esteem (not that I needed attention). Now, my close friend (not Jewish) tells me that I REALLY look Jewish wearing my winter uniform: little beret, long skirt, boots and sweater.


But actually, two other areas of my life actually seem to interest my high school friends much more.


My name:


Right, I pulled a Muhammed Ali after converting. I changed my first name, middle name and last name. Then I got married and changed my last name again. It's sort of like being in the witness protection program. Even my mother doesn't know my name. And I so rarely hear my former name that it's jolting when I do. "Who are they talking to?" Oh, right, that was me.


Part of the reason I changed my name was that changing my religion was like becoming a whole new person. Despite all the emotional baggage from my past life, I am not sure that my former self, much less my high school friends, would recognize me.



My husband:


Sigh, my single-white-female-esque friend who wanted to be my doppleganger, stole my crush and told people she was my sister in high school (and is now married to her cousin?) said this after seeing my husband's photo:


"Oh, my, G-d. You married a WHITE boy. I knew you would marry a WHITE boy."


Really? I sure didn't know I would marry some blue-eyed, Jewish WHITE boy from Los Angeles. In fact, ten years ago, I'm pretty sure I was wrapped up in the arms of my very effeminate, gay and Indian ex-boyfriend smooching away in Barnes & Nobles. Poor guy. Poor me.



And then there's my career?:


Okay, so seriously, though my husband still tells people that I'm a teacher, I'm actually retired. Probably for good. I work part-time and spend the rest of the day making sure our lives run smoothly. I'm not altogether good at this but since he loves me, he hasn't fired me yet. Working part-time makes me feel like I'm in college and I should be deciding on a major.


Back in the day, I wanted to be a fashion illustrator and I was getting ulcers trying to decide whether or not to go to art school or major in English at a liberal arts university. I couldn't really do both. Honestly, the liberal arts university won because major in English was just cheaper than majoring in Illustration.


So, instead of a fashion illustrator, most of my high school friends imagined me working at a top magazine. I eventually did land a cushy part-time job at CosmoGIRL! but it didn't pan out the way I had planned. I realized that I wanted to write more than I wanted to edit things and that I didn't really have much to say to teenage girls whose lives I couldn't really understand.


And so then, I became a teacher. Being a teacher was an adrenaline rush like no other, I felt confident, I worked my ass off and I felt like I was giving back to teenagers that I really understood. Unfortunately, teaching is hell on the body and so in an attempt to keep hope alive, I'm now a university writing tutor. Less stress but I help some wayward writers learn how to express themselves and learn more about the way I write in the process.



So in the end...


It's not that I can't stand the people at my high school, in fact, even after having to get a restraining order against my first boyfriend, I still have pretty fond memories of those years. But I don't really understand how who I was then and how who I am now makes any sense.

I don't think my high school friends would recognize me under my long skirts and long-sleeved shirts since the last time most of them saw me, I was sporting heels and a miniskirt that I'd had since I was 8 (no, really!).

So, the only reason that I would go to my high school reunion is either to scare my former friends or to show off my hot husband. Are these really good enough reasons to put myself through such the emotional rollercoaster of reliving my tortured youth? Nah.


Well...I'll ask the hot husband.

(Update: Hottie husband says, "Oh, hell no, I'm not going to no reunion." Only said in less ghetto way. And apparently, there is a real reunion in June. Frightening.)

My night out on the town

Oy, the price of kosher food in Manhattan.

Carrie, my super fab college pal, and I went out to dinner on the totally rainy, gloomy Thursday. Cue the thunder.

We had some fancy Italian food at Gusto Va Mare and bitched about our aging bodies. Ah, the terrible cholesterol. Ah, those lovely 20 lbs we've gained since college. Ah, the love handles. We reminsced about days before we had to consume mass quantities of heart healthy Cheerios oatmeal to stay healthy.

The great thing about "old friends" is that no matter how much time has past since you last saw them, you just fall back into things. You banter. You (air) hug, laugh, cry and it's like you're a teenager again (Carrie and I met when we were 18 and 19, respectively)...without all that emotional drama.

Carrie's claim to fame: I knew that he was the one. And yes, Carrie, you did tell me a number of times that all the guys before were schmucks. But I never listened.

Here's to growing old together: chubby thighs and all.

Things I learned today:

I live in a parallel universe where I don't see Manhattan very often and am therefore shocked by how loud the subway can be and perturbed by having to swerve to ensure not bumping into folks of all shapes and sizes.

You can pay for cabs with your credit card. Swipe in the back. And in case, your PDA or phone doesn't get cable, watch TV while stuck in traffic.

Sigh, I am a boring, old, married lady who never stays out past 10pm (well, I ducked out until midnight today). I like it.

Fun at the Orphanage

There are many problems with being the orphan of parents who are very much alive. None of my siblings has ever had the luxury of a safety net in the way that people who have supportive parents do.

For a long time, my hero was my 8th grade English teacher to whom I owe about $4K. For a long time, he kept me afloat with much needed checks. If I counted up how much he spent on me during the really tough years, I would be too ashamed to get out of bed. It wasn't until I had a steady gig and needed cash that he considered "loaning" me money.

I owe another friend couple $1200 from when I was 21, they loaned me money to pay the rent. My aunt who had been paying half the rent at the time had just told me that she no longer could do that. There I was, 21 and supporting a teenager and I not only could not afford the rent anymore, I had to figure out how to move out.

Thankfully, my friends hunkered down for the move: paying for the UHaul and organizing themselves (about 6 guy friends and some ex-boyfriends) to get everything packed up and moved. My girlfriends pitched in to pack everything, dropping by on their free time to pack boxes with my little sister. I was already suffering from such bad carpal tunnel that I couldn't wash my own dishes anymore.

One of the most difficult things about working part-time and dealing with fibromyalgia is that my biggest dream in life, which I never dared speak aloud, was that I wanted to give my sisters a safety net. I wanted to be the safety net. I didn't consider having children or getting married. I had children: my sisters. I didn't have space to love anyone else so much, so marriage wasn't an option.

My younger sister is only 20. She's my hero because at 18 years old, when I got married and abandoned her, she moved out on her own. She paid her own rent and all her bills herself with very little help from me. She now works 2 jobs and manages to keep a steady 4.0 average which only dipped lower once because she had to help me out with wedding plans.

My other younger sister hasn't been to college but she has been homeless. She's dealt with domestic violence issues far beyond anyone's maturity level. She's the only one who can stomach talking to my mother to this day, despite the fact that she received more abuse than the rest of us combined. And just when I thought I had her figured out, she picked up and moved to Ohio where she's restarting her life. There, without the two sisters she thinks are smarter than her, she's making a life for herself.

My husband and I were discussing what we would do if we won the lottery. He expected me to respond that I'd buy something materialistic. I didn't hestitate though. If I suddenly won the lottery, the first thing I would do is invest in real estate. I would make sure that even if I couldn't offer them the safety net I had always silently promised, I would make sure that my sisters would always have a place to call their home.

At my cousin-in-law's bar mitzvah, my husband was reminiscing about his childhood and the amazing self-esteem and security that it has given him. Without thinking (and of course, in front of other family), I blurted out:

"Sometimes, I just want to slap you because you were just too loved as a child."

Jealous much?

There are friends who don't realize how cruel they are being when they ask me, why I haven't gotten over:

1. Being physically abused until I was 17.
2. Running away 2 months before my 18th birthday.
3. Bouncing around from apartment to apartment until I was 26.
4. Helping two siblings run away, illegally kidnapping one of them.
5. Fighting my mother for custody of my sister for three years from age 21-24.

There are things that you never get over. They just hurt less and less over the years. The holes get filled up by something else. And I don't think any of my little family can say, "I'm over not having parents," until we stop feeling the loss and the unimaginable void they left in our lives.

I'd like to thank the Academy for this award....

I'm joining an improv group here in Riverdale. Tonight I got a taste of it because the Wives's club meeting was devoted to getting about ten of us doing all sorts of improv and theater games. It was spectacularly hilarious. Everyone made a complete fool out of themselves and bonded over that. Hopefully, everyone feels more comfortable around each other and will feel better when we get into meaty topics...like what kind of Rebbetzins we all plan to be.

I hate you...

Just got back from a jaunt to CVS. Elated about my $9 coupon for anything at CVS, I grabbed some conditioner, some mouthwash (I know, really exciting stuff here) before heading to the pharmacy for three of my presciptions.

My favorite curly-haired pharmacist was checking me out (I'm a regular) and we joked about past visits.

"I've decided that the next time there's a lapse in coverage and my allergy medications are not covered, I'm just going to stop breathing. In the end, it's really much cheaper."

The woman behind me laughs, a recurring soundtrack to mi vida loca.

Meanwhile, I'm pissed that there's some old lady behind me and I can't hang with my pharmacy pal so I head out after paying the exorbitant fees. Wow, the price of dishwashing gloves has really gone up.

When I get home and fish the receipt out of my pocket (why didn't I look earlier?), I realize that one of my medications cost $114.90 after the co-pay. A medication with no generic brand and no substitute in sight.

I hate you Empire Blue Cross Blue Shield. I. Hate. You.

My husband, the hero

When I met my husband, my life was on a general upswing. I was poor but happy. I had great friends. I'd just made the decision of a lifetime: to convert to Orthodox Judaism. I was making new friends for my new life. I was exploring uncharted territory. I was on a self-imposed man-fast. Because who needs men when you have G-d? (Did I mention when I was younger I flirted with the idea of becoming a nun and was nicknamed..."Mother Theresa?)

I didn't love him instantly. It wasn't love at first sight. In fact, when I met him I called him a "sedative" (he was so...relaxed) and at the same time wondered if he had anger management issues because he was so enraged, scowling out a window because other men were trying to monopolize my time at the party where we met. But he grew on me. Once I stopped seeing him as a baby (he was only 23! I was the great mature 25!), it was like getting hit by a freight train. How do you know someone is the one? You just know.

The weekend I first met his parents was surreal. I'd never been to LA. I'd never met anyone's parents and actually liked them. And there I was talking to them like I'd known them forever in surroundings that no welfare child could dream up. Or maybe it was surreal because of the vicodin? That weekend I took off from work because I had so much pain in my face and needed to take narcotics until the dentist could figure out what was wrong. He was hinting that there could be something neurological but I wasn't hearing it, I mean, I was in love!

Too quickly, we had to come down from our life in the clouds, off that elation you get when you've just falling in love and don't need food, sleep or any other social interaction with people that aren't the one. After many painful doctor visits all over the city, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. I was told by one doctor that I was lucky: "At least you don't have a brain tumor." But I was shaking with sobs as I told my family (my husband and my two sisters). I was glad to finally know where the pain was coming from but horrified that it was something incurable, lifelong and so physically, mentally and emotionally painful, so draining.

If you need help, I am your go-to girl. When I was younger, I was forced to help my sisters...sometimes at knife-point or under threat of further bodily harm. By the time I was an adult, it was just something I did, no questions asked. I would do anything for my sisters, make any sacrifice. And because of the example of some amazing friends, I became that kind of friend, too. Anyone I allowed in my inner circle was like my sister, even the boy friends.

For a long time, my sister and my husband only had each other to turn to about my health woes. No one could turn to me. I went from being "a rock" to sobbing in the classroom. There I was begging my students to be quiet because the noise they created while chattering felt like punches wailing at my body. I couldn't write my name without excrutiating pain. I couldn't imagine the rest of my life. And I didn't know why my future husband didn't run away. After all, he hadn't signed up for this.

My husband and my sister are two of the strongest people I know. They balance each other out well. If I try to do more than I'm capable of doing because of my disability, my husband tells me not to worry, someday I will be able to do it again or I will figure out how to do it differently, while my sister takes care of it, whatever it is, again, no questions asked. My support group of two has been invaluable as I worked myself up from hell, the utter depths of despair, to a place where I could look forward to tomorrow because I knew that on the days I couldn't love myself, I was surrounded by love so enveloping that it permeated through the pain.

My husband and my sister are heroes. No one really gets to see it. Everyone calls me the hero, the hero who kidnapped her sister, who fought for custody for three years, the hero that struggles with the burden of disability and learning to ask for more help that she ever could have imagined needing. But even though they're silent, though they never complain, though they rarely let me see them cry or become disheartened by the twists of turns of my life, I know that everything has taken a toll on them. They are bonded together by the times they helped me button and unbotton my clothes because I lacked the dexterity.

When I wanted to quit teaching in the middle of the second semester of my last year of teaching, my students begged me to stay. Even though I had to wear ear plugs, even though I was so drugged, I sprained my ankle while teaching. Even though they had to "air hug" me from afar because my skin felt like it was on fire, my students assured me that I was their favorite teacher, the only one they could count on. They took up a collection to help pay for my medical bills. They told me that they prayed for my good health. They cried with me.

My husband, who cuts my food into tiny pieces without asking, told me once that this fibromyalgia thing was more than just about me. It was about how I would affect people because of it or in spite of it. Like my husband, my students learned to give of themselves more than they ever could have imagined giving. Where my coworkers failed to offer support, my students, children who were just becoming adults, walked me to class, checked up on me between classes, offered to help grade papers, carried my books and papers and listened and shared their pain. And I know, I wouldn't be here right now if not for them.

I have seen all unimaginable levels of ugliness in human beings. There are stories I don't tell my friends because it is easier to shelter people. If G-d didn't mean for them to see such horrors, why should I be the one to tell them that they are out there and that they're closer than they can see? But it is these sheltered people and those survivors out there who surprise me. If you let people, if you believe in them, they will never cease to amaze you and fill you with awe.


Now it's back to bed. Fibromyalgia and jetlag don't mix.

All you ever wanted to know about fibromyalgia

NYTimes: Chronic Pain: A Burden Often Shared

You would read a book by ME?

"People are interested in things that are different. And what made people convert people who have been frum their whole life don't look at Judaism the same way you do. And we want to hear how it looks to you."

And he just met me Saturday.

Earth-shattering news!

So, I finally got around to calling this publisher who read my article in Yeshiva University's Kol Hamevaser. What in the world would the vice president of a Jewish publishing company want to discuss with little old me?

Well, let's just say that when I told one of my favorite authors (who I annoy with emails about how much I love their writing on a constant basis) the news, she wrote back:

"Oh. My. God. I'm so happy for you!"

Yes, can you tell she's a writer? Her husband won a Pulitzer.

Meanwhile, do I have it in me to write a whole book about converting?:)

In the meantime, check out my articles:

Funny, You Don't Look Jewish

Why are they so weird? Translating Dominican to Jewish and back again

Social Anxiety Disorder

When I tell people that I'm shy, they usually laugh hysterically. You? Shy? Never! Yet, my knees shake when I have to ask the butcher to slice my meat. My heart quivers when I have to pick up a call from an unidentified caller (usually, I don't). Sometimes, I even ignore calls from my friends during especially SHY moments. Yes, it's true, I confess it now to you all, the ignored.

Still, at other times, I'm so outgoing, I scare myself. How many times have I left a social occasion thinking: "Did I really just say that?" The times when I do manage to ask myself that, I realize that I'm doing pretty well. You know, at least I'm thinking before I shoot my mouth off. Yay, my husband would be so proud. Other times, let's just say I'm less metacognitive and pretty feisty for a person who calls herself shy.

Now, the worst is when these two qualities mix. Can you be shy and outgoing at the same time? Yes. When I'm surprised, I feel myself going in two directions. Should I be shy? Outgoing? Who am I? Where am I? My eyes get all wide like Bambi in front of a deerhunter with a big gun because oh yeah, even I'm afraid of what I'm going to say. Let's not even discuss my husband's heart palpatations.

Today's most stellar moment of social anxiety...running into my husband's rabbi at the dentist! Not just his rabbi, the founder of my husband's school. I mean, come on, G-d, what's with the sense of humor? Sure, it's neutral territory but I have no idea what to say. He asks me how I'm doing. Of course, I take so long trying to figure out what to say (what's the most kosher response?) that I forget to ask him how he's doing.

After further social stumbling over one faux paus and another, I yawn and tell him that I'm jetlagged. It's time to make my getaway! Just walk away! Don't say anything stupid to the nice rabbi man. And before I can stop myself, I wax poetic on how my husband is probably at yeshiva falling asleep, as are most of the guys at the school. AHHHHHHH! No wait, I meant falling asleep from jetlag! I mean, the guys are tired from having to go back to their regularly scheduled yeshiva programming after two weeks of vacation. Wait, I didn’t mean that your school's boring!

Sigh, it's too late. I'm going to have to go back to coping behavior #1. See rabbi. Run. The other way.

G-d help me.

To Do List for Next Shabbos

Try not to talk about:

1. Politics
2. Homosexuality
3. Taxes
4. Healthcare
5. My seedy past

Try not to talk to guests using ditties like:

1. The F word for emphasis and then...
2. "You're a racist!"
3. "You're a classist!"
4. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
5. "What planet do you live on?"...at the close of conversations.

Practice:
1. Rebbitzen-like poise
2. Listening skills (or pretending to listen, ie, staring at forehead of speaker)
3. Yoga breathing
4. Vulcan-like facial expressions
5. Er, patience

I'm really a peaceful human being.

Jealous, jealous, jealous

I remember when I used to tell people that I did all kinds of studying of the writing craft. And it's true, I've just about read my brains out. I read magazines. I read books. I read newspapers. I read everything. But honestly, when does the writing begin? I've got some sketchy tearjerkers piling up on my hard drive but nothing cohesive.

I'm jealous of Diablo Cody's style in Juno. I would write a screenplay if I could get myself to write a paragraph, a poem, a short story.

And my friend starts a whole new blog devoted to her writing AND I have a backlog of her emails full of stuff she needs me to get back to her about.

Mostly, I write to do lists. I tried putting up a sign that said, "You must write an hour a day" but I promptly ignored it. In fact, I had to take it down after I felt it was giving me glowering looks. Yes, the sign. It was giving me low self-esteem.

Lest I be too hard on myself, when people have assigned me work, I've churned out a doozy or two. Thanks for all the compliments. Now if only I could just be making a million per script and holding up a sign outside the Writer's Guild of America. In Los Angeles. Brr, far away from the city that never sleeps, brr.