Just a song before I go...

I guess 2008 is ending with me in a better place than where I started: Borders! No, seriously, I am sitting here with an unfortunate case of massive writers' block, unusual since I finally have some time and space to make a dent in this book o'mine. But honestly, I'm a little tired/stunted/not in the mood to relive these events, so I'm stalling for the moment.

Anyway, I am definitely tired right now, having had the demon methotrexate this morning (and as a result, the naughty beast nephews for whom I babysat this AM are getting a lot of mileage out of the shot in the butt) and also knowing it's a matter of time before I'm too tired, nauseous and generally wiped out to do much more than crash on the couch in front of whatever Law and Order permutation is on NBC tonight. But even more than that, I'm tired by the notion of writing this story, of making a hated entity come to life on paper, of reexamining the futility of those events, and having to remember a truly painful and bewildering time. But, it's a great story, worth the writing, and certainly worth the potential selling.

So the year comes to an end tomorrow, and fortunately, this does not mean that at sunset, I am in for six hours of singing with four to follow in the morning, which is a good thing. I'll take Seacrest over some of the high holiday liturgy if I have to. Especially since I am about as big a fan of the October holidays as I am of New Year's Eve. What a crap excuse for people to get wasted and act like a collective horse's ass, freeze their idiocy off in Times Square, and make others miserable because of some post-20th century expectation of sentimentality and perfection? (Whoa, how's that for some pretentious sociological nonsense?) All of which is to say I'm not a fan of NYE, haven't really had a good one since I was young enough to believe in the nonsense, having gotten completely hammered at some dive Irish bar in the city and ended up at Veselka's or somewhere like that, after having slept on someone's floor for about three hours. Anyway that was a long time ago, in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.

Or not dead yet. So here's the tally on '08: 42 pounds lost, four sizes down, two hundred points of blood sugar up, 48 methotrexate injections, six months without regular Coca-cola (still killing me), four births (not mine), two engagements (also not mine), two funerals, six shiva minyans, three bags of frozen tortellini, two Shabbat services, six high holiday services, one Torah aliyah (gotta do better in 09 with that), three chapters, one deferment, five days in California, two dinner parties, fourteen active contracts, one BlackBerry, seven trips to Toys R Us, one personal shopping session, twelve Intro classes, too many episodes of classic Law and Order, and many, but still too few, adventures with the people I love.

Not a bad run, all told. And having hopefully eased the writer's block, I should get back to work; the hours are dwindling and the story remains untold. But here's to a New Year, a new beginning, fewer defenses, more laughter, a new administration, less war, happier times, and lasting peace.

Shalom.

Breaking News: A Great Miracle Happened...

...at the garage yesterday: the Infiniti passed inspection! And only cost me $600 in repairs! It's a Hanukkah miracle...and what a relief. I swear to G-d that the check engine light is taking years off my life at this point; for every one day it should be on, it is on for no less than eight days, and apparently the car was leaking oil, so...'tis the season. But it wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected, given that the past two inspections have resulted in a transmission overhaul and a brake job. And seriously, I thought that there was so much wrong with the car that it would be another $2K hit at least. Thank you, Judah Macabee!

I do have to get the muffler repaired (thanks to all my friends who have been pointing out that "bottoming out" noise for some time) and a couple of brackets replaced, but it's such a relief to see the blue 2009 sticker where it should be.

And not a moment too soon; the ice has made my building's parking lot so unsafe that it's been impossible to get the car in and out for the past two nights. The first night, I threw myself on the mercy of the Diner folks and they graciously let me leave the car there overnight, and last night I lucked into a spot on the street. But it's not pretty: hopefully the rain will make it all better by tonight.

OK, gotta get some work done before I leave the office for TEN DAYS OFF! I will be working on book #2 during the next week, and I'm excited to get this story down on virtual paper, finally, and given that it needs to be done by April 24, 2009, it's not a moment too soon for me to put in some serious work on it. So wish me luck, and happy holidays to all and a gear New Year, or as the song goes...let's hope it's a good one, without any tears.

We are experiencing technical difficulties....please stand by.

Who remembers this from when we were kids? It always seemed to happen during after-school cartoons. You'd be sitting there with your cookies and Tang or your cheese sandwich and Quik, innocently watching Bugs and Daffy or Tom and Jerry beat the crap out of one another and presto: some stupid transmission issue would result in what seemed like HOURS of psychedelic color bars accompanied by "Theme from 'A Summer Place'" with a completely sincere voice intoning the magic words. And all you'd want was to get back to the action. Given that we had, maybe four other channels to choose from, rarely did I ever change it. This was, of course, when you had to change the channel by getting up off your dead ass and turning a dial ATTACHED TO THE SET. So here were the choices: good cartoons on 5, live action drug-induced insanity (Magic Garden, Joya's Fun School, Banana Splits) on 11, endless BOR-ing episodes of Little Rascals on 9, and sanctimonious 70s touchy feely happy programming on 13.

Anyway, right about now I'd give just about anything to be six and sitting in front of the TV. The technical difficulties are as such: I'm STILL sick (week four) so I'm not sleeping a whole lot, I wake up at least 4 or 5 times a night, usually in a cold sweat out of a nightmare (yeah, Nazis this week!) My family is experiencing some fallout from the downturn (Mom's hours cut, brother in law's company shutting down in March, etc) so there's some worry there. And the general tension of the holidays is, well, what it is.

So I have not been blogging a whole lot. I have, however, considered composing a mock-Italian opera based on the recent reunion debacle. But it is hardly a story worth the telling. I just hope it's over by now.

At the end of the month I am planning on taking some time off to work on the 2nd book, although a recent whisper in my ear has encouraged me to do a different book first - a conversion/outreach book - but I don't know if I have the energy right now. Or if the publishing industry has a need. Something to explore, perhaps.

Thus, if I'm not around/online/posting for the next couple of weeks, I wish you all a happy holiday. Please stand by.

One of these things is not like the others...

I know it's been a while, but there have been some good reasons for not posting. First, I've been completely overwhelmed at work with a lot of projects, which is a good thing in this toilet economy, but a bad thing for those of us who used to take 20 minutes or so out of the day to update our blogs. And out of respect for my dear ones who have been casualties of the downturn, I feel like it's almost a bitchy thing to blog about my stupid/kvetchy issues when they have so much more to worry about - believe me, I've been there.

Second, I've been sick for about three weeks with a sinus bugaboo which has been more of a pain in the ass than an actual illness, but just the same it's preventing me from sleeping adequately, and on the nights I do actually get some sleep, I get hit with numerous fever dreams which are so scary and soul-shaking (plane crashes, being trapped inside burning houses, big old jet air-o-liners hitting burning buildings, I could continue but you get the picture) that I usually have trouble functioning the next day. Not exactly conducive to creativity, or anything else other than getting through the day, going to that night's meeting or class, and then going home to eat leftover casserole in front of Law & Order repeats.

But anyway...it's been a pretty crazy few weeks. I was sick for Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, which I love because it involves no religion whatsoever. And also, and quite wonderfully, I have reconnected via Facebook with a number of former classmates from elementary school. I can't even begin to tell you what this has meant to me, since those were probably the happiest years of my childhood - way happier than when I ended up in public school. For your amusement, here's a scene from spring of 1978. Can you spot the Jew?



More to come...back to work.

Warming up for NaNoWriMo

Update: it's been a while, and in the meantime, Obama WINS! Yay!

There's a lot I could say about the election, but thousands and thousands of words have already been written. Suffice to say that I cried when they called it for Obama. Like so many others, I feel like we've been living in a really bad place for the past eight years, and now there's hope for the future.

On the writing front, I'm trying to (temporarily) focus away from blogging during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), which I signed up for on October 31. Nothing like putting things off till the last minute. And if that means anything, I'll probably be attempting to write 50,000 words on November 30th.

Although I have promised myself some hours today to re-start, jump-start, and otherwise begin the new opus: Not for PRofit/Mission Statement/Title TBD. I've got until April 24, 2009 to finish it. We'll see how that goes.

In the meantime, the virtual RA crew team - i.e., the guys who show up in the middle of the night with great big mighty wooden oars to get in a beat-down of my joints have been hanging out in the neighborhood lately. They must be, otherwise I have no explanation for hurting so bad in the past week. Oh well: that's why the Holy One invented Vicodin.

I'll be over at StarCrossed later today (I hope.) More to come.

The Infiniti, and beyond

It's October 31, and much to my chagrin, the car remains uninspected. It was due in September, and now I'm 60 days over. I'm worried and trying to figure out where and how to find the time to get my baby over to the garage, but I can't seem to find a plan that will work.

For eleven years, I drove a Toyota Corolla. Blue, four-door, '89 sedan, a real workhorse. When my '83 Corolla Hatchback lost its muffler on the way home for winter break from college one December day, I didn't know what I would do. The car had been in two major accidents, and wasn't exactly reliable. I knew my parents didn't feel great about me driving back and forth more than 120 miles each way with a tempermental car, and besides, there were these big stupid buses all over campus - I probably didn't need the car after all.

But when I came downstairs one morning, a couple of days before I had to leave to go back for spring semester, my dad announced, "We're giving you the blue car." It was brand new, we'd only had it for about six months. I couldn't believe that I was getting a new car, just like that, for doing nothing. My immediate response was: "What have you done with my parents?"

I drove that car until 2001 - from the time I was 19 until I was 31. I was convinced the car had some kind of divinely-inspired autopilot, considering how many times I drove that car, completely not paying attention to the road, speedometer, or other drivers. I put more than 150,000 miles on that car and never got hurt once.

But eventually, it blew a head gasket and it had to go. We donated it to the Diabetes Foundation. I remember being really depressed about it, thinking I was completely devastated at losing this symbol of my youth. Two days later was 9/11, which kind of put things into perspective.

After that I leased my sweet little Sentra - first the gold one, which was the unfortunate recipient of the karmic blast intended for eleven years of not watching the road - within eight weeks it was totaled in a bad five-car pile up on the FDR Drive. Nissan was fabulous and let me apply the two whole payments and my deposit to a new car. I went over to the dealership one cloudy Sunday afternoon, and picked out a red one.

When my dad passed away, I agreed to buy his beloved Infiniti from my mom, even though I still had 9 months to go on my Sentra lease. The Infiniti was old, but it was paid for, and driving it felt like driving around in a living room. During the past six months before he died, I drove it more frequently as he distanced himself more and more from the things he loved, including driving. We'd go up to visit my sister in Connecticut and he'd mention that he didn't really feel up to the trip home, that I could handle the car better than he could in the dark - something he never really believed before. In retrospect, maybe we should have known there was something wrong.

Now the Infiniti is mine, and I think my dad would pretty much freak out to see it. He kept it neat as a pin - he was as meticulous about his cars as he was about everything else. Now it's got a trunk full of books and dry cleaning and china that my mom gave me but that I haven't brought upstairs yet, the backseat has boxes (again, yet to be brought upstairs) and there is a Torah, a Tanakh and a siddur on the front seat. Talk about being a wandering Jew. I could lead services in my car if I were so inclined. And you could probably get a minyan in there if you took out all the crap in the back.

But it does need to be inspected, and I need to find the time. I don't know where it is going to come from, or how I am going to explain to the Powers that Be here that I need a day where I can work from home and be without the car. This can't go on much longer. Even the Infiniti is beholden to a higher power.

Rainy Day Women #22 & #38

It's an ideal weather day here in White Plains: cold, rainy, and windy, with leaves tumbling down all over the roads. My favorite kind of day. Yeah, I know I'm not exactly in the majority on this opinion.

But it's a good day to be exhausted, and not feeling 100%, and if I didn't have to be in the office today I'd be curled up with my friend Sally's book, with a pot of chili bubbling on the stove and maybe even a challah in the oven. One of my ambitions this year is to learn how to bake my own, even though technically, I suppose, I shouldn't be eating it.

As much as I'd love to cocoon up and forget about the world, I know it's not a realistic expectation. I can only be grateful for my easy job and the fact that it's insanely busy here - which brings great hope for surviving the recession. Sure, I'm not making nearly enough money, and every month is a struggle in spite of the two new dresses bought on sale, and the new shoes I have to occasionally buy for more than I've ever spent on shoes before, because they are really good for people with RA. Right now I'm grateful for my job, and for the apartment I can curl up in even though it's a freaking mess, and for the fact that I was never smart enough to go into the financial world.

When I graduated from college in '92, the economy sucked - not quite as badly as it does now - but it wasn't a good market for new graduates. On the strength of my summer job as a bank teller (which my dad arranged for me), I was accepted into a management training program at a small bank in Fleetwood, about a 20 minute drive from my parents' house.

That was an easy job too, but I hated it. I hated the branded uniformity of the environment, the stupid stock photos on the walls, the sense of confinement in the tiny branch, the strict 30 minute lunch break, having to wear a suit and stockings and heels every day, and the rotten attitudes of the veterans who thought all of the young people were idiots. Not to mention that the manager, a Mariah Carey fanatic, insisted on Muzak renditions of all her greatest hits, played incessantly over the branch sound system, all day. But above all, I hated the sense that this was it - this was the future - surrounded by people who cared about nothing but money. I had spent four years studying the literature of the Holocaust. My boyfriend was 2 hours away, in Philadelphia, cheating on me with anyone he could find. It was not a good time. But as people kept telling me, I had a job, and that was the important thing. I was miserable, but my parents explained it away - that was what the working world was all about - I would have to learn how to deal with it.

One night, I was over at my friend Meg's house - her parents were away so we were hanging out, drinking Coronas and peeling peaches for pie - in despair of my future and its bleak, conformist outlook. At around 4AM, in a haze of lime-scented alcohol and a pile of pie-crust trimmings, Meg convinced me to quit. I decided to table the decision for another couple of hours.

When I woke up at 8AM, the rain was pouring down - it was a day much like this one - with a wind tossing the leaves from the trees. I reached for the phone and called my boss to let him know that I wouldn't be coming in; that in fact, I wouldn't be coming back.

Needless to say, my parents weren't too happy with me. But it wasn't the right fit for me - it would never be the right fit no matter how many chances I gave it. It was only three weeks later that I landed a new job - an editorial proofreader at the Pennysaver, where I made even less money than I had as a management trainee. But it was full of creative people - cool young people in jeans and sneakers - where we got 45 minutes for lunch, and could blast whatever music we felt like playing. Sure, we had our fair amount of suits and crazies, but at least they were real. And best of all, there wasn't a hint of Mariah Carey to be heard.

I went from there to grad school, and then on to marketing, and now here we are, sixteen years after that rainy day hangover that helped me to move to a new path. Standing at the crossroads again, I can only wonder this time what the rain will bring.

Bereshit

Tomorrow morning, my weekly Torah study group, along with thousands of b'nei mitzvah children all over the world, will begin the Torah over again. The beginning comes, in my opinion, at the exact perfect moment, when the chill in the air and the gorgeous vibrant leaves and the deep azure of the Sound all bring the beauty of G-d's handiwork into sharp focus. It's as if, no matter what troubles or joys you are facing, you simply have to notice what a beautiful world we live in. And as a writer, very few narratives intrigue me as much as our sacred story of creation. Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim v'et ha'aretz - in the beginning, G-d created the heavens and the earth - is one of those perfect first lines - in fact, it is THE perfect first line. And I think any writer worth their keyboard would agree.

Consider how some of the most compelling and intriguing stories begin with lines like: Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. Or, Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. The perfect combination of wanting to know more about the character and the action inherent in the text. From the moment you read it, you're hooked. Face it: you can't let the story go.

When I think about "in the beginning" it always makes me wonder. The beginning, by definition, can only take place once. And yet in life, we are innundated by beginnings, second and third acts, countless chances. The old saw, "You never get a second chance to make a first impression" is a powerful statement, but I'm curious as to whether it is actually true. Our gift of teshuvah, of personal evolution, of the ability to turn and change, and the not-so-unimportant blessing of other people's short term memory gives us that second chance all the time.

Just like with Torah: every year, we begin again. We rarely read it the same way twice. In each reading cycle, we are informed by internal and external circumstances, life changes, personal experience, and the opinions and ideas that other people bring to the table. The fact that we are not supposed to study alone makes that last quality perhaps the most important. Reading about the death of Miriam one year made me consider the justifiable frustration and anger of B'nei Yisrael having been "led on" through the desert, and now facing a crisis of inadequate water and supplies for the journey. A year later, having faced incalculable loss in my own life, all I could see was a distraught and grieving Moses simultaneously struggling to lead a people and mourn for his sister. That point of view had, of course, been at the table the year before - many of those teachers of Torah with whom I share in study every Shabbat had the knowledge way before I did. But it took looking at the text through my own lens of mourning to see it clearly.

Beginning again is also the hallmark of so many aspects of my own life: by definition, the writer is always beginning, whether it is a new book, a new chapter, a new sentence. And as is the case with so many fellow Jews-by-Choice, living life in a new faith and according to a new set of lifecycles accounts for numerous beginnings throughout the learning process of becoming Jewish -- and beyond. Consider the process: taking Intro to Judaism; beginning Hebrew classes. Starting with aleph instead of the letter A. Realizing that your day now starts at sundown rather than sunrise. Even figuring out how to keep kosher (which I still haven't managed to do) or how to conduct that first Seder or bake that first Rosh HaShana apple cake calls for looking at things in a way you've never seen them before, beginning again, over and over. It is certainly no accident that many of us who have trained as URJ Outreach Fellows call our discussion group for Jews-by-Choice "New Beginnings."

As I wrote recently, sometimes being at the beginning again can be scary. It is learning how to mark time and move forward poised between old knowledge and new, between who you've been and whom you've yet to become. Perhaps still reacting to old ghosts and ideas from the past and perhaps fearing what the future holds. It's an odd place to be.

But as my dear friend Reb Marci taught me in our recent online discussion about the death of Moses, Torah does not really allow us to dwell in the past; the story's very momentum commands us to move forward. And before we know it we are back at the table, in awe as our eyes behold the heavens and the earth, the stars in the firmament and every living thing according to its type. And perhaps there is nothing more perfect to say than the Holy One's own words: Ki tov.

Dancing with the Story

Sitting at the chevra Torah table this past Saturday morning, when we got to the end of the final verse, the one that reads: Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses, whom the Lord singled out, face to face, for the various signs and portents that the Lord sent him to display...and for all the great might and awesome power that Moses displayed before all Israel - I'll admit it. I got choked up. Being at the end made me really feel as if I had accomplished something, in partnership with my study group. And at the same time, I was suddenly scared of being at the beginning, all over again.

V'zot Ha-Brachah - And this is the blessing - is the name of Torah's final parsha. In it, Moses and the Holy One survey the land in an echo of G-d's creation - the very moment we are returning to tonight, almost simultaneously - so that when we end the Torah and begin it again, we read without end, without interruption the final words - l'einei kol Yisrael - before the eyes of all Israel - and the first: bereshit - in the beginning.

So that leaves me asking the question: what is the blessing? Is the blessing that we are at the end, that Moses has become holier and more esteemed in death than when he was alive and working wonders, that the questions are past us and that we have to live with the answers we came up with this year? Or is the blessing that we're at the beginning again, with the questions still in front of us, and the answers still waiting for us to find them?

This question and tension comes at an interesting moment; this morning, I was suddenly motivated to start working again on this four-hundred page love letter of a novel that I've been messing around with in my head for almost two years: a book called Not for Profit, which details some of the ridiculous actions and incomprehensible personal ethics of people in the business of doing good. I've got an outline, and a couple of chapters written, but for me, the part of the story I am most passionate about is the last two thirds. The question is, do I scroll this baby out and write from the end to the beginning? Or do I do what I did with Bookseller's, and write it beginning to end?

Jewish text, in this case, isn't really helping me answer the question. The discussion in my head is more Talmudic than anything else. "If you write from the end," one idea tells me, "you can back into the story. You know how it ends this time. Remember: you didn't know last time. Wasn't that the problem?"

Still another point of view tells me to do what I've done in the past, that it's a successful method for me, that it is practical and methodical and normal to use a timeline and follow it so that by definition, its rigidity will give me a structure in which I can be more creative. But the timeline also has its cost: my last book suffered from being too literal in a lot of places. And I'm afraid of getting bogged down in bones of the story. Especially because, as many of you know, the story itself is so delicious.

In the same vein, and much in the same emotional context, I'm nervous about attending Simchat Torah services tonight. I'm not much of a dancer, and dancing with the scroll always makes me afraid that I'm going to drop it or trip over my own feet or do something stupid. Put me up on the bimah and ask me to sing, or set me down in front of a computer and tell me to write a poem, and I'm your girl. But ask me to dance or skip or paddle or skate, and it's almost as if I've been asked to fly. I tell myself that I am no good at any of it in an effort to figure out whether I'm healthy enough to try. And I don't know the answer. Do I dance because in my heart I know I will be okay, or do I start slowly - at the beginning - and try not to be afraid to ask for help if I need it?

And again, here I am, afraid of getting bogged down in the logistics of the dance, when what I should really be focusing on is the joy.

Especially because the story itself is so delicious.

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof

My father Leo - may his memory be for blessing - had some definite ideas about justice. A 22-year veteran of Manhattan South Homicide, a detective first grade, and later in his second career, a tireless VP of Protective Control for Bank of New York, he spent a lifetime bringing people to justice, righting wrongs where he could, never afraid to stand up for what was right and see that the appropriate penalty was handed down. And he managed to do it all with tremendous style. Above all things he found a way to connect with people whether they were do-gooders or perps, always with an irrepressible grin and a twinkle in his eye. His way with people was a weapon far more powerful than the .38 he carried or the Glock he kept in the kitchen cabinet.

He cared about justice as much as he cared about his family, because he cared about families who had been touched by the damage that unchecked injustice can do. He never forgot a victim, never forgot a name, always made sure that he remembered that no matter what sort of evil or physical or emotional mutilation or destruction had occurred, that what he was bearing witness to was the human relationship of life-to-life in an ultimate transaction gone awry. He understood that all human beings contained the yetzer ha-tov and yetzer ha-ra - the good and evil impulse - in equal balance. But what he never let himself understand or accept was how people could justify their actions when they led to such a destructive end.

I saw him lose hours of sleep poring over the details of a case file, and come home in the early morning hours after a night spent in pursuit of a suspect. I remember the morning he came home after finally breaking the case of the murder at the Metropolitan Opera, when I was eleven years old. "We did it, Schnickelfritz," he whispered proudly as I padded down the stairs to greet him at our front door at five in the morning. And then, hurrying into the kitchen to grab a quick bagel with American cheese, he took the stairs two at a time to go up and change for the Commissioner's press conference. There was no mistaking it: justice realized energized him.

My dad understood that pursuing and obtaining justice was a team effort that required the cooperation of many discrete souls working towards one sacred goal. Fellow detectives. The officers who'd first responded, the coroner's office, the EMS teams, the crime scene technicians. The witnesses, the friends and family of the victim. And the random people you'd meet while following a lead, from the guy in the coffee shop or the mechanic or the bartender or the lady who lived next door to the crime scene. My dad could make a friend of all of them. You never knew who would give you what you needed to solve the case.

The toughest people he had to work with were the wrongdoers themselves. He hated the excuses, the lies, the rationalizations people gave him for doing the unspeakable - acting on their own selfish and destructive impulses, robbing people of their dignity, destroying the souls of the people left behind, turning a fellow human being into a victim, needlessly and recklessly abusing the ultimate power of G-d - ending a life -- and taking that power into their own hands. He could pretend a friendship with a criminal for the sake of getting what he wanted out of them - a confession of wrongdoing and if he was lucky, a willingness to accept responsibility for what they did. He was a big fan of the allocution process, when a person has to stand up in court and tell, for the record, what they did, in an unvarnished and factual statement. No justifications, no embellishments, no embroidering of the facts to manipulate the listener.

There were so many other people that my dad encountered during the course of an investigation - objective people, people with no investment in the outcome - who could tell the truth in a way that made it easy to see when someone else was lying. Not only did he work with the best in the business, but years of gathering honest testimony and witness statements made him absolutely pitch-perfect when it came to detecting the body language, tone of voice, and other characteristics of the liar. As a daughter, naturally, I got away with very little. To this day, I still believe that anyone who underestimates the ability of a New York City homicide detective to see through a lie is kidding themselves.

I've inherited some of his intolerance for injustice. Like my father, I do not suffer fools gladly. I do wish I had his way with people, but I am also too much my mother's stubborn and straightforward child to listen to lies and rationalizations with a smile, however insincere, on my face. I have very strong - perhaps too strong -- feelings about those whose deepest impulses drive them to hurt others, and then attempt to justify, rationalize and worst of all, cover up their actions.

To this end, the first Torah portion I ever learned how to chant, Shoftim, reflects this. Shoftim is the Hebrew word for judges, and the famous phrase above, Justice, justice you shall pursue, is at the heart of the parsha’s text.

The double justice we see in the text isn't there by accident. The way my dad, I think, would interpret it is that every crime has two stories: the truth of what really happened and then recognizing that vigilance is required to ensure that those facts are not in any way altered to gain sympathy or to rationalize the hurt that was caused to the victim. In my dad's view, the phrase, "I didn't mean for it to happen" was irrelevant. It happened, and nothing could undo those actions. The honorable thing to do is to accept responsibility, remember your actions and learn from them. Making an effort to change the story, or cover it up, or erase it was as much of an injustice as the crime in the first place.

For my dad, the pursuit of justice was as much about preserving the factual, ethical memory of wrongdoing as it was about making the bad guys accountable for their crimes. In Judaism, memory is the cornerstone of justice: remembering what was done to us to that we can learn from it and become better people. "May this memory be erased" is about the worst thing you can ever do or say - every person, every thing deserves to be remembered, both for good and for bad. We can't erase our actions, but we can take what we need to learn from them and move on. Without justification, without rationalization -- but with the hard-won wisdom we needed to gain from the experience.

Silence is not a Jewish value, nor should it be a human ethic. Because when the voice of the victim is silenced, and the injustice of that silence is followed by the memory of a crime being altered or erased, the opportunity to learn and grow vanishes with it.

When my father passed away three years ago, a friend suggested to me that as a way of finding comfort, I should choose a Torah portion or prayer moment to remember him by. While Shoftim was certainly the obvious choice, there is also a liturgical stronghold that has become a way for me to pay tribute to my father every Shabbat. During the second prayer of the Amidah, as we recognize the Holy One as one who “keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust,” I shift my prayer book in my arms so that I can touch my left hand – my dad was a lefty - to my heart.

My dad’s life was about keeping faith with those whose lives were shattered into dust, those who met with their final sleep too soon. He may not have been the most observant or exemplary Jew who ever lived. But his legacy is justice and remembrance, and the knowledge that lives in the world as a result of the ongoing struggle that we continue to face: ensuring that the truth of injustice is ever brought to light. As in the words of St. Thomas More: "In the things of the soul, remembrance without knowledge profits little."

Shabbat shalom.

Farewell to the Runway

Well, Leanne won with her petal architecture in spite of Korto's beautiful use of color and beading. A lame end to a lame season, but I'm sad that it has come to an end nonetheless. I never expected to be a fan of Project Runway, but it has ended up influencing me in ways I am realizing now that it's all over (on Bravo at least. Results of the lawsuit against Lifetime are still, I believe, pending.)

I ended up a fan by accident. When I came home from that first stay in the hospital in September of 2006, I was in so much pain that I couldn't stay in my own apartment. At my mom's, I could barely make it from the downstairs bedroom into the living room. A raging bacterial infection had destroyed my left leg and settled into the bone marrow of my foot and ankle. Six days of intravenous antibiotics only succeeded in pissing the infection off even more. Just sitting in the car, coming back to my mom's house, was agony.

So when I arrived there with a purse full of the stuff they give you for anthrax (six weeks' worth!) there wasn't a lot I could do. Mom was working during the day; before she'd leave she'd set out sandwich and a glass of cranberry juice diluted with water, ice and a pitcher. I was barely managing on the crutches. She knew that I couldn't make it to the kitchen.

When she came back from work in the afternoon, she'd immediately turn the channel to Bravo. "You've got to watch this, Ann," she'd say. "I think you'll like it."

And like it I did. The insane personalities. The creative quirks. All the kooky ideas and fabrics and the trips to mood that felt like getting out early from school. Kayne and Jeffrey and Laura and Alison. The design process and Tim's comments. It reminded me of writing, my best writing and my best days of writing, amazing teachers and mentors who had guided me to be even better than I thought I could be, who didn't mind my occasional indulgences into self-reflection. It was wonderful.

But I wasn't. All that fall I just kept getting sicker and sicker. My walk and energy improved, but my bloodwork didn't. I went back to work, barely able to handle the piles that had accumulated on my desk during the three weeks that I'd been home sick. But no matter how tired I was, I always stayed awake for Runway. My mom and I watched the Couture challenge in Paris with eyes that never got tired of gazing upon the City of Light. "Just get better, Ann," she'd say, over and over. "Just get better, and we'll go."

I didn't get better. Not until that December, when I'd been let go from the job I wasn't dealing with, got an IV port installed in my arm and a dead, infected bone surgically removed from my foot. Then I started ten weeks of IV treatments, two a day, still at my mom's. It was gross. My hair fell out, my body ached, and my stomach hurt, not to mention the chronic cough thanks to an allergy to the heparin I had to use to flush the IV lines.

Together, my mom and I watched Jeffrey win, marveled at the appalling mediocrity of Top Design season one, and rooted for Betty to lose and Sam or Marcel to win on Top Chef. Bravo's reality gave us something to focus us away from the reality of sickness that had come to shape that fall and winter.

Now, two years later, still struggling to find wellness and move forward, I'm sad to see Runway roll up the white carpet and become part of the past. I think I'll miss it in the way I miss the old episodes of Law & Order. The same way that I feel when I see Lennie Briscoe and think of my dad, I think every time I see Tim Gunn I'll think of what it was like to be cared for again, and safe, even while doing battle with the most serious illness I've ever faced. As each designer fought to make each creation they were challenged with something that would ultimately adorn and beautify the bodies they were dressing, so it was with me, with pills and potions, medicines and Mom, trying to redesign reality, and make it work.

Bullies

When I was in third grade, the kid who sat next to me didn't like something I said to him. As I recall, what I objected to was the fact that he had taken something out of my pencil case and failed to return it. So when we were filing back into our classroom, and while our teacher wasn't looking, he twisted my arm behind my back, wrenching my hand and breaking two fingers. I remember going to the hospital, laying my swollen hand flat on the x-ray table, the silver splints with their soft blue foam lining, and the sling I had to wear on my arm for two weeks. Kids being kids, sure. It happens all the time when you're eight.

But not when you're thirty-eight. Or at least, you'd hope. But over the course of the past two days, that very same kid who twisted my arm behind my back is trying to do the same thing, all because again, he doesn't like something I said. Only this time, it's online.

Last night I was subjected to four hours of barely literate, intimidating emails and wall posts on my Facebook page. All because a group of friends dared to call out a bully in their midst. And in the process, raise questions about the nature of the reunion that clearly were not welcome.

It got so bad that I had to cut off the conversation, as it had turned disrepectful, abusive, and more than a little threatening.

Clearly it doesn't matter what kind of education you get: a bully makes their intentions known with threats and demands, failing to engage in civil discourse and failing to recognize the fact that people have a right to their opinions and questions.

This all started because of the reunion controversy, which sadly has turned into a replay of high school. Instead of one united class, it's been cut in two. Us versus them. People are being forced to pick sides. Fights are breaking out, hearts once healed are broken, friendships once renewed are now splintered again. And blame is getting misplaced, everywhere you look.

While I am so proud of so many of my classmates for taking a stand, for calling out the bullies who have brought so much destruction and pain to this process, what I can't get over is that even twenty years later, how limited and immature these bullies have turned out to be. How angry they are that the people they once abused are now standing up for themselves. How they don't realize that no one really cares who has succeeded and who has failed, who is poor and who is rich, who realized their original dreams and who found other paths. The only real things anyone should care about are life and health and blessing. Nothing else matters.

But for some people, that same old role - that of the bully - is prevailing. For them, this reunion was a chance to show that even though their teachers had no faith in them, even though they shat on the assignments and never did the homework, that their greatest fulfillment was found in pushing people around, humiliating them and subjecting them to ridiculous cruelty, that they themselves are now successful. That they've outmaneuvered the kids who made them feel stupid.

However: they are stupid.

What they're seeing now is that the people they pushed around aren't willing to take it. That they are now able to stand up for themselves, usurping the bullies' power and status.

Nowadays, that sort of behavior isn't tolerated in schools. I don't care that we weren't safe then, from having fingers, hearts, spirits broken. It isn't going to happen now. Just like the fact that there are codes of law that protect adults, there are codes of conduct that protect children, higher standards, and above all a zero-tolerance policy for cruelty and abuse. Which is a good thing. The sooner kids can be broken of those tendencies, the better.

Because clearly, they don't go away.

Reunion Update

I've been in touch with Jim S. today and I do think at some level he is sorry for the level of negativity he has unleashed on the reunion. I am still not planning to attend. But he has asked me to post an "apology" (and I use that term liberally) that he wrote early this morning to the original group of people Bill forwarded the email to. In the interest of fairness, I am doing so.

The "second email" that Jim mentions, for the record, was sent half an hour later and bascially was an attempt to retract the first. The damage, at this point, had been done. If it was meant to be a joke, and that is giving HUGE benefit of the doubt, it wasn't funny. I am also not sure how Bill was expected to know "it was a joke" since he literally hasn't spoken to Jim in 10 years.

I personally do not buy the joke scenario. I don't think he is fooling anyone and it's an insult to our intelligence to suggest otherwise.

I offered Jim the opportunity if he wanted to write another apology to the class and said I would be happy to post his note to my Facebook page and my blog, but this seems to be as far as he was willing to go.

I am not going to comment further; in fact I hope this is my last comment on the matter. We're all smart people: judge for yourself.
__________________________________________________________

I received your email this morning. Let me begin by simply saying the
original e-mail I sent Bill has been taken way way out of context. I
was completely kidding! To ensure Bill knew that I was kidding I
subsequently sent another e-mail right after the first indicating as
such. I further mentioned to Bill how I was looking forward to seeing
him and even addressed some of his very valid concerns.

I don't know why Bill would choose to send only the first e-mail knowing I
was kidding. I would never NEVER intentionally offend Bill or anyone
else like that. I am truly sorry for the miscommunication. Obviously,
my sense of humor is different than yours and that many others perhaps.
That's OK as it's what, in part, makes us all different. And if I
offended anyone with my sense of humor (or lack thereof) I am very
sorry. I'm not sure if you came to the 10th but we had an awesome time.
All we are trying to do is much of the same as 10 years ago. Please, if
I upset you or anyone else, accept my apologies. Again, I had no
intention to do so and now feel terrible about the whole matter.

Disgusting

Jewish tradition dictates that one does not keep silent in the face of an injustice. Therefore, I am posting this email exchange (below) because I want people to see how one of the organizers of my 20th high school reunion has responded to constructive criticism with a disgusting and vitriolic email to a fellow classmate.

Our class website message board has been used to promote hateful comments about classmates, including racial slurs, anti-gay language, and believe it or not, jokes about gang-raping a classmate's mother.

Additionally, our reunion has been costed at $110 per person - not a huge amount but perhaps a hardship for many who are going through difficult economic times right now - who maybe don't feel comfortable swinging $110 (or $220 a couple for that matter).

Our HS held a dinner last week at the same location as the reunion for $35 per person. And no, there's no gift to the school being organized out of that amount.

When my friend Bill offered some ideas about the reunion, he received this response from the lead organizer.

All I have to say about this is: Once a bully, always a bully. I know that I'm not going to reward this behavior by attending, since for me, this has really taken away the good spirit that should surround a class get-together. I'm outraged and disgusted at this hate speech, pure and simple.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: Re: Hey there/20th reunion...
Date: Sun, 12 Oct 2008 10:18:33 -0400
From: xxxxxx@xxxx.com
To: bill@XXXX.com

Bill,
I have a few suggestions of my own for you:
1. Why don't you step up and take the reigns for the 25th. You'd undoubtedly do better than Vern and me.

2. Come out of the cave you live in. More than 75% of the class is aware of the site and the reunion. A higher rate than most reunions.

3. If you can't afford $110 perhaps you need to find a better job.

4. STAY THE FUCK HOME. How's that for offensive?
I was torn between that and GO FUCK YOURSELF.

Thanks for listening to my suggestions Bill.

Regards,
Jim

-----Original Message-----
From: WILLIAM EDELSTEIN
Sent: Sat Oct 11 10:58:33 2008
Subject: Hey there/20th reunion...

Dear Jim and Chris,

I hope this email finds you well.

Thank you for all of the work that you have put into the 20th reunion. I know from my own planning of events that it is not an easy endeavor to engage people and coordinate all of the details. It is really wonderful that you put together that website and has helped us all begin to reconnect. I am hopeful I can attend but it isn't the greatest weekend for me.

I apologize for sounding like a Monday morning quarterback but I am only learning of this all and I had a couple of suggestions that I hope you will be receptive to hearing. I have only recently moved back to NYC after being out west for nearly seven years.

I think that you might want to reconsider how elaborate this event is going to be given the current economic climate. We are scaling back all of our events at work this fall due to everything going on. It may help to bring more people to the event if you just kept it more simple thereby lowering the cost. $110 is pretty high -- especially for couples -- perhaps lowering the cost to $80 per person (and refunding those people who already paid) might be a consideration.

I also have to be honest -- I know that the website message board has really been a forum for people to just let loose and reconnect but many of the comments are offensive. People, including me, have looked at that board and have been offended which doesn't bode well for garnering interest in this reunion. I do not feel comfortable attending a reunion with what has been referred to and is still up on that board...and I'm not the only one.

In any case, take my suggestions as you will -- I mean no disrespect. I found you both to be really welcoming at the last reunion...and I wish you only the best.

Best regards,
Bill

______________________________________________________

Comments are welcome.

Biblical Prohibition of the Day

From the TMI department....there just might be something about that ancient religious prohibition against women cooking whilst, well, incapacitated by the monthly visitor.

Last night, I got home from my Board of Trustees meeting, all exhausted and pissy and starving. So I put some leftovers in the toaster oven and boiled up some frozen tortellini in some soup. Anyway, as it hit the boiling point, I did my usual, turn off the heat and cover. Only I forgot to turn off the heat. So my lovely tortellini soup ended up something like this:



(This was actually someone's pear and wine reduction that she left on the stove for three hours. Believe it or not, the tortellini looked pretty damn close to this. Just less pink.)

And as if that wasn't bad enough, apparently my leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory (half a chicken sandwich) were, unbeknownst to me, wrapped in plastic. My toaster oven? Doesn't like plastic so much. I'll spare you the photo.

For some reason, the Visitor tends to make me spazzy. Clumsy, moody, prone to accidents in the kitchen and outside. But this was the worst so far. I don't think my saucepan is going to survive this. It's sitting in my sink and as of this morning, the burn marks weren't going anywhere. And the smell is even worse. Like someone set a recycling bin on fire.

Moral of the story: I am so doing take-out for the rest of the week.

New Year's Erev

For those of my friends who are equinoctically inclined, I wish you a peaceful, sweet and joyful equinox. Wouldn't it be a lovely thing if the earth and the universe, and light and darkness could always achieve such perfect balance?

But speaking of light and darkness, that time of year approaches again, all sneaky and stealthlike and freaking out my friends in the clergy and even people like me, without official clerical responsibilities but a whole hell of a lot of cantorial soloist duties. As Tom Robbins once described it, the moon is currently rising like a bloated Elvis about to tip over from a surfeit of amphetamines and deep fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. That can only mean one thing: Rosh HaShanah is soon. Very soon. Some would almost say: too soon.

My dear friend and teacher Sandy says that no matter when they arrive, the Jewish holidays always take us by surprise. Even though I put in for my days off more than six months out, I'm always shocked when I look at the calendar and realize how much I have to do before I get out of here so I can leave with a clean slate, with the certainty that it'll be handled while I'm gone. And that hopefully, no one will call me from the office. But I do agree with Sandy: they're either too early (panic) or too late (total delusional oblivion, followed by panic) but never do they arrive like Goldilocks, at a time that's just right.

I spent a good two hours last week with Sandy, kibbitzing over turkey and pastrami sandwiches and going through the four services I will assist her with - erev Rosh HaShanah, Day 1, erev Yom Kippur and the Day Itself. She is an amazing and inspiring leader, one who knows her congregation and their needs. I'm always knocked out watching her, hoping that someday I can be as good at this job as she is. And I'm always touched, as we go through the melodies and responsive readings and liturgical cues, that she shares many of her memories of growing up in a liberal congregation: her family, the music, the recipes, the celebrations. Because I don't have those memories, it's always a learning experience for me. Generally, I don't know what happens in families on these holidays. Christmas and Easter I can help with, but the high holidays, not so much.

This is a year of transition for me - again. It seems like that's been the theme of the past several years. There has always been a major change on the horizon, whether it was going from mourner to a participant in life again, from sick to sicker and then, finally, to becoming healthier, from the Satanic boss in the not for profit dream job to the unexpected decency and humanity of my corporate colleagues. Even this year, there is still transition: from fighting against the limitations of illness to actually trying to do something about them.

I don't actually love New Year's. Not in the religious sense nor in the secular. The secular new year makes me nuts - I hate the false sense of celebrations, the ridiculous enforced sense of expectations, the stupidity of resolutions. The religious New Year is a little easier to swallow: at least no one is getting crap-sloppy drunk and acting like an ass for Dick Clark's rockin' cameras. Any new year freaks me out a bit, but I'm not as opposed to the reflection and introspection of the religious New Year, even though the notion of celebrating it without a family does make me feel a little alienated and excluded. But what can you do? Spend as much time as you can in your congregational community, seek out others who go it alone, and make the best of what you can. At least, that's the plan right now.

This past Shabbat my rabbi talked about how the New Year, how about bringing one's "first fruits" as an offering, wasn't merely about considering the past and how to make a better future, but also about acknowledging the importance of now. Not in a guilty or regretful way, but accepting where you are, and the beauty and sanctity you offer to the world on a daily basis.

That's my New Year's resolution for 5769. To hopefully offer beauty and sanctity every day - whether it's through teaching or working on a client project that may seem worthless on the surface, but might end up really helping someone. And also to accept that good change sometimes makes for difficult moments: like the fact that my 34 pound weight loss so adversely caused the steroid panic of last week (lower doses from now on, says my doctor). And vice versa: sometimes the worst change in the world can bring about good. Like if I can't get to school for whatever reason: economic, health insurance, crap Hebrew skills, whatever - if I don't go, it will be for a good reason. And it doesn't mean I can't do good without the title.

Like so many people looking inward for these last ten days, I'm trying to make a good end and a better beginning. Of course, as the joke goes, the best way to make the Holy One laugh is to tell Her your plans. Then again, I have wonderful, joyful, happy faith in my loony, imperfect, Law & Order-watching, moody diva beatlefan novelist, methotrexate-injecting, treif-consuming G-d. After all, it's all about being created b'tzelem Elohim, and if so, She's struggling to get better, too.

Don't need a sword to cut through flowers...

I quit taking the steroids last night because believe it or not, I came to the conclusion that the physical pain was easier to deal with than the panic attacks. I did what I could: last night after blogging I took half an Ambien and ended up getting a decent night's sleep. At work today I felt another panic attack coming on, so I took half a xanax and warded it off. I hate that I'm fighting the side effects of one pill with several others, but as the late John Lennon wisely sang, whatever gets you through the night, it's alright.

Last week my therapist told me I should try to do some good things for myself, so I spent a whopping $146 today on two new dresses and two pairs of shoes to wear to services on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. True, I am focusing on exactly the wrong elements of Elul; I should be looking inward and repenting and reflecting, but for some odd reason I am looking outward at my appearance and trying to be a little more aware of bringing what beauty I have to the surface by dressing better, wearing makeup again, feeling more confident, making the most of what I have because it beats dwelling on the pain and the yuck and the sad.

Besides, on a practical level, I can't wear slacks for my cantorial soloist gig, and I do want to look somewhat pretty on the days of awe, even though I know I can't hold a candle to most of the women in my congregation. So I did some online shopping today and bought a chocolate-brown wrap dress (which I would love to pair with some high leather boots, but I'm thinking that's pretty much a bad scene for Yom Kippur morning) and a little black A-line dress with satin accents on the sleeves and hem. If it looks OK, I'll wear it for Kol Nidre. If it looks like crap, it goes right back to the fat chick store.

So today was a better day for a number of reasons: a decision to blow off a project until Monday (it'll keep), the retail therapy, a beautiful service this evening at temple...I do feel better, but I'm not there yet. I feel the pain creeping back in because the medicine is transitioning out, but I'll cross that bridge when I have to. In the meantime, I think sleep would help more than anything.

Shabbat shalom.

Flare

It felt like a miracle this morning when I woke up: I could walk. This was not the case yesterday. When my clock radio went off, the pain was not only still there, it had intensified overnight, so that when my left foot hit the floor it felt like I'd been doing 85 MPH, Fred Flintstone-style, cross country. As if someone had dipped a fine gauge wire in gasoline, threaded it through my left leg, up to my lower back, and then set it on fire.

This is RA, folks. Unpredictable and excruciating. Most days, I'm not like this. But on the days I am, I have no idea how I'm going to get through it. I'm cranky, snappish, in a bad mood, because I can't even figure out how to walk the twenty steps from my office to the coffee machine or the manage two minute walk to my car from my apartment or get up the steps in my building -- I can't figure out how I'm going to get through the day without being in pain every single minute, pretty much unable to focus on anything else.

I limp from my apartment door to the elevator, ease myself down the steps one by one, holding on to the wall and the rails. I rest on the way to my car. When things get as bad as they were yesterday, I use the silver crutches that I keep in my bedroom closet. They help a lot. But when I'm like this, I can't get my own coffee. Or water. Or lunch. If I want to go to the ladies' room, I have to plan accordingly - devise the trip when hopefully no one will see me limping or using crutches, so I don't have to answer the questions, "What did you do to yourself? Are you OK?" or worse, have my colleagues look at me as if they know I'm not good enough or strong enough to be doing my job, that I'm unreliable, weak, and can't be trusted to handle my clients or projects.

Accordingly, I started the emergency Medrol pack. This is the only thing that helps me. Its side effects are legion. It drives blood sugar through the roof, and in my Type 2 diabetic current situation, I've got all the symptoms back - dry mouth, light-headedness, and the overwhelming need to consume, let's see: I'm on my fourth liter of water right now. The steroids also contribute to severe panic attacks like the one I had this morning, and the one I am trying to stave off right now by blogging, because hell knows, I won't be sleeping anytime soon. I can choose anything I'm anxious about: love, money, the novel I've written, Selichot, the friend I haven't seen in four weeks, my old job, the friend who got laid off this week (thanks, Lehman), my current job, the client who's pissing me off, the novel I haven't written, the friend I haven't seen in ten years, the focus group I have to pull out of my butt by tomorrow at 3PM, my retirement account, the High Holidays, the students I taught tonight who are struggling with family and religious and identity issues, the novel I want to write, the El Maleh Rachamim melody I have to learn by Yom Kippur - and the steroids help me to blow it up into another hurricane system sweeping the confines of my brain. And like Texas, New Orleans, etc., there's nothing I can do. Because the land itself cannot evacuate.

I know I'm sounding a little insane right now. That's okay: I'm feeling a little insane right now. So worried and yet, on Metro North earlier this evening, I know there are people with more worries than me. I know there are so many people struggling this week: afraid, with families, worried that it's all going to blow up in their faces, that their houses made of (credit) cards will fall. My company booked $156K of business this week: I do not have to worry like other people. My job is secure - more secure than it ever was in the Jewish world. I do good work and I try to do good works when I can. But I am so scared right now, scared that this pain situation is going to be forever and the only cure is driving me into this state of anxiety that's almost worse than being unable to function physically. What is the better trade-off?

Tonight as I was waiting for the train at Larchmont I was watching the headlights of the train move forward down the track - and almost so afraid to even admit this - I felt that I could understand the compulsion to jump on to the tracks. I would never do it, but I could understand the seduction of that moment, to be free of the worry and the anxiety, to be free of all this medication and these side effects, of these diseases and their dark roads forward. The endless hours of having to deal with meaningless tasks, the gym and the office and the constant wishing I was doing something that was life-affirming, that was helping someone, helping the world be better, instead of just being some stupid rat on a treadmill. But I stepped back from the yellow line, because if nothing else, Torah demands that I choose life. And being given the gift, the miracle of being able to walk this morning, was not meant for me to walk in that unspeakable direction.

In three weeks I have to chant my favorite words from the Torah...This mitzvah that I command you this day is not too distant, nor too difficult; it is not in the heavens nor across the seas, so that someone should bring it back to you so you can do it - no, it is very near to you, in your heart and in your mouth, and you can do it.

I know I can chant it. I just hope I can mean it.

Not Fade Away

Many people far more articulate than I am have offered their reflections today, ranging from the world stage to the deeply personal, but as a witness to the events that took place seven years ago, I feel somewhat compelled to offer my own. It's an odd balance: it's a day when I appreciate being just another New Yorker who was downtown that morning, but it's also still true that the memory of that morning still exists in painful, singular detail; as universal and allegedly unifying as the day remains, it's also true everyone has their own experience of it. It's exactly the way one of my friends put it: the memory divides people into us and them - those who watched it go down in the safety of their homes and offices, and those of us who were right there, who had the story even before the networks did.

Like most people who were downtown that morning, I can recall, minute by minute, every step, every breath, every expression of disbelief: even the long, painfully endured vision of standing in my old conference room during those few minutes between the first plane and the second, when we still thought it was just a terrible accident. I was alone, staring out the window, my shock-addled brain bouncing from thought to thought: How will they ever fix the damage? There are people who are dying, right now, before my eyes. I am dreaming this. This isn't really happening.

I cried most of the way to work today, safe, in my basically armored vehicle, alone with my radio and my thoughts, alone with Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising" and the moments of silence. My thoughts moved from that morning in the conference room to the moments of now: Abby lighting the yahrzeit candle in the Museum lobby, Audrey with her new baby, Connor in his 3rd grade classroom, Ellen still asleep in California. I wondered if there were any other people crying in their cars. I wondered if there were people crying on the subway and Metro North.

I no longer take the subway to work, no longer trace my steps downtown each morning with a sense of fear and dread, that today will be the day, that this train will be the one, that the guardsman standing in front of the florist in Grand Central can't really help if something goes wrong; that his job will be recovery, not rescue.

But there wasn't really any safety from today's sadness. This year it is hitting much harder for some reason that I can't quite figure out, nor do I have the energy to try. Even in Westchester, a place I consider inhabited mostly by "them" (those who watched it on TV), everywhere I've been today, I've heard and overheard conversations I didn't expect to hear: a woman's voice drifts out of her open car door, saying: "They didn't know I was alive. I tried and tried calling, but all the cell phones were down." Two colleagues smoking in front of our building's doors: "It wasn't like Mother Nature got angry. It wasn't an act of G-d." "3,000 people dead and we're no safer now than we were that morning. Probably less safe now, actually. What does it all mean? What was it all for?"

I thought about having a pumpernickel bagel for breakfast this morning. I happened to stop at Zaro's in Grand Central that morning for one, but they were all out. In a typical entitled New Yorker snit, I bitched out the girl behind the counter before settling for onion. A few weeks later, afflicted with the fever of kindness that had descended upon the city when I returned to work, I apologized. She looked at me like I had three heads. The onion one was still in its wax-paper wrapper on my desk when I got back to my office, covered in a fine layer of buttery grease and grayish dust.

I'm used to the skyline now. When I came back from Delaware this weekend I didn't feel the sadness and shock of not seeing the towers, all through college my first sign of home, the signal that I had only about 45 minutes to go before pulling in my driveway. For all the years of college and grad school they were the sign that I had escaped - from tough classes, from idiot boyfriends, from the fear that nothing was going the way it was supposed to; the skyline's message was that it didn't matter - I would be home soon, and someone would take care of me. But coming back this weekend, I realized that none of that is true anymore, so I just took the exit for the bridge and kept going.

And yet, for all of the painful memories of that morning, when I close my eyes I can still remember that summer Saturday in 1976, the ride into the city with the bicentennial star everywhere, even on the fire hydrants, and my dad's hand in mine as we stepped off the elevator and made our way through the glass doors to the rooftop, snaked with cables and wires and equipment, a place where most people weren't allowed to go, but where we had special access.

It was before I had ever been on an airplane, before I learned how to be afraid of heights. Together we walked the perimeter of the rooftop and looked all around, at the bridges strung across the East River, at the flat, industrial plain of New Jersey across the Hudson, at the companion rooftop of the south tower looming comfortingly close by.

My dad had just solved his first big case in the towers and I remember how the other officers greeted him like a hero. But more than that, I remember the city that he showed me that afternoon, as we looked from the top of the north tower and he pointed out landmarks and buildings and streets as if they were gifts he was giving to me, as if it was a kingdom that I would inherit, a place that would belong to me the way it belonged to him, someday.

The Elevatrix Files

Upon my return from Delaware (where I had a really, really good time this weekend gallivanting around with my dear friends, none of whom look a day older than they did senior year), I arrived home to find that the elevator shaft in my building had flooded, the car itself was stuck in the basement (full of water, according to reports), so it wasn't merely the Delaware Valley that Hanna had her way with. For those of us who prefer to dwell on upper floors, it's been a bit of a tough week. Occasionally, a big rainstorm will knock out stuff in my apartment building, but four days later, we're still without an elevator, I've been schlepping up and down six flights of stairs a couple of times a day and my RA isn't liking it. Not one little bit.

My trusty handyman kindly informed me this morning that they expected it to be repaired sometime today - in fact he PROMISED me that we'd have a working elevator by the time I got home tonight. Not that I mind; I mean, sure, it's good exercise, and heaven knows I could use it. But when all is said and done I would really prefer not to have to do stairs. I don't hate stairs per se, but given my tendency to klutz myself on a consistent basis, and the fact that my flaring knees hate, HATE going downstairs (surprisingly, upstairs is a breeze in comparison), it's hard to remind myself that it's not laziness - it's actual pain that puts me in this position. Then again, it's not as bad as it could be - I am, in spite of all this RA crap, young and strong, and not a dog owner - so it's not as bad for me as it is for a lot of people in my building. I keep seeing friends and neighbors huffing up and down the stairs, all annoyed about the elevator, while their dogs (Coco and Biscuit and Callie) look as happy as anything. As much as I would love a happy little puppy in my life, it's a good thing I don't have one this week, since I would be totally screwed. And not in a good way.

Speaking of which, I have elected to forgo my dose of methotrexate this week, since I want to get back on a Monday schedule and last week's Wednesday shot played havoc with it. So I'm not nauseated so much this week, but for some reason, just tired as all hell. I've been going to bed at 9PM, sleeping straight through till 7AM. Again, not a bad thing - just unusual. Especially for this time of year, when I tend to feel more energized than normal.

I think a lot of the fatigue is more about this week than anything else. Seven years ago, that weekend in September of 2001, I also came home from a weekend in Delaware, after visiting the Brandywine Arts Festival (which was rained out this past weekend) and I remember very clearly being there, coming home and really trying to make sense of the direction my life was taking at the time. I actually had a doctor's appointment on the night of Monday the 10th, and I remember telling my doctor that I was really stressed out, and anxious, and wasn't feeling like I was handling things well, because I didn't have a whole lot to be stressed about.

Of course, that all changed the next morning.

But more on that tomorrow.

In the meantime, hopefully things will be looking up (or at least going up) when I get home tonight.

Major Deegan FAIL

Yeah, it's spaz week in Andi-land. Yesterday, I caught my shoe heel in the hem of my trousers and succeeded in launching myself down a flight of steps, ultimately landing in an Olympic-style ass-plant at the bottom. In front of my boss. Fortunately, I only sustained a slight injury to my left knee. Oh, and my dignity.

Then today, on the way back from a client meeting, my car got rear-ended on the Major Deegan, and not in a good way. Fortunately, my Infiniti is a big heavy car with a big heavy bumper, so it only ended up with a couple of scratches. But it wasn't a jolt that my already injured, rheumatically-challenged body really needed. I just hope I can get out of bed tomorrow.

Thankfully, I am on my way south tonight, to Delaware, ostensibly to attend the Brandywine Arts Festival but really to hang out with my college buddies / sorority sisters / partners in crime, etc. I'm leaving tonight so as to not have any unfortunate encounters with Hanna; given my mojo this week, it seems like a good idea to avoid as much trouble as possible.

Back to posting on Monday. Shabbat shalom, y'all.

Methotrexate, mon amour

I guess the only good thing about having survived bad relationships is that ultimately, it teaches you how to deal with taking medication, especially when it's a medication that's almost as bad as the illness itself. I've been in too many relationships like that, heaven knows, where living with love and its consequences is almost as difficult as feeling like you're all alone.

And so it is with methotrexate, the weekly wonder shot, the yellow syringe of doom, the drug my insurance company won't pay for me to self-inject, which has enabled me to get to know every one of the doctors in my medical group, many of whom have now experienced the joy of asking me to expose my tushy to the slings and arrows of rheumatoid fortune.

I'm rhapsodizing a bit because today is bad. Labor Day, and yesterday's doctor's appointment, afforded me a little delay this week. Obviously couldn't get the shot on a holiday, and my insurance company in their infinite wisdom, won't allow me to see two doctors in one day. So at 7:45 this morning, I presented butt to the covering physician (my regularly scheduled doc is on vacation) and let the Rear Admiral do the honors. I was fine for about two hours, and then it hit. Stomach upset, throwing up, fatigue, the dizzies...it's just not a good day.

That's a reason why this is sort of like being in a lousy relationship. You hate it, you wish you could find another option, but ultimately, when it's not being a total pain in the ass, it makes you feel a little bit better about your existence. It even, on occasion, succeeds in taking some of the pain away.

And then just when you think you're feeling better, and that maybe you can live with things the way they are, you find yourself head down in the toilet again.

Ugh. I'm off to get a diet cream soda out of the fridge, the best sugar-free low carb cure for nausea that I know of. Any other remedies you can recommend, please let me know.

Freestyle

Unfortunately, it wasn't all good news at the diabetes doctor today. Today was our first consultation - she's wonderful. Sweet, kind, smart, and clearly looking at all the factors - genetic, medication, and lifestyle. She acknowledged right away the issues at hand: being double-whammied genetically from both sides of the family is a huge thing to fight right out of the gate. The good news is that I've pretty much got the lifestyle piece down: I'm down another seven pounds since my last doctor's appointment, and once I really start exercising, I'll have made most of the changes I need to make. Losing sugar and switching to mostly whole grains has already made a big difference.

The bad news is that my RA medication is likely playing a major role in this whole nonsense: the steroids, apparently, do more than just lessen inflammation and make me feel better. They also send my sugar values through the roof. For example: I'm on a steroid pack at the moment, and my blood sugar was 253 fasting. Not a good number.

So I got a new toy as a result - the lovely Freestyle Lite test meter (pictured above), which I am supposed to use faithfully once a day (just once - thank heavens) to see where my blood sugar is at. I also got a new medicine which is not only supposed to help lower it, it also helps with weight loss. (Me: "Can I start it now? Do you have any here?") The nurse trained me on how to test, and it's not too bad - it doesn't hurt or anything, but I am really disappointed that I have to take all these steps to make sure it's under control. Apparently, with the three strikes of genetics, RA meds and not-quite-being-svelte yet, I've got some work to do. And it will be safer and healthier work if I am aware of what's going on sugar-wise.

I have to say I do like the name Freestyle. Kind of a Michael Phelps-ian, Californian eclectic sound to it. I figured I'd end up with the Aviva, given that it's my name, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. I mean, how closely does one need to identify with their testing supplies? Ah, marketing.

Be Sure to Wear a Flower in Your Hair, or Ten Things I Learned on My Summer Vacation

Shalom, hello, boom-shan-ka (young ones fans will get that reference) - I'm back from vacation and probably more relaxed than I've been for the past fifteen, twenty years. This is, of course, thanks to my dear friend Ellen, best buddy since 1978 and the person to whom I owe surviving the years between eight and sixteen relatively unscathed.

Nothern California, specifically Marin County, where we were headquartered, is beautiful - surrounded by mountains and close to the ocean and everything that someone who desperately needed to reconnect with nature could have wanted. So what did we do on our summer vacation? Hung out, watched The Young Ones, listened to the Beatles, looked for shells on a pretty beach by the Pacific Ocean, drank sugar-free lattes, cooked lots of yummy vegetarian dishes, and went to the place I've been waiting to see for thirty-eight years: the most famous streetcorner in the world:



Of course, I'd been to SF before, but my parents (with whom I traveled both times) didn't really feel like indulging my late 20th century hippie sensibility, so we skipped the Haight last time. But we didn't skip it this time, and it was great. Touristy, sure, and certainly there isn't much left over from the summer of love. But the vibe was there, and so was the contact high, for sure.

The main thing, however, is knowing that I was in pretty desperate need of a perspective change, it actually happened. I wasn't expecting it, but luckily, just being in a different place, with a much more mellow attitude and away from all of the limits and barriers and stupid stuff that shrinks your world down to the size of your desk and your dashboard and your cell phone - I was really able to forget about much of the stupidity going on at home, and feel less stressed about the need to change everything right this second.

So without further ado, here are the ten things I learned on my summer vacation. As a tribute to my friendship with Ellen, titles, in all cases, are taken from Beatles songs:

10. I was alone, I took a ride, I didn't know what I would find there: But what I did find was that first and foremost, I am wound WAY too tight. (Ellen: "You're just realizing this?") But it's true. Whether this has been caused by the crapalicious events of the past three years just isn't relevant. What I found out I need is to relax, to laugh, to remember who I am, to be happy - by whatever means necessary.

9. Well, well, well, you're feeling fine: My doctors are not always right. Laying awake one night, very late, after watching Vyv and Neil battle it out on University Challenge, I realized how long it had been since I'd really laughed, really felt like things were going to be OK. And that perhaps the RA and the diabetes and all the other crap I've been dealing with were just symptoms of a broken heart. Not that it would be surprising - there's been a lot of heartbreak in the past few years. But I don't have to keep testing the cracks to see if it's still broken - maybe it's time to let it heal.

8. And I'm not what I appear to be: My doctors are not always wrong. I've got more to deal with than the average bear, and even if the root cause of it all is a broken heart, the symptoms of the other stuff are still there and need to be dealt with in a healthy and constructive way. For the past few years I've been using a lot of energy to cover over when I'm not feeling well, and doing a lot of pretending that I'm not in pain a good deal of the time. It takes more energy and strength than I realized to pretend. Maybe I'd feel stronger if I didn't spend so much time lying about it - who's it really helping, anyway?

7. There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed: Bowling alleys may come and go (and there aren't any in Marin County, just like there aren't any in Eastchester anymore) but some friendships are forever. Long, long ago, Ellen and I were publishing hand-drawn copies of the Eastchester Times - our newspaper chronicling the annals of guido culture in our hometown - including the destruction of guido hangout Waverly Lanes, replaced with a CVS in 1985. Though so much stuff is lost in time, there is nothing like a friend who can help you make sense of the past, who shares memories of people and things that aren't here anymore. I only realized a few short weeks ago that carrying around grief keeps people and things alive, but now I know friends do too. And laughter is much lighter.

6. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream: Ideas and activities once indulged in as a teenager are still good for a heck of a laugh now. Thanks, George.

5. No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low: I never saw more beautiful trees than in CA, especially Ellen's most gorgeous Tree of Life pendant - how wonderful is it to have friends with talent? But while I was out there I was kind of able to renew my sense that in spite of recent events, my call to Judaism is just fine. In my head as I was traveling I was comparing NY trees to CA trees and then realized it doesn't matter - people are going to disagree that their tree is the one, but as a leader I only have to remember one thing; it is a tree of life to those who hold it fast and all who cling to it find happiness. Its ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace.

4. Hey, you've got to hide your love away: Really wasn't such good advice.

3. Keeping an eye on the world going by my window: After seven years (almost to the day) of being very fearful, and even though I'm not sure of being really safe even with taking off shoes in the security line, I'm happy to report that I'm no longer afraid to fly.

2. Show me that I'm everywhere and get me home for tea: A couple of weeks ago, I was at the Stage Deli in NYC, gazing across the street at a dive bar called the Irish Pub. Why? Because eleven years ago, on that very corner, I was laughing with someone I loved at the time. And walking along the streets of the Haight, I hoped that somehow, I'd leave a happy memory there that I would be able to come back and visit someday. I hope that somehow it works out, and that maybe even no matter where you are, somewhere in time, you're still there.



1. You can learn how to be you in time; it's easy - all you need is love: (Ellen: "You knew that already.") Yes, I do know this already, but as I'm sure many people would agree, it's easy to forget. But maybe now it will be easier to be grateful for the love and laughter already in my life, and hopefully having rediscovered it on the west coast, I can hold on to it here, back east.

Having come back home, I'm hoping to hold on to some of these lessons. What struck me the most about the trip, and especially about the photos we took, is how happy and healthy I look - for the first time in years. I don't think that's something that NY can take away (at least I hope not) but I think the narrowness of life, how easily one can let it shrink down to emails and daily demands and expectations, can quickly erode inner peace.

But as the song says: the willow turns his back on inclement weather. And if he can do it, we can do it...with a little luck.