I was again invited to experience another nanny's hugely personal life moment this weekend when I saw her daughter say ¡adiós! to childhood and ¡hola! to womanhood at her Quinceañera. This was not nearly as uncomfortable or confusing as the baby shower and my daily park life; partly because it wasn't a very intimate venue, (over 400 people!) and also partly because I brought my male roommate, Alex, as a companion/witness.
I thought I was going to have to be constantly explaining that Alex was not my husband because very young marriage and piercing a newborn's ears are two things my nannies and I have never seen eye to eye on, but in one of many surprises of the evening, no one asked. The second surprise was realizing we were not the whitest people there. That goes to the young man with a platinum blonde, spiked mohawk, checkered tie and vest whom we sought out and sat with all night.
While I was happy to be able to talk to someone besides my girl-crazy roommate who was desperately trying to figure out which pretty, elegantly dressed hispanic girls were 15 and which were age appropriate, I couldn't help but feel territorial. Being the white person who doesn't speak Spanish but is beloved anyway is MY thing.
Of course the language barrier caused some confusion: was the DJ dismissing everyone to make their way through the buffet style dinner line or just close family? Dunno, but we went. Was it an open bar or cash only? Dunno, but we didn't pay. Was there espresso in the frappuccinos being made? Dunno, but I gave one to a kid. But the confusion and silliness of not speaking Spanish is not the topic of this post, my newly developed, misplaced emotional attachment is.
When the Quinceañera girl took the stage to perform a choreographed dance with her “court” (similar to a wedding party) I was hit by a sudden parent-like sense of pride. While my roommate was narrowing down his “babe-pool” by checking which girls had alcoholic drinks in their hands, I was trying to force back tears and suppress the urge to say things like, “She's turned into such a beautiful woman. It seems like only yesterday she was in diapers!” As if I were her grandmother or had known her any amount of time before that night.
This mix of parental pride and nostalgic happiness is a very confusing emotion for someone who has never had children. I thought maybe it was the setting; maybe everyone has this experience at their first Quinceañera. But then I remembered a few recent conversations and realized this feeling has been conquering a lot of my social interactions.
The other day, a mother I sometimes talk to at the park asked me how my writing was going, I brushed her off and chose to focus, for several minutes, on how her son was riding a bike. My writing? My writing? Who cares about my hopes and dreams when your son is RIDING a BIKE. Your 4-year-old is riding a two-wheeler without any help and the kid I nanny regularly trips over the dishwasher door when it's open. I imagined that this woman must be living a life of constantly suppressed glee that her child can ride a bike. I mean how could she not? I was basically living a life of unsuppressed glee and I had little to not investment in his growth.
It's not that weird when my parent-like pride is directed to a 4-year-old because it is cool to see a kid develop new skills and abilities. It is very weird, however, when it is directed to someone my own age. When a man mentioned his daughter goes to law school at Berkley, it would have been normal for me to say, “oh cool” and to move on. It was less normal, but still okay, for me to say, “wow, you must be so proud” but it was not normal at all to follow his humble nod with a stone faced, wide-eyed, stare into his eyes, “No. You must be SO proud.”
Who am I to talk to these parents? I don't have kids. I can't relate or share similar stories. I'm just this over sensitive, childless woman whose intense reactions to common accomplishments make the parents' reactions to their own children seem cold and lacking love. I'm concerned this will only intensify with age and when I have my own kids I'll burst into tears when my 15-year-old ties his shoes.
But should it go in the opposite direction and my parental pride fizzles out before I actually become a parent, I can count on another Quinceañera to get my emotions back. Because I'm 100% sure I'm on that Quinceañera circuit now.
I drafted this post before the tragic elementary school shooting in Connecticut, and now feel that my parent-like pride is less weird and more just a characteristic of a decent human being. I'm less concerned that I'll make parents blush when I tell them their kid is amazing and more concerned that being a parent means living everyday worried that your child is going to die. This is LITERALLY an insane time we live in and regardless of your views on gun control, mental health accessibility, etc, I think we can all agree that something has GOT TO CHANGE. Sorry to end this post on a sad note - not really my style, but yesterday's news hit me much harder than little Ryan riding his two-wheeler did. So to get back to the funniness, re-read this post minus the last 140 words.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Gather Round the Water Cooler
In my line of work, the closest thing I have to co-workers is the group of nannies I see at the park everyday. And while I love seeing their friendly faces, there is one thing holding us back from developing long lasting friendships: the fact that I speak zero Spanish.
This language barrier has never affected me negatively; the ladies love me. They will wave me over to enjoy the impromptu park party they've set up, (this could not be impromptu at all, and instead planned for months and discussed extensively at the park, but I wouldn't know.) They will text me to see if I want to bring the kid I nanny to a fun outing they've organized. And they keep their ears open for the occasional babysitting job because they know I love my extra cerveza money. I thought we were all silently accepting of the reality that our relationship would never extend outside of the park, but then I was invited to one of their baby showers and all confines of our friendship were off!
I've never been to a baby shower in my adult(ish) life; I'm just barely getting used to the fact that people my age are getting pregnant on purpose. I think we can all agree that pregnancy is weird, it makes a lot of unacceptable behavior, acceptable. People do the strangest things around pregnant women; it's like body-talk surges to the forefront and personal privacy and space go out the window. I feared that this would be invited, even required at a baby shower. I had no idea what to expect.
Do I randomly just grab the woman's belly? Do I ask her weird questions about her boobs? Do I get the ins and outs of her upcoming C-Section? Do I harass her about baby names? Are baby showers like those birthday parties where everyone goes out of their way to shift all conversations to be about the birthday girl, only now all conversational shifts to be to her body and its changes and functions? I had a lot of concerns and questions, and clearly no idea what goes on at a baby shower, so deciding to attend one held in Spanish added an extra special stress level.
Would the cliché pregnancy phrases I had stored in my mind translate? When I said 'bun in the oven' would everyone turn to check the kitchen to see if its smoking? Would 'you're glowing,' lead to an anxious run to the bathroom to check the mirror? The only reason I ponder is because, about a year ago, when I explained to one of the nannies that my first day at work was easy, consisting mostly of the mom “showing me the ropes” she responded with a confused, “ropes??” The terror on her face said a dark, unfinished, torture basement full of ropes hanging from the ceiling flashed into her mind. Seeing as that common phrase most certainly did not translate, I had some worries.
As it turned out finding baby or pregnant body things to talk about was not an issue. I forgot that I could slip into my park persona, which is hanging out just outside of the conversations taking place with a non-stop, goofy grin on my face. Call me an optimist, but when you have no idea what's happening the best thing to do is smile. Forever. Regardless of the tone change in the conversation. No wonder these women love me, who wouldn't love the girl who is constantly smiling in such wonder like there is nothing more beautiful and fleeting in this world than the sunshine all around us?
I'm like an exchange student, which is actually pretty great because I never studied abroad in college. This is my real life immersion program. I'd be lying if I said some Spanish hasn't seeped into this English loving (literally studied English in college – a piece of information that got a huge laugh when I shared it with the nannies) brain. I know, zappatos, bano, hombre, agua, comida, puerco, cochino, sombrero. Which, unfortunately, when strung together sound like a mental patient recounting his last human interaction outside of the institution.
“shoes, bathroom, man, water, food, help, pig, nasty, hat”
Despite the language barrier, we shared a few hearty laughs, like when Gladys suggested I wear a sign that says “I don't speak Spanish.” The baby shower as a whole was equal parts wonderful, delicious (homemade tortillas... yum) and awkward. Which is fine with me because that is the balance I strive for in all of my interactions. I truly am grateful for these women, their kindness and it was genuinely very nice to be included in such an important life celebration. I left with a deeper connection to these women, a better understanding of baby showers, and an invitation to a Quinceañera for next weekend.
This language barrier has never affected me negatively; the ladies love me. They will wave me over to enjoy the impromptu park party they've set up, (this could not be impromptu at all, and instead planned for months and discussed extensively at the park, but I wouldn't know.) They will text me to see if I want to bring the kid I nanny to a fun outing they've organized. And they keep their ears open for the occasional babysitting job because they know I love my extra cerveza money. I thought we were all silently accepting of the reality that our relationship would never extend outside of the park, but then I was invited to one of their baby showers and all confines of our friendship were off!
I've never been to a baby shower in my adult(ish) life; I'm just barely getting used to the fact that people my age are getting pregnant on purpose. I think we can all agree that pregnancy is weird, it makes a lot of unacceptable behavior, acceptable. People do the strangest things around pregnant women; it's like body-talk surges to the forefront and personal privacy and space go out the window. I feared that this would be invited, even required at a baby shower. I had no idea what to expect.
Do I randomly just grab the woman's belly? Do I ask her weird questions about her boobs? Do I get the ins and outs of her upcoming C-Section? Do I harass her about baby names? Are baby showers like those birthday parties where everyone goes out of their way to shift all conversations to be about the birthday girl, only now all conversational shifts to be to her body and its changes and functions? I had a lot of concerns and questions, and clearly no idea what goes on at a baby shower, so deciding to attend one held in Spanish added an extra special stress level.
Would the cliché pregnancy phrases I had stored in my mind translate? When I said 'bun in the oven' would everyone turn to check the kitchen to see if its smoking? Would 'you're glowing,' lead to an anxious run to the bathroom to check the mirror? The only reason I ponder is because, about a year ago, when I explained to one of the nannies that my first day at work was easy, consisting mostly of the mom “showing me the ropes” she responded with a confused, “ropes??” The terror on her face said a dark, unfinished, torture basement full of ropes hanging from the ceiling flashed into her mind. Seeing as that common phrase most certainly did not translate, I had some worries.
As it turned out finding baby or pregnant body things to talk about was not an issue. I forgot that I could slip into my park persona, which is hanging out just outside of the conversations taking place with a non-stop, goofy grin on my face. Call me an optimist, but when you have no idea what's happening the best thing to do is smile. Forever. Regardless of the tone change in the conversation. No wonder these women love me, who wouldn't love the girl who is constantly smiling in such wonder like there is nothing more beautiful and fleeting in this world than the sunshine all around us?
I'm like an exchange student, which is actually pretty great because I never studied abroad in college. This is my real life immersion program. I'd be lying if I said some Spanish hasn't seeped into this English loving (literally studied English in college – a piece of information that got a huge laugh when I shared it with the nannies) brain. I know, zappatos, bano, hombre, agua, comida, puerco, cochino, sombrero. Which, unfortunately, when strung together sound like a mental patient recounting his last human interaction outside of the institution.
“shoes, bathroom, man, water, food, help, pig, nasty, hat”
Despite the language barrier, we shared a few hearty laughs, like when Gladys suggested I wear a sign that says “I don't speak Spanish.” The baby shower as a whole was equal parts wonderful, delicious (homemade tortillas... yum) and awkward. Which is fine with me because that is the balance I strive for in all of my interactions. I truly am grateful for these women, their kindness and it was genuinely very nice to be included in such an important life celebration. I left with a deeper connection to these women, a better understanding of baby showers, and an invitation to a Quinceañera for next weekend.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Cold Calling My Best Friends
I have come into a wealth of time. My nanny hours have been cut but hours in the day have not. To fill my days with activity and fill my soul with pride, I've been volunteering with the Obama campaign. When you are the occasional volunteer you are put in charge of cold-calling potential voters which combines my two least favorite things: phone calls and strangers.
Successful conversations between myself and strangers hinge on multiple variables. The environment has to be casual, open to witty banter and by no means confrontational. The interaction also has to be face to face. Not because eye contact is key; eye contact is terrifying, but because my hand gestures work as visual aides. For me. I like to think that my moving arms distract people from my uncomfortableness. It sounds like I have social anxiety. I don't. But I think we can all agree that talking to strangers about anything is terrifying.
So obviously phone calls rule out all of my preferred variables. I hate cold calling; it's never been my thing. When I was younger, my dad, in an effort to either mold me into an independent woman or sway me to stop spending his money on clothes from Land's End, would force me to call in when I wanted to order something from a catalogue. That's my first real memory of hating phone conversations. But thanks to modern technology, the internet made having to talk to those nosy and pesky Land's End employees a thing of the past! That was until now. Until I sacrificed my own personal comfort and happiness to cold-call for Obama.
Of course I encountered the classic phone quandaries; ear sweat, unintentional interruptions and awkwardly long silences, I was expecting that. But what I was not expecting was the glimpse I got into these people's personal lives. You can tell a lot about a person from even the most short and basic conversation. It does help that I have a real knack for understanding someone based on their tone and general vibe.
For example, I knew the man skeptically and urgently answering questions was hiding a criminal past. If “none of your business” isn't the answer of a felon on the run then I don't know what is.
I recognized the trembling voice, barely able to hold back tears while explaining the woman I was trying to reach had moved to Arizona, clearly belonged to a heartbroken man recently left at the altar.
The young man who happily ran through the entire survey with me only to have his friend jump on the line at the end, and scream “JK we love Romney!” beginning a loud and confusing exchange between the two of them of “Obama!”, “No, Romney!” “Gobama!” “Romney, Ryan!” was clearly drunk in the afternoon and having the time of his life.
Honestly, knowing more about these people made our conversations much easier. It humanized them. Of course, none of this information was actually verbalized and I had to use my active imagination to fill in the gaps around the bones of story their tones of voice and, to be generous, basic answers gave me. Is it possible that the felon was actually just a private man who doesn't believe his voting tendencies are anyone's business? Sure. Will I entertain the idea that the heartbroken man was not trembling with loneliness but was actually just out of breath? Maybe. Could the young drunk have been... no, he was definitely drunk and definitely having the time of his life.
As we all know, all of my (none of my) posts have a deep-seeded life lesson and this life lesson is calling strangers is much more manageable when you manipulate their lives into a tangled web of emotions for your enjoyment. I just wish I had learned this trick for the people working the phone lines Land's End.
Successful conversations between myself and strangers hinge on multiple variables. The environment has to be casual, open to witty banter and by no means confrontational. The interaction also has to be face to face. Not because eye contact is key; eye contact is terrifying, but because my hand gestures work as visual aides. For me. I like to think that my moving arms distract people from my uncomfortableness. It sounds like I have social anxiety. I don't. But I think we can all agree that talking to strangers about anything is terrifying.
So obviously phone calls rule out all of my preferred variables. I hate cold calling; it's never been my thing. When I was younger, my dad, in an effort to either mold me into an independent woman or sway me to stop spending his money on clothes from Land's End, would force me to call in when I wanted to order something from a catalogue. That's my first real memory of hating phone conversations. But thanks to modern technology, the internet made having to talk to those nosy and pesky Land's End employees a thing of the past! That was until now. Until I sacrificed my own personal comfort and happiness to cold-call for Obama.
Of course I encountered the classic phone quandaries; ear sweat, unintentional interruptions and awkwardly long silences, I was expecting that. But what I was not expecting was the glimpse I got into these people's personal lives. You can tell a lot about a person from even the most short and basic conversation. It does help that I have a real knack for understanding someone based on their tone and general vibe.
For example, I knew the man skeptically and urgently answering questions was hiding a criminal past. If “none of your business” isn't the answer of a felon on the run then I don't know what is.
I recognized the trembling voice, barely able to hold back tears while explaining the woman I was trying to reach had moved to Arizona, clearly belonged to a heartbroken man recently left at the altar.
The young man who happily ran through the entire survey with me only to have his friend jump on the line at the end, and scream “JK we love Romney!” beginning a loud and confusing exchange between the two of them of “Obama!”, “No, Romney!” “Gobama!” “Romney, Ryan!” was clearly drunk in the afternoon and having the time of his life.
Honestly, knowing more about these people made our conversations much easier. It humanized them. Of course, none of this information was actually verbalized and I had to use my active imagination to fill in the gaps around the bones of story their tones of voice and, to be generous, basic answers gave me. Is it possible that the felon was actually just a private man who doesn't believe his voting tendencies are anyone's business? Sure. Will I entertain the idea that the heartbroken man was not trembling with loneliness but was actually just out of breath? Maybe. Could the young drunk have been... no, he was definitely drunk and definitely having the time of his life.
As we all know, all of my (none of my) posts have a deep-seeded life lesson and this life lesson is calling strangers is much more manageable when you manipulate their lives into a tangled web of emotions for your enjoyment. I just wish I had learned this trick for the people working the phone lines Land's End.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Giving Me The Eye
As a person who hates telling people “how it is” and prefers telling “nothing at all” I would have pegged myself as a big fan of letting facial expressions do all the talking, but a recent interaction proved otherwise. Of course we all communicate with our eyes, eyebrows, smiles, and when the situation is not important, I have no problem with that. But the stranger involved in this situation was playing a small but incredibly lasting role on my life. And the facial expressions were just not saying enough.
On a recent flight, I sat next to a priest, which sometimes can soothe me because they are very calming people, but can also freak me out because who is more welcoming to their own death than someone who is close with God? I wasn't aware of this man praying quietly to himself the entire time we were airborne but when the plane settled smoothly on the ground, he looked me right in the eyes, nostrils slightly flared, lips gently pursed and bible tightly clutched in hand. His look was a sassy and sarcastic mix of “you're welcome” and “thanks for nothing.”
It was as if he knew I hadn't been praying like he was, as if this whole “safe flying” thing is a team effort and I had really let him down. He tried to cover it with his look of irritated disappointment, but I could tell he was secretly basking in his accomplishment of landing this plane with his prayers and his prayers alone. I could tell he wanted attention and applause for his work but instead he settled for freaking me the fuck out.
Was it all true? Is flying a team sport? Were we one “Hail Mary” off of sure death? Was there a prayer quota that has to be met in order to land safely? I have always thought of myself as a team player and I couldn't bear to be thought of as anything less. I also couldn't bear to board another plane without his man. That is the curse that comes with giving an ominous, but also incredibly revealing, stare to an over thinker with a fear of flying. Had I tricked death and was only able to live another chunk of my life until boarding another plane because of this man, because of his prayers?
I needed to know! But instead of asking him to clarify I stared at him, mouth agape, and mechanically reached for my backpack stowed under the seat in front of me. Because, turns out, I don't speak with words or facial expressions when they end in confrontation.
On a recent flight, I sat next to a priest, which sometimes can soothe me because they are very calming people, but can also freak me out because who is more welcoming to their own death than someone who is close with God? I wasn't aware of this man praying quietly to himself the entire time we were airborne but when the plane settled smoothly on the ground, he looked me right in the eyes, nostrils slightly flared, lips gently pursed and bible tightly clutched in hand. His look was a sassy and sarcastic mix of “you're welcome” and “thanks for nothing.”
It was as if he knew I hadn't been praying like he was, as if this whole “safe flying” thing is a team effort and I had really let him down. He tried to cover it with his look of irritated disappointment, but I could tell he was secretly basking in his accomplishment of landing this plane with his prayers and his prayers alone. I could tell he wanted attention and applause for his work but instead he settled for freaking me the fuck out.
Was it all true? Is flying a team sport? Were we one “Hail Mary” off of sure death? Was there a prayer quota that has to be met in order to land safely? I have always thought of myself as a team player and I couldn't bear to be thought of as anything less. I also couldn't bear to board another plane without his man. That is the curse that comes with giving an ominous, but also incredibly revealing, stare to an over thinker with a fear of flying. Had I tricked death and was only able to live another chunk of my life until boarding another plane because of this man, because of his prayers?
I needed to know! But instead of asking him to clarify I stared at him, mouth agape, and mechanically reached for my backpack stowed under the seat in front of me. Because, turns out, I don't speak with words or facial expressions when they end in confrontation.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Creep Vision
There are a lot of talents that go into being a nanny; the ability to make a gooey but unburned grilled cheese, the quick wits to change a game, mid-play, knowing it is soon to turn into a lot of effort on your part, the ability to stop a hand full of sand from ending up in someone's face before it was even an idea in the child's mind. But of all the skills, I pride myself on my dedication and concentration to spotting creepers. With the exception of people walking dogs, there is no reason for an adult to ever be at a park without a kid. Even if you are walking your dog, do so quickly; don't linger. Lingering is creepy. Lingering is alarming. Lingering is what PEDOPHILES do. I'm sorry if that seems extreme, but I don't have time to beat around the bush here, I'm mid-blog post.
While the kid I nanny is safely playing, I'm on the look out for predators around the park. When I lock in on what I believe to be a potential threat, I stare them down until they do something that proves their harmlessness, which can be any of the following:
-An adult passing through the park, talking on his cell phone (note: bluetooth is even better.) These people are distracted with business and are most likely using the outdoors to cool themselves down, clear their minds and think rationally. Who knows how many people would be fired, or how many businesses would go under if this businessman/woman did not take that call in the park? I don't like to think about it so I let them pass through freely.
-A person who does not ask the kids if they want to pet their dog, but instead waits for the kids to initiate interest. This is pretty clear. DON'T LINGER, DON'T BE A CREEPER.
-Calling “their” child by a nickname. Ie: Cam for Cameron, TyTy for Tyler, even Gracie for Grace will suffice. God help those parents who did not name their child something that is easily shortened. I will question you forever.
That last one is tricky because while I fancy myself an undercover creep specialist, monitoring the park and ridding it of suspicious patrons, in reality I am the childless woman, sitting in the shadows of trees, staring at true family moments and soaking them in like a weirdo.
It is unfortunate that my constant lookout for creepy behavior does not prevent me from doing creepy things myself. Nor does it put an end to my creepy behavior that has already begun. Instead I am much more aware of it, making me sweat and lie and question why I ever allow myself to interact with anyone, ever.
Being one of the only non-Latina nannies, I am constantly confused for the mother of the kid I nanny. While I think I am too young and young looking to have a three-year-old, and would prefer if people assumed I was an older sister or young aunt, under certain circumstances, I politely accept the assumption of mother. But the circumstances are key! I can't go around claiming to be a mother because that's weird and the reputation of 'young mother' in a beach community would really damper my chances with the professional male volleyball players prowling the area.
I have been able to categorize which situations call for me to politely accept the assumption of mother and which call for me to be honest. If the conversation is not going to extend past a one-line comment, I'm the mom. If we are going to run into each other again or have an actual conversation, I'm the nanny. For example I'm the mom when a passerby says, “your son's hair is so cute” or “your daughter's hair is so cute” (the kid I nanny has long, beach-y, golden locks and is confused for a girl just as often as I am confused for his mother.) But I'm the nanny when someone says, “I think our kids are in the same class” or “is he your only child?” or “water birth?” I let them know I am the nanny because these initiations are leading to a longer interaction or are directly personal.
I'm pretty good at recognizing early on in the interaction if I am going to give Mom responses or Nanny responses, but the one misread I had lead to a confusing, stressful, hour-long disaster.
For purposes of this post and to keep his identity a fun mystery, we'll call the kid I currently nanny 'Mitsy' because I think that's a fun name – and Mitsy is tons of fun – and because he is often confused for a girl.
Anyway, Mitsy and I were at the park in the late afternoon, which if you are familiar with my blog post (girlfight), you know to be my favorite time to be at the park. A man, probably late 60s or early 70s, walked by us with his dog and said, “he's a real climber!” referring to the fact that the Mitsy was shimmying up a random telephone pole (Hey, you gotta entertain these kids with whatever you can) Then added, “give your mom a break!” turned to me, laughed and gave me a 'boys are a real handful' head shake that suggested we were comrades of some child rearing army. In retrospect, I should have taken that look to mean we would be chatting for awhile but I didn't, my Mom response came out and the terror began.
After identifying myself as Mitsy's mother, there was no turning back. That means when he asked where Mitsy got his blonde hair and noted that it “must be from his dad” I had to find a logical origin for the golden locks because I instinctively and truthfully said that his dad had brown hair. “His grandparents,” I blurted. Then added, “I also used to have really blonde hair but grew out of it,” which is true. Maybe it was to make this facade easier on myself or make me feel better about it all, but I was seamlessly inserting truths into a HUGE lie, a convenience that did not last long.
When he started asking me about where I went to school, when I moved to LA, and what I planned on doing with my life we got dangerously close to the actuality that I could not possibly be Mitsy's mother. When I told him that yes, Mitsy was my only child, he said I “looked good for having a three-year-old” which....my body BETTER look good for having a three-year-old because I don't have a three-year-old. I couldn't take it as an insult because it was meant as a compliment; for god's sake, this guy thought I had a three-year-old! So my body must just look semi-okay for having never had kids.
I'm not totally oblivious to good choice. I'm fully aware a good choice at this point in the story would be to end the conversation and leave the park. But Mitsy would not stop playing with this dog! And unlike the power a real mother's stern voice has, mine was powerless to lure Mitsy away from this (god dammit) friendly and adorable pup.
As time passed it became more difficult to pepper my lies with truths. The whole situation was taking a mental toll on me and I could sense myself getting sloppy with my answers but I was at 100% anxiety at this point. Half of that anxiety was being focused on trying to get Mitsy to stop playing with this guy's dog so we could leave, while the other half of my anxiety was being focused on the fear that one of my bosses would show up at the park and the most uncomfortable situation imaginable would arise.
If the dad showed up, I imagined the guy saying something like, “I've been talking with your wife and your son loves my dog” or “your wife is so kind” or “your wife and I have been talking and we agree, boys are a real handful.” It would be even worse if the mom showed up. I imagined Mitsy running to her, yelling, “mommy! Mommy!” At which point I would just run the opposite way, never talk to anyone involved ever again and let them all sort out the kinks of the psychological damage I had done to Mitsy and this old man on their own.
The sun was setting, it was time to go but I was trapped in a deep and (almost) completely false conversation. I wish this man could take a HINT! The “hints” being me nervously laughing, carrying on a conversation about raising kids while internally punching him in the face. I know I should be internally punching myself in the face but I'm pretty sure this man was drinking red wine out of a thermos and was kind of weird and creepy. And as we all know, I can spot a creeper from a mile away.
While the kid I nanny is safely playing, I'm on the look out for predators around the park. When I lock in on what I believe to be a potential threat, I stare them down until they do something that proves their harmlessness, which can be any of the following:
-An adult passing through the park, talking on his cell phone (note: bluetooth is even better.) These people are distracted with business and are most likely using the outdoors to cool themselves down, clear their minds and think rationally. Who knows how many people would be fired, or how many businesses would go under if this businessman/woman did not take that call in the park? I don't like to think about it so I let them pass through freely.
-A person who does not ask the kids if they want to pet their dog, but instead waits for the kids to initiate interest. This is pretty clear. DON'T LINGER, DON'T BE A CREEPER.
-Calling “their” child by a nickname. Ie: Cam for Cameron, TyTy for Tyler, even Gracie for Grace will suffice. God help those parents who did not name their child something that is easily shortened. I will question you forever.
That last one is tricky because while I fancy myself an undercover creep specialist, monitoring the park and ridding it of suspicious patrons, in reality I am the childless woman, sitting in the shadows of trees, staring at true family moments and soaking them in like a weirdo.
It is unfortunate that my constant lookout for creepy behavior does not prevent me from doing creepy things myself. Nor does it put an end to my creepy behavior that has already begun. Instead I am much more aware of it, making me sweat and lie and question why I ever allow myself to interact with anyone, ever.
Being one of the only non-Latina nannies, I am constantly confused for the mother of the kid I nanny. While I think I am too young and young looking to have a three-year-old, and would prefer if people assumed I was an older sister or young aunt, under certain circumstances, I politely accept the assumption of mother. But the circumstances are key! I can't go around claiming to be a mother because that's weird and the reputation of 'young mother' in a beach community would really damper my chances with the professional male volleyball players prowling the area.
I have been able to categorize which situations call for me to politely accept the assumption of mother and which call for me to be honest. If the conversation is not going to extend past a one-line comment, I'm the mom. If we are going to run into each other again or have an actual conversation, I'm the nanny. For example I'm the mom when a passerby says, “your son's hair is so cute” or “your daughter's hair is so cute” (the kid I nanny has long, beach-y, golden locks and is confused for a girl just as often as I am confused for his mother.) But I'm the nanny when someone says, “I think our kids are in the same class” or “is he your only child?” or “water birth?” I let them know I am the nanny because these initiations are leading to a longer interaction or are directly personal.
I'm pretty good at recognizing early on in the interaction if I am going to give Mom responses or Nanny responses, but the one misread I had lead to a confusing, stressful, hour-long disaster.
For purposes of this post and to keep his identity a fun mystery, we'll call the kid I currently nanny 'Mitsy' because I think that's a fun name – and Mitsy is tons of fun – and because he is often confused for a girl.
Anyway, Mitsy and I were at the park in the late afternoon, which if you are familiar with my blog post (girlfight), you know to be my favorite time to be at the park. A man, probably late 60s or early 70s, walked by us with his dog and said, “he's a real climber!” referring to the fact that the Mitsy was shimmying up a random telephone pole (Hey, you gotta entertain these kids with whatever you can) Then added, “give your mom a break!” turned to me, laughed and gave me a 'boys are a real handful' head shake that suggested we were comrades of some child rearing army. In retrospect, I should have taken that look to mean we would be chatting for awhile but I didn't, my Mom response came out and the terror began.
After identifying myself as Mitsy's mother, there was no turning back. That means when he asked where Mitsy got his blonde hair and noted that it “must be from his dad” I had to find a logical origin for the golden locks because I instinctively and truthfully said that his dad had brown hair. “His grandparents,” I blurted. Then added, “I also used to have really blonde hair but grew out of it,” which is true. Maybe it was to make this facade easier on myself or make me feel better about it all, but I was seamlessly inserting truths into a HUGE lie, a convenience that did not last long.
When he started asking me about where I went to school, when I moved to LA, and what I planned on doing with my life we got dangerously close to the actuality that I could not possibly be Mitsy's mother. When I told him that yes, Mitsy was my only child, he said I “looked good for having a three-year-old” which....my body BETTER look good for having a three-year-old because I don't have a three-year-old. I couldn't take it as an insult because it was meant as a compliment; for god's sake, this guy thought I had a three-year-old! So my body must just look semi-okay for having never had kids.
I'm not totally oblivious to good choice. I'm fully aware a good choice at this point in the story would be to end the conversation and leave the park. But Mitsy would not stop playing with this dog! And unlike the power a real mother's stern voice has, mine was powerless to lure Mitsy away from this (god dammit) friendly and adorable pup.
As time passed it became more difficult to pepper my lies with truths. The whole situation was taking a mental toll on me and I could sense myself getting sloppy with my answers but I was at 100% anxiety at this point. Half of that anxiety was being focused on trying to get Mitsy to stop playing with this guy's dog so we could leave, while the other half of my anxiety was being focused on the fear that one of my bosses would show up at the park and the most uncomfortable situation imaginable would arise.
If the dad showed up, I imagined the guy saying something like, “I've been talking with your wife and your son loves my dog” or “your wife is so kind” or “your wife and I have been talking and we agree, boys are a real handful.” It would be even worse if the mom showed up. I imagined Mitsy running to her, yelling, “mommy! Mommy!” At which point I would just run the opposite way, never talk to anyone involved ever again and let them all sort out the kinks of the psychological damage I had done to Mitsy and this old man on their own.
The sun was setting, it was time to go but I was trapped in a deep and (almost) completely false conversation. I wish this man could take a HINT! The “hints” being me nervously laughing, carrying on a conversation about raising kids while internally punching him in the face. I know I should be internally punching myself in the face but I'm pretty sure this man was drinking red wine out of a thermos and was kind of weird and creepy. And as we all know, I can spot a creeper from a mile away.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Normal and Honest Intentions
I need to start this blog post with an apology. I am so sorry I haven't updated in so long. I can't even imagine what it is like for you all to go so long without laughing. I have been extremely busy with producing the sitcom pilot called “Educated” I wrote, that I have mentioned a million times on here, that was on Kickstarter, and is now set to shoot starting on June 1st! There is an insane amount of work that goes into this and I am also a part-time, single mom right now because the mom I nanny for has been out of town. I have been fulfilling the mother void from 12pm-5:30pm everyday for the past four weeks. I know that doesn't seem like a real mom, but I did say “part-time.”
I would like to say that now that I have gotten back in front of my computer and am able to knock out this blog post that I will be updating consistently again. But that might be a lie. And the last thing I ever want to do is be in the room while you read one of my blog posts and lie to you. I don't know when things will quiet down around “Educated,” hopefully never because it's really fun. But I just haven't had a ton of crazy things happen to me outside of this pilot and being a part-time, single mother. So lucky for you all, both of these things play an integral part in this blog post! Thank you to everyone who has been checking out “Educated” and supporting it, there is still so much funny goodness to come out of it. Check out our awesome website up at www.iameducated.com to keep up with our progress! Now on to the funnies....
Lately I've been feeling like my honest words have been misinterpreted for a less honest meaning. I haven't gotten any feedback to really justify this concern but overthinking is kind of my thing, so I don't need justifications.
Being a nanny I have become extremely aware of safety and appreciate when I see people taking safety precautions seriously. The kid I nanny always wears sunscreen, always has a helmet, and always has his food cut into small pieces because I am trying to instill good, safe and healthy habits in him before I no longer have control.
I know that as soon as kids reach middle school age, sunscreen only blocks a great tan and wearing a helmet immediately becomes uncool and nerdy. I know the social stigma attached to wearing a helmet, I know the struggle. That is why I was overly excited when I saw a group of middle school kids riding bikes and long boards and wearing helmets. I wanted these kids to know that while being popular seems like the most important thing in middle school, safety is forever, and they were making the right choice.
I decided the best way to make a difference was to yell, “helmets are cool!” from my car as I drove by. But instead I sounded sarcastic and bully-like. The tone, the topic and the fact that it was yelled from a moving car gave it little to no legitimacy.
I can only assume the kids tore of their helmets, continued biking, paid a homeless man to buy them cigarettes and bought sharpies to practice Henna tattoo outlines on each other only to sniff when their creativity wasn't getting them high enough. Those three, honest words, “helmets are cool,” were probably misinterpreted and single handedly shoved those kids down the wrong path.
It was like when I was shamelessly promoting Educated's Facebook page, and randomly asking people through Facebook chat to check out our project. A lot of spam comes through Facebook chat* so I tried to ease everyone's concerns and prove that I was not a robot by blatantly identifying myself as NOT a robot. By doing so I not only sounded exactly like a robot, but I sounded like the loneliest and most desperate robot ever.
hey will you like this fb page for a sitcom i created that is premiering in june? http://www.facebook.com/educatedshow
THIS IS NOT SPAM
i'm your friend
and I'm shamelessly promoting
that sounds like spam, im sorry
but it's NOT! it's me, anna!
My honest, good natured, semi self-deprecating words were probably misinterpreted for that of a spam-wielding computer virus. Yes, this was a once sided conversation but I like to imagine the person on the other end thinking to himself:
I don't want this spam. BUT even in the very unlikely chance that it's not spam, I still don't want to talk to someone so needy and desperate. I bet this person wears a helmet when they bike.
*Facebook chat is an online chat service similar to iChat or AIM. This definition was included for my parents and other relatives who do not have Facebook but I know read this blog and do not want to be left out. If you do not know what iChat or AIM is, call me immediately.
I would like to say that now that I have gotten back in front of my computer and am able to knock out this blog post that I will be updating consistently again. But that might be a lie. And the last thing I ever want to do is be in the room while you read one of my blog posts and lie to you. I don't know when things will quiet down around “Educated,” hopefully never because it's really fun. But I just haven't had a ton of crazy things happen to me outside of this pilot and being a part-time, single mother. So lucky for you all, both of these things play an integral part in this blog post! Thank you to everyone who has been checking out “Educated” and supporting it, there is still so much funny goodness to come out of it. Check out our awesome website up at www.iameducated.com to keep up with our progress! Now on to the funnies....
Lately I've been feeling like my honest words have been misinterpreted for a less honest meaning. I haven't gotten any feedback to really justify this concern but overthinking is kind of my thing, so I don't need justifications.
Being a nanny I have become extremely aware of safety and appreciate when I see people taking safety precautions seriously. The kid I nanny always wears sunscreen, always has a helmet, and always has his food cut into small pieces because I am trying to instill good, safe and healthy habits in him before I no longer have control.
I know that as soon as kids reach middle school age, sunscreen only blocks a great tan and wearing a helmet immediately becomes uncool and nerdy. I know the social stigma attached to wearing a helmet, I know the struggle. That is why I was overly excited when I saw a group of middle school kids riding bikes and long boards and wearing helmets. I wanted these kids to know that while being popular seems like the most important thing in middle school, safety is forever, and they were making the right choice.
I decided the best way to make a difference was to yell, “helmets are cool!” from my car as I drove by. But instead I sounded sarcastic and bully-like. The tone, the topic and the fact that it was yelled from a moving car gave it little to no legitimacy.
I can only assume the kids tore of their helmets, continued biking, paid a homeless man to buy them cigarettes and bought sharpies to practice Henna tattoo outlines on each other only to sniff when their creativity wasn't getting them high enough. Those three, honest words, “helmets are cool,” were probably misinterpreted and single handedly shoved those kids down the wrong path.
It was like when I was shamelessly promoting Educated's Facebook page, and randomly asking people through Facebook chat to check out our project. A lot of spam comes through Facebook chat* so I tried to ease everyone's concerns and prove that I was not a robot by blatantly identifying myself as NOT a robot. By doing so I not only sounded exactly like a robot, but I sounded like the loneliest and most desperate robot ever.
hey will you like this fb page for a sitcom i created that is premiering in june? http://www.facebook.com/educatedshow
THIS IS NOT SPAM
i'm your friend
and I'm shamelessly promoting
that sounds like spam, im sorry
but it's NOT! it's me, anna!
My honest, good natured, semi self-deprecating words were probably misinterpreted for that of a spam-wielding computer virus. Yes, this was a once sided conversation but I like to imagine the person on the other end thinking to himself:
I don't want this spam. BUT even in the very unlikely chance that it's not spam, I still don't want to talk to someone so needy and desperate. I bet this person wears a helmet when they bike.
*Facebook chat is an online chat service similar to iChat or AIM. This definition was included for my parents and other relatives who do not have Facebook but I know read this blog and do not want to be left out. If you do not know what iChat or AIM is, call me immediately.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Meet Me at The Kibbutz, It's Going Dowwwnnnn
It's been just over 2 weeks since I got back from Birthright, a program that pays to send young Jewish kids to Israel for 10 days. It was like sleep away camp meets college meets The Amazing Race and it was great. To be honest, I still can't fully process what all we did or how I feel about it because they kept us in a weird, constant state of psyched-exhaustion (little sleep but consistent coffee breaks and cool stuff to look at) and when I got back, I replaced my Israel exhaustion with every day exhaustion so basically I will never be fully rested ever again in my life.
With that being said, this post is going to be a surface level recap of some funny situations that I encountered in Israel. If you are looking for new life philosophies or personal reflections, you will just need to give me a call or send me an email or leave a comment or tweet at me (see, I'm giving you options!)
We all know how I travel; incredibly well by foot, car, train and bus but not so well by air. Writing about my travels, not so much the destinations, but my actual act of traveling is my favorite because I seem like an OCD, panic ridden weirdo. A fun departure from my normal sensible, no-mess persona. I'm proud to announce I took four long flights in 12 days with little to no panic. Yes, I did have a minor “this could be it” moment when my roommate of 10 days asked me if I had any secrets because, “this could be our last chance,” (honestly, a pretty weird question no matter what was to follow) but other than that it was smooth sailing. And by sailing I mean flying and by smooth I mean raucous. But not because of my inner mental workings, because of the 12 hundred screaming babies onboard.
I, on the other hand, I behaved admirably. And for that, I have to thank my newest flying distraction: thinking of all the really dangerous things I could be doing instead. People have done things much worse than flying on a commercial airplane and reminding myself of their survival puts me at ease. The activities that soothe me include, but are not limited to: cliff jumping, joining a gang, sleeping with the doors unlocked and overeating. Of course I can't just spend 10 hours imagining and re-imagining someone eating a really big sandwich so, in order to get a more consistent visual and one that I could not control, I read The Hunger Games. This was a good move on my part because that book is crazy dangerous! It allowed me to really put things in perspective. Sure, I'm in the air, thousands of miles above the earth, but at least I'm not living in a post-apocalyptic US being forced to compete in a televised fight to the death.
The security to fly into Israel was intense. We were asked a ton of questions, many of which seemed completely irrelevant. I think this was a tactic to lull terrorists into revealing themselves, but really flustered a few of our participants to the point of being flagged for extra screening. The heightened security kind of scared me, not because I thought my safety was in jeopardy but because I didn't want to do anything that seemed suspicious. I didn't even want to comment on the heightened security for fear that an observation like that meant I must have some reason to notice something like that?
I tried so hard to blend in that I succumbed to people cutting me in line at the metal detectors. I didn't want to look like a hot head, but I would never have taken that lightly on a domestic flight (that's a lie, you all know how I am with confrontation.) I instinctively and accidentally answered “no” when asked if I had bought anything at the Duty Free shops (I had!) which led me to simmer with anxiety in my seat, pondering whether I would seem more or less suspicious calling the flight attendant over to clear it all up. Yes, tight security was definitely on my mind, and it didn't stop at the airport. Just to make sure I wouldn't be flagged as someone for some reason, (notice how vague I am being, this is because I have no idea what I thought was going to happen or why; I just knew I didn't want it) for the duration of my time in Israel I refused to use the word “terrorist” and opted instead for “crazy person.” Which isn't helpful because I use the word “crazy” for anything cool, interesting, weird, silly, genuinely insane or scary. Needless to say, the vocab switch up made for some crazy conversations.
In my somewhat adult life I've only been out of the country to New Zealand, Jamaica and English speaking resorts in Mexico so a language barrier has never been an issue. It still really wasn't that much of an issue in Israel, but that's because I covered up my lack of Hebrew with excessive pointing and a pretty consistent use of English. I couldn't help it! Damn my parents for raising me to have my please and thank yous automatic! My be'vakasha and todas took a backseat to my American manners. And surprisingly I was only blatantly ignored once when I asked for the bathroom in English. Spoiler alert: I found it anyway.
The best part of going to different countries is getting to live a completely different life and experiencing a new culture. I loved pretty much everything Israeli culture had to offer. I could get behind the sliced cucumbers and hummus for breakfast, I was semi okay with the lack of belief in forming lines for food, bathrooms and ATMs, I was even allowing myself to support paying money to use public bathrooms that rarely had toilet paper, hand dryers/soap and, in one instance, stall doors that closed, but I could not, for the life of me, get on board with their showering situations.
We encountered a few curtained showers that had the appearance of many showers I have come across in my day. Except for one difference. Instead of having an angled floor below to funnel the water to the drain, or some sort of lip to enclose the space around the curtained area, they had a squeegee broom. While I didn't appreciate the squeegee broom, I almost had to respect the sentiment behind it:
We know this shit ain't gon' work, but we'll be damned if we'll clean up your own dirty water after you.
I imagined this being said in a southern, almost Sling Blade voice, which is not fitting at all for a connection to an Israeli creation, but feel free to use any voice you choose. When we weren't using the showers that were one step above opening a skylight and waiting for a rainstorm, we were using handheld shower heads. These are totally awesome and kind of almost spa-like if you aren't actually trying to clean yourself.
So there you have it my top three memories of Israel. Taking sensitive security to a whole new level, being the stereotypical American who can't/won't speak the language, which I will again blame on the constant state of psyched-exhaustion, and showering in weird showers. We did a bunch of really cool stuff other than that like riding camels, sleeping in a Bedouin tent, eating a Bedouin feast, hiking Masada, visiting the Holocaust museum, going to the dead sea, sampling wines at a vineyard, freezing at the top of the Golan Heights, spending nights out in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and much, much more. I couldn't possibly recap this entire trip because I continue to remember experiences, thoughts and feelings about it daily.
While it is just truly not my style, nor is it the style of this blog, to dig deep, I do think that I would be doing my trip a disservice by not being serious for a few minutes. I didn't have a ton of expectations going into Israel but I thought Judaism would be everywhere. I was worried I would stand out, not just within my group, but within the country, for being a non-religious Jew. And as ignorant as it sounds, I expected everyone in Israel to have an extreme and one sided stance on their country's political past, present and future. I thought I was going to be pushed one way or another politically and religiously while on the trip and what I got instead was a full, beautiful, hands-on experience of Israel. I respect and admire the Israeli people to an insane degree. I am beyond thankful for the experience I had; I think it is a place, Jewish or not, that everyone should see.
With that being said, this post is going to be a surface level recap of some funny situations that I encountered in Israel. If you are looking for new life philosophies or personal reflections, you will just need to give me a call or send me an email or leave a comment or tweet at me (see, I'm giving you options!)
We all know how I travel; incredibly well by foot, car, train and bus but not so well by air. Writing about my travels, not so much the destinations, but my actual act of traveling is my favorite because I seem like an OCD, panic ridden weirdo. A fun departure from my normal sensible, no-mess persona. I'm proud to announce I took four long flights in 12 days with little to no panic. Yes, I did have a minor “this could be it” moment when my roommate of 10 days asked me if I had any secrets because, “this could be our last chance,” (honestly, a pretty weird question no matter what was to follow) but other than that it was smooth sailing. And by sailing I mean flying and by smooth I mean raucous. But not because of my inner mental workings, because of the 12 hundred screaming babies onboard.
I, on the other hand, I behaved admirably. And for that, I have to thank my newest flying distraction: thinking of all the really dangerous things I could be doing instead. People have done things much worse than flying on a commercial airplane and reminding myself of their survival puts me at ease. The activities that soothe me include, but are not limited to: cliff jumping, joining a gang, sleeping with the doors unlocked and overeating. Of course I can't just spend 10 hours imagining and re-imagining someone eating a really big sandwich so, in order to get a more consistent visual and one that I could not control, I read The Hunger Games. This was a good move on my part because that book is crazy dangerous! It allowed me to really put things in perspective. Sure, I'm in the air, thousands of miles above the earth, but at least I'm not living in a post-apocalyptic US being forced to compete in a televised fight to the death.
The security to fly into Israel was intense. We were asked a ton of questions, many of which seemed completely irrelevant. I think this was a tactic to lull terrorists into revealing themselves, but really flustered a few of our participants to the point of being flagged for extra screening. The heightened security kind of scared me, not because I thought my safety was in jeopardy but because I didn't want to do anything that seemed suspicious. I didn't even want to comment on the heightened security for fear that an observation like that meant I must have some reason to notice something like that?
I tried so hard to blend in that I succumbed to people cutting me in line at the metal detectors. I didn't want to look like a hot head, but I would never have taken that lightly on a domestic flight (that's a lie, you all know how I am with confrontation.) I instinctively and accidentally answered “no” when asked if I had bought anything at the Duty Free shops (I had!) which led me to simmer with anxiety in my seat, pondering whether I would seem more or less suspicious calling the flight attendant over to clear it all up. Yes, tight security was definitely on my mind, and it didn't stop at the airport. Just to make sure I wouldn't be flagged as someone for some reason, (notice how vague I am being, this is because I have no idea what I thought was going to happen or why; I just knew I didn't want it) for the duration of my time in Israel I refused to use the word “terrorist” and opted instead for “crazy person.” Which isn't helpful because I use the word “crazy” for anything cool, interesting, weird, silly, genuinely insane or scary. Needless to say, the vocab switch up made for some crazy conversations.
In my somewhat adult life I've only been out of the country to New Zealand, Jamaica and English speaking resorts in Mexico so a language barrier has never been an issue. It still really wasn't that much of an issue in Israel, but that's because I covered up my lack of Hebrew with excessive pointing and a pretty consistent use of English. I couldn't help it! Damn my parents for raising me to have my please and thank yous automatic! My be'vakasha and todas took a backseat to my American manners. And surprisingly I was only blatantly ignored once when I asked for the bathroom in English. Spoiler alert: I found it anyway.
The best part of going to different countries is getting to live a completely different life and experiencing a new culture. I loved pretty much everything Israeli culture had to offer. I could get behind the sliced cucumbers and hummus for breakfast, I was semi okay with the lack of belief in forming lines for food, bathrooms and ATMs, I was even allowing myself to support paying money to use public bathrooms that rarely had toilet paper, hand dryers/soap and, in one instance, stall doors that closed, but I could not, for the life of me, get on board with their showering situations.
We encountered a few curtained showers that had the appearance of many showers I have come across in my day. Except for one difference. Instead of having an angled floor below to funnel the water to the drain, or some sort of lip to enclose the space around the curtained area, they had a squeegee broom. While I didn't appreciate the squeegee broom, I almost had to respect the sentiment behind it:
We know this shit ain't gon' work, but we'll be damned if we'll clean up your own dirty water after you.
I imagined this being said in a southern, almost Sling Blade voice, which is not fitting at all for a connection to an Israeli creation, but feel free to use any voice you choose. When we weren't using the showers that were one step above opening a skylight and waiting for a rainstorm, we were using handheld shower heads. These are totally awesome and kind of almost spa-like if you aren't actually trying to clean yourself.
So there you have it my top three memories of Israel. Taking sensitive security to a whole new level, being the stereotypical American who can't/won't speak the language, which I will again blame on the constant state of psyched-exhaustion, and showering in weird showers. We did a bunch of really cool stuff other than that like riding camels, sleeping in a Bedouin tent, eating a Bedouin feast, hiking Masada, visiting the Holocaust museum, going to the dead sea, sampling wines at a vineyard, freezing at the top of the Golan Heights, spending nights out in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and much, much more. I couldn't possibly recap this entire trip because I continue to remember experiences, thoughts and feelings about it daily.
While it is just truly not my style, nor is it the style of this blog, to dig deep, I do think that I would be doing my trip a disservice by not being serious for a few minutes. I didn't have a ton of expectations going into Israel but I thought Judaism would be everywhere. I was worried I would stand out, not just within my group, but within the country, for being a non-religious Jew. And as ignorant as it sounds, I expected everyone in Israel to have an extreme and one sided stance on their country's political past, present and future. I thought I was going to be pushed one way or another politically and religiously while on the trip and what I got instead was a full, beautiful, hands-on experience of Israel. I respect and admire the Israeli people to an insane degree. I am beyond thankful for the experience I had; I think it is a place, Jewish or not, that everyone should see.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
NEW YORK CITAAAY!!!
It has been a long time since I have been able to entertain you with the written word, and for that, I apologize. But I'm back from a weekend trip to New York and a 10-day tour of Israel and fully ready to blow your minds. So sit back, relax (not too relaxed, you will need your wits about you to scroll through the post) and enjoy.
My best friend from the moment my infant eyes could distinguish people from objects recently moved to Brooklyn and since my brother and I were scheduled to take off from Newark for Israel on a Monday, we decided a weekend trip in New York was perfect. It had been 16 years since I was last in The Big Apple, and my most vivid memories were of FAO Schwarz and the smell of homeless people and wet coins. I went into this trip wanting to replace FAO Schwarz with a more mature memory but knew the latter would remain because, as we all know, homeless people and wet coins are the smell of life and/or hustle and bustle.
My goal for this trip was to appear to be a local. I mean, what could be more cliché than visiting New York from LA for the weekend. I had also developed a fiery rivalry between New York and LA in my mind, (this could be a real rivalry, but I did not pursue any leads for fear of blowing my cover and getting caught in a crossfire of coastal battle cries) so I did not want to be labeled as an Angeleno in New York almost as much as I don't want to be labeled as an Angeleno period.
Unfortunately, my attempts to seem like a real New Yorker didn't even last the full cab ride from the airport to Brooklyn. I didn't think it was humanly possible to have traffic conditions that competed with LA, so while idling on the highway, I called my friend and told her I thought our cab driver was taking advantage of us. I outed myself as a non New Yorker by questioning the normal traffic flow and insinuating there was some lack of basic New Yorker knowledge that a cab driver would pick up on and exploit. The jig was up, I was a tourist. Honestly, it was a relief to drop the facade. I didn't have the energy to suppress the energy the city was giving me.
I was surprised by how much I loved New York. I kept catching myself tilting my head to the sky and saying, “NEW YORK CITAAY!” in a sing-song, Broadway voice as I tossed my hands to my sides, as if awaiting a theatrical embrace from the streets. If I didn't actually do this it's only because the decision making part of my brain moves faster than the imagination part of my brain, because that is exactly what I saw myself doing in my mind. I had decided to own the fact that I was an “LA/really Colorado girl in New York for the weekend,” and own it I did. I took pictures of everything.
Oh is that a tall building in the background? Great, let's get one with every possible combination of people in our group.
What's that? A subway? Let's take a picture of this foreign mode of public transportation.
Pizza? Well I've had that before but never in this city, picture it is!
I treated common, every day sites as if they were new revelations, things I thought only existed in Seinfeld episodes and google images.
I was a little concerned about how I would interact with the locals. People had told me that New Yorkers are a pushy and fast-paced kind of people. They are the kind of busy where “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “I love you,” can all be told with an exhale and shove. But the truth is... I would have no idea. I was far too busy noticing how a Staples was built on top of a Ross.
I loved New York and I can't wait to return, especially since most of the people from my Israel trip live there and I have friend/girl crushes on all of them. I know this seems like the perfect segueway to discussing my trip to Israel, and I know I lured you into reading this whole post with the faulty promise of some real good jew recaps but I need to break these trips into two separate posts. So I will leave you now with a brief update on my life outside of travel:
Educated, the sitcom pilot that was posted on the online fundraising site, Kickstarter, has been fully funded. We raised over double what our goal was, so thank you for everyone who donated! I'm still nannying and currently the child will only take orders from me if I am holding a stuffed giraffe and speak in an accent which sounds like Cleveland from Family Guy meets an old southern housewife. I think that's pretty much it now, stay tuned and alert for another post of a wild trip to the Home Land! I promise it won't take me weeks to write....
My best friend from the moment my infant eyes could distinguish people from objects recently moved to Brooklyn and since my brother and I were scheduled to take off from Newark for Israel on a Monday, we decided a weekend trip in New York was perfect. It had been 16 years since I was last in The Big Apple, and my most vivid memories were of FAO Schwarz and the smell of homeless people and wet coins. I went into this trip wanting to replace FAO Schwarz with a more mature memory but knew the latter would remain because, as we all know, homeless people and wet coins are the smell of life and/or hustle and bustle.
My goal for this trip was to appear to be a local. I mean, what could be more cliché than visiting New York from LA for the weekend. I had also developed a fiery rivalry between New York and LA in my mind, (this could be a real rivalry, but I did not pursue any leads for fear of blowing my cover and getting caught in a crossfire of coastal battle cries) so I did not want to be labeled as an Angeleno in New York almost as much as I don't want to be labeled as an Angeleno period.
Unfortunately, my attempts to seem like a real New Yorker didn't even last the full cab ride from the airport to Brooklyn. I didn't think it was humanly possible to have traffic conditions that competed with LA, so while idling on the highway, I called my friend and told her I thought our cab driver was taking advantage of us. I outed myself as a non New Yorker by questioning the normal traffic flow and insinuating there was some lack of basic New Yorker knowledge that a cab driver would pick up on and exploit. The jig was up, I was a tourist. Honestly, it was a relief to drop the facade. I didn't have the energy to suppress the energy the city was giving me.
I was surprised by how much I loved New York. I kept catching myself tilting my head to the sky and saying, “NEW YORK CITAAY!” in a sing-song, Broadway voice as I tossed my hands to my sides, as if awaiting a theatrical embrace from the streets. If I didn't actually do this it's only because the decision making part of my brain moves faster than the imagination part of my brain, because that is exactly what I saw myself doing in my mind. I had decided to own the fact that I was an “LA/really Colorado girl in New York for the weekend,” and own it I did. I took pictures of everything.
Oh is that a tall building in the background? Great, let's get one with every possible combination of people in our group.
What's that? A subway? Let's take a picture of this foreign mode of public transportation.
Pizza? Well I've had that before but never in this city, picture it is!
I treated common, every day sites as if they were new revelations, things I thought only existed in Seinfeld episodes and google images.
I was a little concerned about how I would interact with the locals. People had told me that New Yorkers are a pushy and fast-paced kind of people. They are the kind of busy where “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “I love you,” can all be told with an exhale and shove. But the truth is... I would have no idea. I was far too busy noticing how a Staples was built on top of a Ross.
I loved New York and I can't wait to return, especially since most of the people from my Israel trip live there and I have friend/girl crushes on all of them. I know this seems like the perfect segueway to discussing my trip to Israel, and I know I lured you into reading this whole post with the faulty promise of some real good jew recaps but I need to break these trips into two separate posts. So I will leave you now with a brief update on my life outside of travel:
Educated, the sitcom pilot that was posted on the online fundraising site, Kickstarter, has been fully funded. We raised over double what our goal was, so thank you for everyone who donated! I'm still nannying and currently the child will only take orders from me if I am holding a stuffed giraffe and speak in an accent which sounds like Cleveland from Family Guy meets an old southern housewife. I think that's pretty much it now, stay tuned and alert for another post of a wild trip to the Home Land! I promise it won't take me weeks to write....
Sunday, February 12, 2012
CONFRONTATION IS THE WORST! so I don't do it.
I am seriously THE worst at confrontation. I can't believe that for a large chunk of my college career I had every intention of being a lawyer. Following any rebuttal I would switch sides immediately, possibly before the end of the rebuttal. It doesn't help that my definition of 'confrontation' is incredibly broad, “Any situation in which my opinion could affect another person's mood in a slightly unfavorable way.” If that sounds like it knocks out pretty much all human interactions, it's because it does.
It is especially bad with people I will have to continue to see regularly. I basically volunteered to get paid less in my most recent nannying job. When the mom posed the lingering question, “we paid our old nanny $____ (you didn't really think I would let you know how balling my paycheck is, did you?), but, I mean, obviously, you would want $____ (two dollars more)...” I basically cut her off, saying, “let's just meet in the middle!” A completely unnecessary backdown. It would have been like a boxer retreating to their corner when being shown the venue.
A big reason I jumped at the chance for a smaller paycheck was because her old nanny had gotten me the job and I didn't want her to somehow find out I was being paid more, because who KNOWS what kind of confrontation that would have led to. After I hung up the phone, I thought, well that didn't go well. That is not how anyone in the history of ever having a job would have wanted that to go. But maybe I came off as really agreeable, affordable and flexible? Meanwhile I'm sure after the mom hung up the phone, she thought, well, the good news is she accepted the job, the bad news is I think she's retarded.
I'm sure my parents will be pleased to read that I consider it a confrontation to not give someone my phone number when they ask for it. While I would have no desire to see this person ever again, I would also have no desire to awkwardly think of a reason and possibly face the wrath of an upset stranger, someone who has just suffered from love at first sight. The result is some interesting additions to my phone contacts, including “Smilie Jack” and “DE'Playa.” The realist in me had to fight the anti confronter in me over asking if these were their birth names.
Despite being overly nice and agreeing to give these men my phone number, ice runs through my veins shortly after and I don't answer any phone calls or text messages, which I'm sure upsets, if not completely destroys, these men. The other day my roommate told me a girl he was interested in blatantly lied when he asked her out, I told him she handled that flawlessly because I just would have never answered. He preached that we should all just be honest with each other and when I saw how strongly he felt about this, I realized that when it comes to matters of the heart, my attempts to avoid confrontation end up affecting other people. Which, according my definition, would make my avoidance of confrontation a confrontation in itself. But what is the alternative? An actual confrontation? No, thanks!
But here is ONE thing I will confront people about and is my new project being live on kickstarter for donations RIGHT NOW! That means, as you read this, you could be throwing anywhere from 1 dollar to 1 million dollars to a pretty sweet project. Well, unless you are really behind in my posts, or reading through old ones to relive some happier times, and the kickstarter has already expired. But that wouldn't be the reality unless it was after MARCH 19, 2012. That's right, you have until MARCH 19, 2012 to donate to Educated on kickstarter and help make a really fun project happen! If you enjoy my awkward interactions in writing, you will love them acted out by hilarious and talented actors in a sitcom. So check out www.iameducated.com and throw a few dollars if you like what you see!
FUN FACT ABOUT THIS POST: I wrote the word “confrontation” or “confront” 10 times!
It is especially bad with people I will have to continue to see regularly. I basically volunteered to get paid less in my most recent nannying job. When the mom posed the lingering question, “we paid our old nanny $____ (you didn't really think I would let you know how balling my paycheck is, did you?), but, I mean, obviously, you would want $____ (two dollars more)...” I basically cut her off, saying, “let's just meet in the middle!” A completely unnecessary backdown. It would have been like a boxer retreating to their corner when being shown the venue.
A big reason I jumped at the chance for a smaller paycheck was because her old nanny had gotten me the job and I didn't want her to somehow find out I was being paid more, because who KNOWS what kind of confrontation that would have led to. After I hung up the phone, I thought, well that didn't go well. That is not how anyone in the history of ever having a job would have wanted that to go. But maybe I came off as really agreeable, affordable and flexible? Meanwhile I'm sure after the mom hung up the phone, she thought, well, the good news is she accepted the job, the bad news is I think she's retarded.
I'm sure my parents will be pleased to read that I consider it a confrontation to not give someone my phone number when they ask for it. While I would have no desire to see this person ever again, I would also have no desire to awkwardly think of a reason and possibly face the wrath of an upset stranger, someone who has just suffered from love at first sight. The result is some interesting additions to my phone contacts, including “Smilie Jack” and “DE'Playa.” The realist in me had to fight the anti confronter in me over asking if these were their birth names.
Despite being overly nice and agreeing to give these men my phone number, ice runs through my veins shortly after and I don't answer any phone calls or text messages, which I'm sure upsets, if not completely destroys, these men. The other day my roommate told me a girl he was interested in blatantly lied when he asked her out, I told him she handled that flawlessly because I just would have never answered. He preached that we should all just be honest with each other and when I saw how strongly he felt about this, I realized that when it comes to matters of the heart, my attempts to avoid confrontation end up affecting other people. Which, according my definition, would make my avoidance of confrontation a confrontation in itself. But what is the alternative? An actual confrontation? No, thanks!
But here is ONE thing I will confront people about and is my new project being live on kickstarter for donations RIGHT NOW! That means, as you read this, you could be throwing anywhere from 1 dollar to 1 million dollars to a pretty sweet project. Well, unless you are really behind in my posts, or reading through old ones to relive some happier times, and the kickstarter has already expired. But that wouldn't be the reality unless it was after MARCH 19, 2012. That's right, you have until MARCH 19, 2012 to donate to Educated on kickstarter and help make a really fun project happen! If you enjoy my awkward interactions in writing, you will love them acted out by hilarious and talented actors in a sitcom. So check out www.iameducated.com and throw a few dollars if you like what you see!
FUN FACT ABOUT THIS POST: I wrote the word “confrontation” or “confront” 10 times!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Cutting The Cord... For Now.
After almost a year and a half in Los Angeles, I did what I should have done (by law) in June 2010. I registered my car in California. Anyone who has ever talked to me for longer than three minutes knows I have a (possibly unhealthy) obsession with Colorado, and getting rid of my Rocky Mountain plates was the last thing I ever wanted to do. But my fear of driving an unregistered car had hit an all-time high; I became paranoid. I thought every cop was out to get me. I passed a motorcycle cop driving the opposite direction, and while he showed no intention or movement towards pulling me over, I turned my music completely off, gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 and slammed on my brakes to an inconspicuous 5-under the speed limit.
I knew it was only a matter of time before I was pulled over, and knowing how I deal with unexpected situations, I'm would volunteer the information of my illegal stay without provocation. I had to give into the law for my own mental well-being. My confidence hitting the California roads has skyrocketed since legally registering in the state. Now when I pass cops I throw my hands in the air in a confrontational manner and yell, “what, bitch!” daring him to pull me over. Hopefully that mindset will pass.
It was really hard for me to take those good ol' Colorado plates off my car, figuratively and literally (I got my first ever blood blister from the pliers I was using-- A SIGN??) I thought about keeping them on my bookshelf in memoriam, surrounded by candles and Buffs paraphenalia, but my roommate noted how my room resembled a Chili's (one of his better burns) and I had to hide them behind a decorative box. The worst part about getting rid of my Colorado plates is that my CU Buffs sticker wilted away around the same time and now no one knows where my loyalty truly lies. To remedy this I'm currently looking into personalized liscence plate frames so that I can continue to proudly represent. Here is what I've come up with so far:
- I'd Rather Be In Colorado
- My Other Car Is... In Colorado Because That Place Is The Shit
- Colorado Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student
- How's My Driving? Call 1-800-I-Love-Colorado
- Honk If You're Horny... For Colorado (too much?)
I am open to more suggestions re: these frames. You can also contact me if you are interested in purchasing one of them, I'll get a deal if I buy in bulk.
I knew it was only a matter of time before I was pulled over, and knowing how I deal with unexpected situations, I'm would volunteer the information of my illegal stay without provocation. I had to give into the law for my own mental well-being. My confidence hitting the California roads has skyrocketed since legally registering in the state. Now when I pass cops I throw my hands in the air in a confrontational manner and yell, “what, bitch!” daring him to pull me over. Hopefully that mindset will pass.
It was really hard for me to take those good ol' Colorado plates off my car, figuratively and literally (I got my first ever blood blister from the pliers I was using-- A SIGN??) I thought about keeping them on my bookshelf in memoriam, surrounded by candles and Buffs paraphenalia, but my roommate noted how my room resembled a Chili's (one of his better burns) and I had to hide them behind a decorative box. The worst part about getting rid of my Colorado plates is that my CU Buffs sticker wilted away around the same time and now no one knows where my loyalty truly lies. To remedy this I'm currently looking into personalized liscence plate frames so that I can continue to proudly represent. Here is what I've come up with so far:
- I'd Rather Be In Colorado
- My Other Car Is... In Colorado Because That Place Is The Shit
- Colorado Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student
- How's My Driving? Call 1-800-I-Love-Colorado
- Honk If You're Horny... For Colorado (too much?)
I am open to more suggestions re: these frames. You can also contact me if you are interested in purchasing one of them, I'll get a deal if I buy in bulk.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
It's About To Be.... A GIRL FIGHT!
As you all know, by night I am a blogger and all around badass, but by day I am a nanny in Hermosa Beach. A place that, according to its website, is “the best little beach city.” It is great. It's calm, laid back, slightly backhandedly judgmental, but great. I feel like everyone I encounter is a former hard core college partier/sorority or fraternity member who, after making millions of dollars, decided living in Hermosa was a fair trade for giving up their partying ways to raise beautiful, shaggy haired children. PLUS there is a Farmer's Market every Friday that has really great hummus, so yeah, I'm down with Hermosa Beach.
My working day in Hermosa is pretty straight forward: I take the boy I nanny to the park and we have the time of our lives. Every day is the best day of our lives. While the park is pretty great all day long, four o'clock is my favorite time. At four o'clock, the older kids are out of school and all the moms find each other and cluster together to (I assume) discuss their latest yoga class, their newest yoga pants and their plan to start a yoga collective. This point in the day just reeks of class and ease. But this illusion was shattered a few weeks ago when a mom fight broke out. I've seen my fair share of girl fights (like, at least two), and nothing could have prepared me for the schizophrenic verbal assault that occurred between these two ladies.
The interesting thing about this altercation is that it was a dog fight that spurred a cat fight. Literally. But also figuratively. One woman's large, unleashed dog attacked the other's small, leashed dog without cause. Their dogs started it so they, AS LADIES DO, finished it.
I figured these competent Hermosa moms would exchange information (should the small pup have any injuries), passive aggressively forgive one another and return home to tell their husbands and/or Pilates buddies everything they wanted to say to the other's face. But these women were confused. Unsure of whether to stick to their educated, mild mannered, beach persona or seem sincere and ready to brawl without hesitation, these women bounced between catty, personal digs and thug-like threats for twenty minutes.
The fight started with the usual insults that fly out in the heat of the moment, “I'll fuck you up,” “you're an ugly bitch,” “you can't do the Lotus pose and I'm embarrassed for you,” but that quickly changed. As the argument escalated, these ladies knew they had to really hit hard with their insults. “I have a Masters...and... I'm... going to shove it up your ass....with your dog!” “I have a PhD.....BITCH.” Only in Hermosa Beach would women put each other down by flaunting their higher education, realize it wasn't living up the the expectations of the situation, and scramble for a something to build a gangster facade around.
I was too entertained to be upset with them for ruining the point in the day that usually lulls me into relaxation. And, yes, I should have been more upset for the three-year-old I nanny. But I think it was motivation to stay in school. He doesn't want to find himself in the same situation, and only able to prematurely end the fight with, “Well, I have a high school diploma.....DICK!”
My working day in Hermosa is pretty straight forward: I take the boy I nanny to the park and we have the time of our lives. Every day is the best day of our lives. While the park is pretty great all day long, four o'clock is my favorite time. At four o'clock, the older kids are out of school and all the moms find each other and cluster together to (I assume) discuss their latest yoga class, their newest yoga pants and their plan to start a yoga collective. This point in the day just reeks of class and ease. But this illusion was shattered a few weeks ago when a mom fight broke out. I've seen my fair share of girl fights (like, at least two), and nothing could have prepared me for the schizophrenic verbal assault that occurred between these two ladies.
The interesting thing about this altercation is that it was a dog fight that spurred a cat fight. Literally. But also figuratively. One woman's large, unleashed dog attacked the other's small, leashed dog without cause. Their dogs started it so they, AS LADIES DO, finished it.
I figured these competent Hermosa moms would exchange information (should the small pup have any injuries), passive aggressively forgive one another and return home to tell their husbands and/or Pilates buddies everything they wanted to say to the other's face. But these women were confused. Unsure of whether to stick to their educated, mild mannered, beach persona or seem sincere and ready to brawl without hesitation, these women bounced between catty, personal digs and thug-like threats for twenty minutes.
The fight started with the usual insults that fly out in the heat of the moment, “I'll fuck you up,” “you're an ugly bitch,” “you can't do the Lotus pose and I'm embarrassed for you,” but that quickly changed. As the argument escalated, these ladies knew they had to really hit hard with their insults. “I have a Masters...and... I'm... going to shove it up your ass....with your dog!” “I have a PhD.....BITCH.” Only in Hermosa Beach would women put each other down by flaunting their higher education, realize it wasn't living up the the expectations of the situation, and scramble for a something to build a gangster facade around.
I was too entertained to be upset with them for ruining the point in the day that usually lulls me into relaxation. And, yes, I should have been more upset for the three-year-old I nanny. But I think it was motivation to stay in school. He doesn't want to find himself in the same situation, and only able to prematurely end the fight with, “Well, I have a high school diploma.....DICK!”
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