Grace.

I have to buy a dress. It should be gaudy and preferably covered in glitter. The fabric should be polyester or, better yet, spandex. Maybe in fuchsia or lime green. It should be too tight all over, and it should flare at the bottom. That’s the ideal, at least.

I’ll be in NYC this weekend for the 50^th birthday of a relative. A Russian relative. That means at least half a bottle of perfume, uncomfortable shoes, panty hose, saggy ear-lobes under 5-lb earings, and bright pink lipstick that makes arcs around my mouth, arcs that St. Louis would be humbled by.

I found a beautiful gown yesterday at Filene’s Basement. It was a silk strapless thing with incredible support and lovely grays and blues. I was ready to buy it and then I decided to double-check the price: $1,299.99. You said what? At Filene's Basement? As if the 99 cents really makes a difference.

Next stop was Neiman Marcus where, as a testament to Pretty Woman, one of my all-time favorite movies…

“I tried to get a dress on Rodeo Drive today, and the women wouldn’t help me. And I have all this money now, and no dress!” Sniffle, sniffle.

The cashiers were too busy bickering about who was going to take what shift—too busy to notice me browsing the racks. I went undetected by their radar, and that’s probably a good thing because Neiman Marcus is ridiculously overpriced.

The nerd in me actually thought the following: “The faster you get through this shopping crap, the faster you can cross the street to Border’s. Yes, my pretty (to be said in a witch voice), your reward shall be going to a bookstore, if you can just get through this shopping excursion.”

I lasted about an hour before I made a run for it (seriously, I bolted from the mall and into a busy street, like a wide-eyed doe.) The minute I stepped through the doors at Border’s, I breathed a sigh of paper and ink air, relieved beyond words—printed or otherwise.

I then spent an hour harassing two employees about why Stephanie Klein's book was not where the computer told me it would be. And by "harassing" I mean very sweetly asking, "If possible, would you be able to help me locate a book?" I don't do mean in public. I save that for people I love and actually care about.

I saw two beautiful men this morning on my way out of the metro. They were talking to each other in sign language. One of them had a backpack slung over his shoulder as he held onto the hand of a small boy. The three of them were all talking in sign language. I’ve been wondering all day what they were saying to each other.

"You complete me?"

***

I bought tickets to go to Israel October 7-21. I might also go on a cruise to Greece halfway through the trip.

It’s a strange thing that I don’t have to explain to my family my decision to go. They get it, and they’re going too. No questions asked.

***

I’m happy being single. I’ve come to the realization that I’ve been swimming in drama because I don’t want to be responsible for anyone but myself, and yet I’ve been forcing myself into the path that I should want. I’m selfish, and if I love anything right now, I love it selfishly. The last three months have been an escapade of self-avoidance and a rather grotesque one, at that. Well, self, it’s you and me now. And I love you, luff you, lerve you, even.

***

I'll be in NYC this weekend. And Connecticut. And New Jersey. More on this later.

After a long hiatus away* from music, I've decided to return to it by getting an account at rhapsody.com. Over the course of the last few weeks, I've discovered that I really like male, moody and oftentimes depressing artists. The following are some of them:

• Rufus Wainwright
• Ray LaMontagne
• Aqualung
• Ben Folds
• David Gray
• Ben Harper
• Jack Johnson
• John Mayer
• Moby
• Coldplay
• Jeff Buckley
• Damien Rice
• The Cure
• Dave Mathews
• Belle & Sebastian

Of the female artists, I've only really gotten into Joni Mitchell, Ani DiFranco and Norah Jones. Tori Amos and I used to mesh, but she's turned uber-creepy. I'm not into the creepy as much as the moody-anguished sound.

What kind of music are you into? Please share. I'll check it out and we can discuss, perhaps have caawwwfee taaawwwwwlk.

* It's not that I've purposely avoided music. It's that I couldn't figure out if music was more of a prop for people to use as opposed to a projection of who they actually are.  

Since I have nothing to say today, I'll post This is Powazek's brilliant penguin entry from August 25th:

"There's an old story. I don't know if it's true, but it goes like this. Penguins mate for life. And there's a moment when some boy penguin is looking over that infinite expanse of black and white when one female penguin stands out. And he stands out to her. And then, well, that's it. Of all the penguins, these two are now together for life.

A couple months ago, Heather and I went camping with some friends. One morning, we emerged from our tent, bleary eyed. There were a number of dogs camping with us, too, and one of them came trotting over to me, happy as can be.

And I did what I always do. I reached out with both hands and gave him a nice hello rub. Slowly, in my early morning haze, it occurred to me. Something smelled bad. Really bad. I looked down at the happy dog and something in his eyes said to me, "Yeah, I met a skunk. Kicked his ass."

I brought my hands to my face and gave them a good sniff. The smell was intense. Skunk smell is bad from afar. But up close, it's like pure essence of death.

And my first thought, of course, was: I've gotta share this with Heather!

"Hey, baby." I said, walking to her, arms outstretched. "Smell this!"

And as she was bent over, hands on her knees, gagging and on the verge of vomiting, I knew I'd found my penguin."

I have an opportunity to go to Israel in October, and I’m hesitating. I’ve never done that before.

I have family there that I haven’t seen in six years, and they’re close family. Not the third-cousin-twice-removed kind.

I have a cousin’s grave there, and I’ve never been to it.

I have an aunt who teaches me about art every time I see her. She shows me new techniques and new materials. She buys me supplies and stuffs them in my suitcases. Colored pencils that turn to watercolors when you pass a wet paintbrush over the lines. Exacto blades for creating detailed cutouts on shiny origami paper. Fimo clay packs for “just in case you feel like it.” Gel pens that I protect like they’re jewelry made of gold. Cross-stitching patterns and string. Beads, sturdy wire and clasps. Her art hangs all over my parents’ house. It used to hang in my apartment too.

I have an uncle who looks like a Scottish sailor. He swears in many languages, smokes all the time, and has red hair. He’s short, incredibly strong, and has no patience. Once, he and I got stuck in a two-hour traffic jam caused by a brushfire that had spread to both sides of the highway. He wheeled his Honda into the ditch, drove through a 30 foot stretch of engulfing flames and told me not to tell anyone because “they just wouldn’t understand.” I told my dad, and he bought a Honda the next day. I trust my uncle like I trusted the Lysol spokeswoman—the incredibly no-nonsense, protective-of-her-kids, black woman who I desperately wanted to be my mother. My uncle is really good at keeping siblings apart in cars (it’s a technique that involves lodging his elbows into both kids’ ribcages at the same time until the giggling turns to painful squealing). I haven’t seen him since his daughter died.

I have so much more there. About a dozen more people who I’ve known since I was born—extended relatives, friends that are relatives in all ways but through name, cities that are like nieces, beaches that are like brothers, food that’s like my grandma Ginda. And yet I still hesitate.

Why?

Maybe because I don’t like random death. Random rockets.

If I were to die a gruesome death, I’d prefer it to be by gunfire. Better yet, by death squad. The kind that involves a line-up of a dozen machine gun wielding men and they all aim and fire at the same time. At least I’ll know what’s coming.

And yet people live in Israel all the time. They live by random day and by random night. And my relatives refuse to leave, even for a “few month stay in the U.S.” Not even “until all of this blows over.” Because we all know that a few months would turn into a lifetime. It will never blow over. I understand them and I don’t blame them. Turning ones back on home makes it hard to keep your head up when you return.

Sometimes, we have very little to give from within. It appears on the surface that we function in the way that people should—we wear “clothing” that “fits properly” (a nod to Chris Farley). But what’s truly going on inside is a desolate Dalí landscape, the sort that happens when a great flood passes through, wiping everything out, uprooting trees. Then the sun comes out and bakes the earth, perhaps a lone weed grows out of a crack. Throw in a Kill Bill-style trailer trash home, a bit of Coldplay in the background, and that’s one fucked up soul some of us carry inside.

We drift like the little Zoloft mascot, Bouncy. (Yes, that’s his actual name.) It’s the same background over and over again, set to repeat frame by frame.

And then, somewhere on the horizon, we see someone coming towards us. The type of someone that has flowers blooming from his shirt buttons and inside his stomach. Bright green, lush leaves, a rainforest with nourished soil. Soft grass and mulch instead of hair. A dog with a bird’s nest on its back trails not too far behind him, sniffing the trudging ant rows that disappear beneath the surface of the ground.

When we’re done treading sand and dirt, we arrive at his doorstep, thirsty, sunburnt, with empty soul pockets and selfish needs. And he offers us a place to come home to, beneath the canopy of banana leaves.

We lay down next to him, head on his lap, and his fingers run through our hair. He covers our feet with a blanket, and kisses the top of our head. He covers us with gentleness.

And doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Rainwater drips down from the leaves above, dripping from his hair, and we soak it in through our skin. We bury our face in his arm, loving the weight and warmth of it, taking from it whatever we can.

***

I was scared, I was scared
Tired and underprepared
But I wait for it
And if you go, if you go
And leave me down here on my own
Then I'll wait for you

-"In my Place," Coldplay

That's what The Lost Girls did. I sometimes think about doing this, but then all the "but what ifs" start yapping. And I don't know anyone who can afford to do this, or would want to leave for that long. So... I'll pretend that you guys are my travel buddies, and this blog is a plane.

Vroooooooooooom.

Mind if I sleep on your shoulder? I drool. You still don't mind? I'm glad we're traveling together then.

My mother has been telling me for years that love is like a shark. It has to keep moving, or else it will die. I don’t know if this is actually true, so if someone could look it up and let me know, I’d have one less thing to worry myself over. I mean, can you imagine how many dead sharks there are walking among us?

Admittedly, the desire to “stir the water” is selfish. It allows a woman to force out a new side of her partner, perhaps in a Rorschach test kind of way, as Jewish Atheist says. It allows her to see her “own heart’s ever-changing desires.” Maybe in the end, it’ll remind her why she’s with him; why or if she loves him.

Perhaps human love itself is selfish.

To understand a selfless love, I would think one would have to near the concept of Grace, or read the book Gilead. (I can't help myself, I have to quote the book: "Love is holy because it is like grace -- the worthiness of its object is never really what matters.") But without getting into that favorite subject of mine, I’ll just stick to the cut-and-dry definition of what grace is. Without referring to God, grace is “a favor rendered by one who need not do so.” Grace is “indulgence,” according to a dictionary.

On the other hand, leaning heavily on God, grace is “Divine love and protection bestowed freely on people,” or “gifts freely bestowed by God, as miracles.” Grace is a Christian term, and I don’t know if Judaism has such a concept—God seems to have more of a love/hate relationship with the Hebrews.

Are humans capable of acting like God, and bestowing love as an indulgence? Are we capable of loving without being selfish while doing so? Would you want to be loved in this way?

To me, it seems similar to how a dog loves his master. It’s wonderful and all, but it would make me feel guilty beyond words.

In the book The God of Small Things (yes, the book that has inexplicably been abandoned by my book club endeavors), a scene takes place where a young girl says something snide and hurtful to her mother. The girl braces herself for her punishment, but instead, the mother says to her daughter that each time you say something mean to someone, they love you just a little bit less.

Aside from the unbelievable demolition-ball-to-the-gut feeling I got when I read that line, I knew that that line was quite possibly true. I sat utterly stunned, acknowledging my changing perception on what I should allow myself to say to people. It made me question if even a mother’s love for her child is closer to the human way of loving, and not the God-like (or dog-like) way that I’ve been told mothers love.

I don’t know why women want "complicated." They just seem to need it as badly as the arms around her.

Complicated means unavailable. It means a chase ensues. It means fiery emotions, fights and making-up. It means second-guessing, enlisting girlfriends’ advice, plotting, scheming.

It means drama.

Drama means talking, getting to the bottom of things. It means finally saying things that you just couldn’t say before. It means understanding the person enough to realize that you don’t love them anymore.

If the waters are calm all the time, and nothing stirs the surface, how do you know what’s underneath it? How can you claim to love it?

My dad just told me about the intricacies of preserving salami. Did you know that salami actually has to breathe? Don’t put it in a plastic bag, and make sure that the pig intestine (or whatever the salami is stuffed into) is a breathable material. Otherwise, it will form a green, filmy mold.

My dad also told me about the ways of a Russian zhulik, a hooligan, that once explained to him, "If you place a salami next to a bucket of water, the salami will actually start absorbing the moisture, and it will weigh more." Why would you want the salami to weigh more, you ask? Since Russian salami is sold by weight, you can rip off customers. God, how I love America. That’s patriotism, ladies and gentlemen. I love this country more than any other on the planet because this kind of shit doesn’t happen here. Other shit happens here, but not this.

What I know about Russia comes from my parents and Minnesota’s public school system. I don’t deny that it’s a skewed perspective, but I’m sure if I picked up a Russian textbook on Soviet history, I’d get nothing but a different kind of propaganda.

My AP European History teacher once made an analogy: "While a normal country, like Canada, would have a single shoe factory making both the right and left shoe in one building, Russia would have two factories, standing side-by-side, and they’d both be making left shoes." I laughed when I heard that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if something like this is actually happening somewhere in that backwards-thinking country.

When I was in college, I had a Jewish, Chilean professor who once told me, "You are lucky. You can weave in and out of both your Russian culture and your American life. You can do it seamlessly, and you can be accepted in both worlds." But I didn’t feel like I belonged fully in either world. Maybe I purposely exiled myself from both, in fact, but I never felt like I was normal in either sphere.

I was submerged in the one-and-a-half generation, and I didn’t even know it until I started studying the Cuban exile situation during my senior year in college. Los exiliados. I had felt for years that something wasn’t quite settled within me, but I didn’t have the words to describe the Russian-Jewish refugee experience I had gone through in my own way.

It turns out I am a "halfer." The halfers, as they’re sometimes referred to, are the kids who are either born to immigrants, or were immigrants at a young age. They don’t fit into the old world fully because maybe they speak the language with an American accent, or maybe they don’t speak it fluently. They know the name of the Old City, but hesitate a bit when asked to point it out on a map and name the surrounding cities.

Being a halfer means floating away from mom and dad. It means not seeing eye-to-eye with them when it comes to life decisions. But it also means understanding cultural nuances as if it’s second nature, like knowing how to entertain Russian guests: the food that’s served, the conversation, the duration of a meal, who serves, who cleans up. It means being so close to each other, that you accept not understanding each other as a permanent result of the immigration; its presence is felt like Elijah at Passover. You might as well set the table for one more, and pull up a chair.

My Russian half is also saturated in pessimism, guilt, and a good dose of seriousness. I’m comfortable among these old friends. I once heard my Rabbi say that Judaism is meant to comfort the disturbed, and to disturb the comfortable. Growing up, I was never comfortable. Russian Jews are never really comfortable. A friend of mine once said that, "Russians always seem to be surprised that they're still alive, and yet they're somehow disappointed by that fact."

The other half of my halfer experience is my American half. In the Midwest, I was exotic once people found out where I was born, and once I’d told them my rubber-stamp-authentic Russian name. People approached my "otherness" with a respectful and mild curiosity. They’d say congratulatory phrases like, "Wow, you speak English without any accent at all! You even sound Minnesooooootan." And why not? I had grown up in the suburbs of Minneapolis, went to public schools, watched the same TV shows, vacationed at the same places as they did. I went "up" to the Boundary Waters, went "down" to Iowa, went "out" to Maryland to visit my parents. I was 100% American because my nuclear family was broken up among three different states, and I moved out of my parents’ house at 18 to live in a dorm my freshman year of college.

It was comfortable to be a little bit different than everyone else. And when I didn’t want anyone to know about my other half, I could hide behind my white skin, and turn on my Minnesota accent. I could use neutral phrases like, "happy holidays," and I could make "bars" with brownie batter and butterscotch chips for guests. No one had to know that I was a Russian Jew underneath. Even now, I am a chameleon, and I don’t even think twice about it when I change colors. It’s second nature to me.

I don’t mean to sound bitter. I hope I don’t. But I’m still confused about my identity in many ways. My life has been one of privilege and of luck, and maybe it isn’t that different than that of people who spent their entire lives in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. But I’ve also been emotionally paralyzed by the idea that I carry my identity with me like a turtle’s shell. I’m branded on the inside by my "otherness," self-imposed, or not, it’s more of a home to me than anything else. And my discomfort brings me comfort.

I spent the afternoon at Border’s Bookstore reading Stephanie Klein’s book Straight up & Dirty. I wasn’t ready to commit and actually buy the book, but I did laugh aloud a few times, which is pretty hard to get me to do. Maybe I’ll buy it online when the mood strikes me. I wouldn’t say her experiences are that unique. Women let all kinds of idiotic and awful things happen to them, myself included.

On Friday, I had another screwed up J-Date experience, offline. It involved a young gentleman who couldn’t wait to light up his joint and share his theories on creation: aliens plopped us down on this planet, and God definitely exists because, "If He didn’t, I would’ve already committed suicide." I kid you not. This actually happened. I felt uber-redneck sitting on this guy’s brother’s front porch (Oh yeah, did I mention he was house-sitting? He actually said to me at one point, "Don’t steal anything," and he meant it.). Thank God it was dark, because I would’ve felt extra-uncomfortable sitting next to a doobie-smoking loser in daylight.

I sat at Border’s, reading Ms. Klein’s book, laughing at how ridiculous her dating escapades were post-divorce. It’s funny when it happens to someone else, but it’s a bit tragic when it’s happening to you. I know, I wasn’t married. But the break-up certainly felt like a divorce.

I called my dad to pick me up from the mall (yes, insert references to being in junior high here). I can’t even begin to describe how different my life is in comparison to my parents’ lives when they were my age. Four months from now, my mom will be married. She’ll give birth to my brother one year later. The newly-weds live with my mom’s mom until several years after they immigrate to the US. That’s the first thirteen years of their marriage.

And I’m wandering around malls, single, reading a book by a blogger about being single, writing a blog about being single. If my parents were different people, I’d be very lonely. But they see me living my life, and they understand that we live in different worlds. Sometimes, we just have to remind each other of that fact, and pour Elijah another cup of wine, because he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Madox has a video up on his blog. I don't want to say anything else about it. Just go check it out.

Okay, maybe I will say something about it. I can understand how men are scared off by this sort of behavior, but on behalf of all women, I say, "I'm sorry. But I just can't help it."

I have to be honest. I’m addicted to looking at profiles on J-Date. It started out innocently enough. I signed up as a non-paying member “just to see what’s out there.” That quickly turned into a sort of after-school activity. After I saw an irresistibly clever profile, I decided to pay the $39.99 fee to join as an official member for a month, which gave me the ability to send emails and initiate IMs with others. Of course, that person never wrote back to my carefully crafted introductory email.

By then, I was well on my way to wasting countless hours, sending emails, adding nicknames to my AIM buddy list, talking on the phone (if things ever got that far), and then eventually meeting people in real life.

Different people approach J-Date in different ways. I know some people who actually keep spreadsheets on the stats about each person they go out with. Names, descriptions, family member names, phone numbers… It’s just so hard to keep everyone straight. After all, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if you’re out on a second date, and you accidentally call your date Alicia instead of Allison? Silly, Alicia was last night… Allison is tonight.

I once had an IM conversation with a guy in California about how depressed he was. He filled me in on his visits to the psychiatrist, his prescription, and his traumatic life experiences. I stayed up until 3:30 AM, chatting with him, knowing that I had no intention of ever contacting him again. As each minute ticked away, I wondered why I hadn’t signed off yet. I got mad at myself for being so pathetic. Then, I became bewildered at this person’s complete lack of sanity—why would you spill your guts to someone you don’t know? Please, ignore the fact that I’m spilling my guts in a similar fashion through this blog. I guess the only saving grace here is that I have actually made friends with people who read my blog. On J-Date, making friends is almost impossible.

People forget that there is an actual human being on the other end of all the wires. The blinking cursor is a tiny piece of soul that is reaching out, hoping to make a connection with a real person. If this is true, then the only way I can rationalize some of the behavior I’ve witnessed by other J-Date members is nothing short of brutish and plain old rude. I’ve been called a “bitch” by someone who didn’t like it when I said, “I’m sorry, I’m not interested.” One person lectured me for 45 minutes over the phone on the subject of how much the US actually contributes to the global warming crisis—that, in fact, because India has more cars on the road, we don’t contribute as much to CO2 emissions as they do. He got hostile towards the end of the conversation, so I asked him not to contact me again. Another person wrote an original, adult novel in an IM, and then started swearing at me in Russian. One guy wrote back to an email I sent him by saying, “I’m sorry, I have a girlfriend.” I’ve seen him on J-Date consistently for the last few weeks, and I’m pretty sure he’s still on there. Trust me, there are plenty more stories like this. I know I’m not the only one who has experienced utterly insane behavior that would never be allowed in real life.

Real life. What is it? Is it really a black and white issue, or does IMing still fit into some gray version of real life? Or blogging, for that matter. Whatever the answer is, I decided I’d had enough of J-Date, and I didn’t intend to renew my subscription. It was due to expire on August 8, 2006.

Of course, they’re sneaky bastards. You have to actually unsubscribe, otherwise, they charge your credit card automatically and voila, another month of my life down the toilet. Oh well, I never really liked August anyway. I think I’m going to have to join some sort of support group to help me out of this ridiculous obsession of laying down in the middle of the road and asking to be run over by giant semis. After my J-Date experience, real life isn’t looking too bad.

But it’s like gym socks or exotic cheese—you just can’t help but go back for another whiff. Please help!!!

I just heard Jack Johnson's "Gone" on rhapsody.com. I like the cut of his jib (a phrase that one of my friends uses; a jib is a sail). I'd like to say officially that Mr. Johnson is a talented man.

Look at all those fancy clothes,
But these could keep us warm just like those.
And what about your soul? Is it cold?
Is it straight from the mold, and ready to be sold?

And cars and phones and diamond rings,
Bling, bling, because those are only removable things.
And what about your mind? Does it shine?
Are there things that concern you, more than your time?

Gone, going.
Gone, everything.
Gone, don’t give a damn.
Gone, be the birds, when they don’t wanna sing.
Gone, people, all awkward with their things,
Gone.

Look at you, out to make a deal.
You try to be appealing, but you lose your appeal.
And what about those shoes you’re in today?
They’ll do no good, on the bridges you burnt along the way.

And you're willing to sell, anything?
Gone, with your head.
Leave your footprints,
And we’ll shame them with our words.
Gone, people, all careless and consumed, gone

Gone, gone, gone, everything.
Gone, don’t give a damn.
Gone, be the birds, when they don’t wanna sing.
Gone, people, all awkward with their things, Gone.

Oh, and a guy who sings and plays guitar is just plain sexy.

On Friday, I learned something about the way the world works. I learned that if you look like you’re open to conversation, and if you make eye contact with people, strangers will actually reach out to you.

In the course of about two hours, while commuting home from work and running various errands, I had the following interactions with people:

#1. I arrived at the end of my metro ride and came up to street level. Within ten seconds, I heard a man’s voice quietly say, “You look nice.” Half of me wanted to keep walking and not turn around. The other half, the one that actually won in the end, urged me to turn around and say something back. I ended up saying, “Thank you,” and it actually came out in a high-pitched, enthusiastic way. I was truly surprised by how sweet those words sounded, even coming from a stranger.

#2. Two minutes later, I stopped by Panera to pick up some bagels. On my way out, I passed by two men busily making sandwiches. They obviously weren’t that busy because I made eye contact with one of them, and I heard a part of what he said to his buddy: “Muy hermosa.” I didn’t turn around this time.

#3. Fifteen minutes later, I was driving through rush-hour traffic. The sun was shining and the weather was perfect, so I won’t complain that the sun was only on my left side. (I tend to burn like a zebra.*) Of course, I got stuck in the sun at a really long red light. Just when I was about to hang some classy piece of newspaper from the window to block out the oven heat, a rather large truck pulls up next to me, perfectly shielding me from the rays.

I was so grateful for this sudden relief that I almost didn’t notice that the truck had stopped about 20 feet short of the car in front of it. I turned down my country music hoedown that I had blaring (hey, just celebrating a beautiful Friday in my own way), and I looked at the driver. He leaned over a bit and said, “Would you mind if I cut in front of you? This guy ahead of me is taking a left…”

I quickly said, “Sure. No problem. And thanks for blocking the sun for me.”

“Well, this works out for the both of us then,” he said, smiling. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Marina,” I answered. “What’s yours?”

“George. It’s pretty simple.” Without skipping a beat he asked me, “What ethnicity are you?”

“I’m Russian,” I told him.

“Are you Orthodox?” He asked. At first I thought to myself, “As in Jewish Orthodox?”

He quickly answered my unasked question, “Because I’m Greek Orthodox. My family is Greek.”

I didn’t want to share with a random stranger that I was Jewish—for some reason it’s not something I advertise too often.

The light turned green, I let him in front of me, and eventually, I switched lanes and got ahead of him again. For several minutes, we drove parallel to each other. I swear I heard him yell to me at one point, “Pull over!” But maybe I imagined that. Several miles later, we stopped again at another red light. Not surprisingly, the conversation continued.

“So, we meet again,” He said. I smiled, saying, “Indeed, we do.”

“What do you do?” He asked me. I told him, without going into any details. The mild interrogation amused me, so I played along. I didn’t ask the same question of him because he was driving a “Sterling Cleaners” truck. It was sort of self-explanatory.

“So, where do you live?” He asked. I told him, and he immediately answered, “Oh, so you’re Jewish then.” I couldn’t believe he pinned that down so quickly. I guess I live in the “right” neighborhood for being Jewish.

Then, he proceeded to say, “I’m guessing you live with your parents.” I almost swallowed my gum, but in that brief moment of shock, he added, “You must be a good girl. Usually, Jewish girls get out of the house the minute they turn 18.”

I don’t know why, but I felt I had to defend myself, and the only thing I came up with was, “Well, I lived on my own for a while, but I decided to move back in with them.” God, what a stupid thing to say. Why would he care? And why was I feeding his stereotypes?

A moment of smoggy silence passed between us, and I decided to change the subject. “How was your day?” I asked.

He leaned out of the passenger window and answered my question by pointing to the decal lettering on the side of his truck. “It was fine.” He answered.

The light turned green, and he said, “I’ll be turning left up here. It was nice talking to you.”

“You too,” I answered. And that was the end of a rather strange moment in my life.

#4. I stopped by a liquor store a few miles from home. I picked up some sweet, girly, bottled drinks. On my way out, a man in very broken, stuttering English, said, “You’re verrry… bea-beautiful.” I got in my car, and before I closed the door, I thanked him. It’s nice to know that I inspired a man to practice what he learned in his ESL classes.

The thing about these instances is that they made me happy. It wasn’t as much about the attention (although I have to say that that was also nice). It was more about the genuine interactions with random strangers that signaled that a change had taken place inside of me. And that change showed on the outside.

*Questions: What’s black, white and red? Answer: A sunburned zebra.

The air smells like fall. That’s a big deal for a DC August day. Clean beyond the smell of chlorine swimming pools and freshly-cut grass. A cool breeze blows through my window, fluttering the curtains to the tune of Joni Mitchell’s "California."

I can smell someone’s lunch cooking. I’ve always been embarrassed by smelling someone else’s private smells (not privates, you sicko). Other people’s laundry drying, barbecues, things on stoves and in ovens. Smells that seep into the hallways of apartment buildings, smells that flow from window to window in row houses. I feel ashamed like I’m standing at their kitchen window, asking for some of their meal. Asking for a clean shirt. Like walking in on someone flexing their biceps in the bathroom mirror.

***

I was trying to find interesting quotes on the idea that life isn’t black and white...the way that Before Sunset hints at. I had a conversation with a friend of mine a while ago about living life in shades of gray. She was struggling with the question of if she tends to divide the world into two categories: good and bad, right and wrong, black and white. I've been getting lost in my countless shades of grey. I’ve also been realizing that judging people is exhausting, and leads to nowhere. I found the following quote by Eric Hoffer:

"We find it hard to apply the knowledge of ourselves to our judgement of others. The fact that we are never of one kind, that we never love without reservations and never hate with all our being cannot prevent us from seeing others as wholly black or white." Yes, this satisfied my Google search.

But I also stumbled on this quote: "Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there." How on-point is this to what I’ve been babbling about the last few days? I love how chance allows me to stumble on the things I want to see. Chance, and Google.

I hadn’t heard of Eric Hoffer before I found these quotes, but I think I’ll be reading his work in the coming weeks.

It’s true that you hear and see what you’re open to hearing and seeing. I have Carole King on through rhapsody.com and the song Beautiful came on as I was writing this post.

I’m kind of all over the place today. Old ghosts, new ones, black and white, grey judgement. Maybe there isn’t a right answer to this one. I think I’ll just crawl back into bed and breathe the fresh air coming in through my Joni window.

I had a late start this morning, which included getting lost on I-270, somewhere between Virginia, Maryland and DC. I couldn’t possibly tell you where I ended up. It took me two hours to get to work, including the metro ride.

As I finally reached the end of my journey, I stuck my hand into my purse to pull out my metro pass. Out with the pass came a panty liner, and my juvenile self started wondering who was behind me at that moment, and what tourist family of pre-adolescent boys was about to start giggling. I know. It’s not a big deal. Really. It’s not. Every woman has these in her purse. Every woman has a vagina. Yeah. But I’m the kind of person that makes a big deal out of my bra strap showing. Or revealing too much cleavage.

It probably goes back to elementary school, where girls got teased for being too developed. I once heard a rumor that my fellow sixth-graders thought that I was stuffing my bra. Instead of being flattered, as I might have been in college, I was completely mortified. I should have said, “Au contraire, ladies. These are real, and they’re fabulous.” I could’ve taught the bend-and-snap from Legally Blonde. But I just didn’t have a voice then, and I couldn’t take on the whole gaggle of brats that tended to move as a school of silverfish.

The bookworm-dork that I was didn’t understand why there had to be such malice toward people. Now, I realize it’s because all the other girls were flat and had nothing of their own to discuss. So they chose the easy victim—the one who was a little bit different than them, and who obviously wasn’t going to say anything in her own self defense. Just thinking about that awkward year makes me feel queasy.

As I stood at the metro exist, contemplating whether or not to glance over my shoulder to see who was standing directly behind me, I started to feel very juvenile for thinking that anyone would possibly care. So I turned around.

A blind man with a white cane was waiting patiently for me to stop fumbling through my purse.

How many tampons, pads, panty liners, condoms, pills, and God-knows what else I wouldn’t have given at that moment for that man to be able to see.

I certainly saw. How myopic I was. How insignificant my own demons were. How other people have real problems. How random life is. How lucky I’ve been.

Since I started this blog, I’ve been enjoying spying on those who spy on me. There are daily visitors who drop by to read the new post, then they poke around a bit, and leave. I’m left wondering, “Who was that person? And why are they up at 4:00 AM, reading my blog?” More importantly, I wonder, “Why didn’t they comment and introduce themselves?”

It’s a bit like someone looking through my closet, and then teasing me while pulling my favorite sweater over their head.

I talked to my mom last night about how technology has infiltrated my life: I date people I meet online, I listen to music online, I rent movies online, I do all of my banking online, I order books online, I read the news online…and of course, I blog.

Online.

What do I do offline?

I desperately try to make connections with people in real life. A few days ago, I saw a guy wearing a Minnesota Gophers maroon sweatshirt. I kid you not when I say that my heart did a summersault and catapulted itself into my throat. I actually stopped the guy and said, “Hey! I went to college in Minnesota!”

His reaction? A half-disinterested smirk, as he kept walking past me.

I didn’t let it bother me because I’m used to people being that way—almost embarrassed to talk to someone on the street because it would force them to break the pursed-lip, tres chic, disgusted-with-children-and-balloons model look.

I proceeded to walk my normal course until I came inches from a slow-poke woman; if we had been two cars, I would have been the annoying asshole tailgating her. I quickly realized what I was doing, so I fell back a little, at which point she turned to me and said, “I’m sorry. I broke my leg a while back.” I was so touched that this human being spoke to me that I had to stop myself from asking about the details: How did it happen? Did she just get the cast taken off? Where did she get those dainty little shoes?

Instead, all I said was, “That’s awful. I hope your leg heals fast.” She smiled at me and said, “Thanks.”

My point is that people are lonely for human contact. I am too. If you’ve gone 90% of the way, and have stopped to visit my blog, I wish you would go the extra 10% of the way and let me know who you are. Technology should be a compliment to our daily interactions with people, not a replacement.

Having said that, I would like to post some of my favorite queries that have led people to this blog:

• Lead jell cell batteries
• Loneliness trapped in an elevator
• Poison ivy on inner thigh
• Saying grace at a wedding
• True

I’ll never understand the miracle of how search engines work. But they do. And I’d like to tell the person who searched for #2 that I would love to push all the buttons on the panel if it means that we could spend an extra few minutes trapped in an elevator together, just talking to each other.

She found that she could accept almost anything. In time, she accepted the small habits, the shoes in the hallway, the socks at the foot of the bed, the hair in the sink. The tiny things that don’t mean much on their own, but when added together paint the picture of a man. She accepted him after months of small concessions of her own self. Reading in bed, watching movies after work, eating cereal for dinner. The tiny things that don’t mean much on their own, but when added together paint the picture of a woman.

She was reluctant at first, and he was the one who pursued her. She pulled away, and he would do something sweet to get one step closer to her. He called her beautiful everyday of the first month that they knew each other. He brought her flowers. He’d call often. Dating was fun in the beginning. But that wasn’t quite the way she saw it. She came close to breaking things off a few times in the first months–there just wasn’t a spark, she thought. She didn’t like his smell, the way he spoke sometimes, the way he walked. In the end, he won her heart, and she learned that these tiny things didn’t make up the man that he was; these things were just tiny things that didn’t mean much when added together.

There were bumps along the way, moments of doubt, of loneliness. The loneliness of love can be a rude awakening. It’s a stinging disappointment. Close human contact doesn’t replace intimacy, which doesn’t always satisfy a woman’s basic desire to be understood.

In the first months of living together, she’d sit on the futon in the dark, and he’d be in the next room studying, as if he wasn’t even home at all. And she’d wonder if life would be easier if they’d never gone down this path of cohabitation. Where did it put them? In some in-between place, somewhere between commitment and insecurity, between duty and desire, between responsibility and obligation. Amidst all of this was a profound loneliness for the world outside, the carefree existence that was locked away once this choice had been made.

In time, the ripples were smoothed out, or perhaps covered up by plans for the future–the house, the yard, the dog. Families were involved. His, hers, and theirs. Everything was shared and purchased together. The nest was built by both of them. Loneliness wasn’t so very lonely. It became a sort of companion in the quiet moments and a constant friend when she felt he couldn’t understand her. In time, the tiny things became nothings, and then back to somethings again. In time, the acceptance that had taken months to build up began to unravel.

In the weeks leading up to the end, to her surprise, the girl who couldn’t accept his small habits had decided to accept even the loneliness. In the end, she noticed how he smelled like her, and tasted like her, and she like him. In the end, he was a very different man than when she’d first met him, and she was a very different woman as well. It’s not a question of changing, its about how much to change; she had realized that there is no limit to the human ability to mold oneself to another. There is no limit to what people are capable of accepting, of feeling and of being. There are no tricks to it... it just takes two people who are grateful for the change that is bound to happen, for the rest of their lives. Easier said than done.

“You know the way you know about a good melon.” That’s the cute, old lady’s line from When Harry Met Sally. I don’t think that’s true anymore. Maybe it was true when that old lady was out there courting, but as far as I’m concerned, finding the one is not like picking melons at all.

It’s damn hard work. It’s sort of like Howl’s Moving Castle, with tons of moving parts, and my brain is supposed to be the fire demon, controlling it all.

They say that you’ll find him when you’re not looking, and that’s probably true, but it seems a little forced to consciously decide not to look anymore. Paris Hilton is entering the world of abstinence, so maybe that’s a start.

The thing is that even if you stumble on the perfect melon, in today’s world, that melon will most likely not be willing to take the plunge until their early thirties, and this melon will be rotting by then.

I’m still young. I know. It’s not about the age thing. It’s about hating the dating scene enough to want out of it completely. I’ve had people say to me, “Don’t worry! Just have fun and enjoy yourself.” That sounds good in theory. But enjoying dating is such an oxymoron—I can only enjoy it when I turn my brain off, and then who’s controlling the Moving Castle? Who’s going to pick out the melon? That’s the point I’m getting at. Just Enjoy Yourself equals Just Agree to Mutually Use Each Other for a While. Is this how melons are picked now-a-days? Is the person who agrees to such an arrangement the right kind of melon? Am I acting like the right kind of melon for being a party to such things? God, this is exhausting. It’s completely and utterly exhausting. And now you can understand why I’m susceptible to such suggestions as, “Don’t worry. Just enjoy yourself.”

The saving grace to all of this is the randomness of life. I read a tragic blurb yesterday on cnn.com about a fifteen year-old girl who accidentally ran her mother over while learning how to parallel park. She pressed the gas instead of the break and killed her mom as a result. Her life went from being average, to completely shattered in a matter of seconds. I felt sick to my stomach after reading that, and was thankful that my mom never took interest in teaching me how to drive.

You never know what can happen. You can plan for anything, and you can act like you control your life, but the reality is that life can spin you around like that cow from the movie Twister and then dump you in a corn field. Nothing is really in your hands. That’s comforting in many ways. That thought has kept me grounded the last couple of months because I’ve realized that random chance always has the upper hand. I’m trying not to worry too much about anything…because I might get run over by a car tomorrow. And hey, I’m alive today.

***
As a sidenote, check out this post at Sweet Juniper!. I want to know where I could find one of these amazing men...and when.

Men’s cologne has a way of staying on a woman’s skin for hours after he leaves. It lingers on her cheek, her neck, her fingers. She only touches the back of his neck with her hand, pulling him in for a few rousing seconds, and the smell clings to her long after she crawls into her empty bed. It drifts into her half-lucid sleep, and keeps her senses wide awake. It makes her skin sensitive to the sheets, the feel of the pillow cradling her head, as if in the bend of his elbow. It flutters in the air around her, mixed with his taste. The feel of his lips on hers, eyes closed, dreaming that he is lying next to her.

When she wakes up in the morning, the last wisp of the smell is gone, and she is saddened by that almost as if he himself had snuck away at dawn without saying goodbye. Regardless, she smiles to herself, just barely awake, and wonders if she was dreaming.

***

My friend and I are deep in conversation as we ride the metro to the air-conditioned heaven that is the Pentagon City Mall. I’m playing with my hair, twirling it between my fingers, when I suddenly yell, “Holy shit! My first gray hair!”

Plenty of people hear me. Trust me. Possibly the whole train car hears me scream this. A gentleman in a gray suit with a whole head of gray laughs and says, “Don’t worry. It happens to all of us at some point.”