Happy birthday to me!

Taurus Horoscope for week of May 17, 2007

It's about time you got the chance to be knocked on your ass by a flood of positive surprises and good feelings. I hope you're trusting enough to go with the tidal flow, even if it does temporarily render you a bit woozy. Naturally you'd like to know if this giddy surrender will land you in trouble. Is there any chance that you'll have to endure some karmic adjustment at a later date because of the fun you're having now? Here's my prediction: absolutely not. If anything, your enthusiastic cooperation with the free-form dazzle will shield you from any negative repercussions.

I am so, so willing to go with the tidal flow of good feelings. Bring it!

Eggs and escapism

I was reading this website and thinking, wow, if I could be a mom like that, a mom who's the epitome of cool, I would totally commence reproducing RIGHT NOW!

Don't worry mom. I don't think I'd be cool enough to warrant immediate donor solicitation. In fact, I even realize that I should be worrying about paying jobs before I worry about procreation. Rest assured, I do worry about paying jobs...unfortunately, that doesn't make them magically appear. Go figure.

Today was boring and tiring and demoralizing. Not necessarily in that order. I need to be better at writing diplomatic yet manipulative emails (though, come to think of it, mightn't those be synonyms?). Adopting this stylistic approach would make my life exponentially easier and probably no more unhappy.

On the upside, I hear that my grandmother not only survived the process of getting her new knee, but that she should be showing it off to the rest of the hospital ward very, very soon. I'm proud to come from such sturdy, kickass stock.

Albert Brooks was totally right!

The thing I hate about blogging is that I always think of witty lines while I'm going about my daily routine. While I'm brushing my teeth, for example, I'll be composing lines about my newfound love of C.S. Lewis (and how much this newfoundness confirms my suspicions of being a late bloomer). Clever things that are long lost by the time I actually put fingers to keyboard. In other words, blogging gives me a neat, well-edited medium for self-reflection, but it remains largely internal. So what's a self-respecting gal-blogger to do?

Why, sit and drink wine and listen to the bar's cheesy latin music until my reflections on recent events evolve into something resembling a post. Also, googleanalytics informs me that my readership has declined in recent days, and with good reason, I imagine, since there's been nothing new. Here goes.

There's something decidedly fabulous about Palestinian women. Even when I feel very pulled-together in a relaxed, comfortable, self-confidence-is-sexier-than-any-clothing kind of way, I absolutely cannot compete. They wear things that would seem absolutely ridiculous on me but that just work on them. Things like faux-fur belts with semi-matching faux-fur-and-bronze beaded necklaces. Things like tiny diamond studs affixed to an incisor (think lady-like, old riche version of a grille). Things like dark stovepipe jeans and high heels whose toe points resemble a pregnant pause. In short, exaggerated versions of trends that most women I know have long since given up as completely uncomfortable and unworkable. But these women chase after their kids in them (and they can still wear these things after having kids!). And, like Korean women, Palestinian women of a certain age simply don't do gray.

In short, they're far, far better women than I am...or could ever hope to be.

Then again, I'm wearing my knockoff vamp nail polish, and that's a sexy that works for me.


***wondering about the title. click here. ***

Come on people!

I know Rumph isn't the only person reading this blog, so please follow his example and post comments!

Everyone's from Cork

Sunday was my first mass back at St. George’s. I’d forgotten how much I love that cathedral – the stone and wood and arches, the balcony below the bell tower, and the Stations of the Cross in Palestinian ceramic tiles.

At coffee hour I met a group of English pilgrims from Salisbury. One woman, in particular, was very stereotypically (and wonderfully) British: sun hat, slightly wonky teeth, and dry, almost ironic accent. When I complained about my experience of singledom profiling during airport security, she responded, “well, twelve years ago when I was leaving, it was just after Rabin had been assassinated, I was neither young nor single, but I was traveling alone. They interrogated me for three-quarters of an hour, and then…they didn’t even apologize.” She shook her head and pursed her lips in a way that I imagine only British women can.

On Saturday I met an EAPPI volunteer from Northern Ireland. We were sitting in a friend’s tourist shop, and the friend, Marwan, was saying, “Oh, Stephanie’s mother or grandmother is from Ireland.”

“No, it’s actually much farther back than that.”

“And do you know where in Ireland they were from?” he asked politely.

“Cork.”

“Ah,” he nodded, “everyone’s from Cork.”

As I descended the bus from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, a young man caught up with me and said, “You’re not from here either, are you?”

The thing was, he sort of looked like he was from here, and I felt very confused. “No, I’m American,” and I went through the 30-second spiel of what I’m doing here.

Meeting a friend later, I asked him what I could do to stop being recognized as a foreigner before I’d even opened my mouth.

He just laughed.

Same time next year

My mom used to rave about this movie. It’s a romance between two married and otherwise faithful people whose decades-long affair consisted of an annual weekend tryst. The moralist in me has a hard time seeing the romance in this arrangement, but I digress. Anyway, my mom and I finally rented the movie one weekend, and I’m pretty sure we both fell asleep. Some things aren’t as good as we remember…. I was a little afraid that would be the case with Palestine.

Happily, it isn’t. In fact, some things are even better (the Arabic coffee, for instance, or the weather).

I can write this now, having slept off my intense disappointment and anxiety following my arrival. Israeli security interrogations…still no fun, and I wasn’t prepared for them on the way in. Also, Ben Gurion is one of the few places I’ve encountered in which being a young, waspy woman traveling alone is looked upon with suspicion, rather than vague concern. Thank goodness I didn’t have an ISM affiliation to hide, or I really might have wet myself. And I’m only kind of kidding.

No matter how innocent you are, it’s enough to produce a panic attack, if not a screaming fit, when a security madame absconds with one’s passport.

After a long Nesher ride and what I’m pretty sure was an exploitative cab fare, I arrived…to living quarters sans phone or internet.

That was when the crying started.

A few machinations later, I had a phone, but I’m still working on the internet.

On the upside, I awoke (around noon) to turtles and chickens and filtered water and real coffee. Some things are better after a year.