a short way to fall

I’ve fallen off the diet-wagon (for a few day ) and I can get up.

For a month I ate 1,200 calories a day- never more, not often much less. I worked out 3 to 4 times a week and I feel fairly certain that I have lost weight. I mean I can wear my mid-level skinny jeans- not my super skinny jeans, but still. Yet, I have had no luck with the scales.

Yes, I blame scales for my lack of number-dropping. I have never had a scale I didn’t think was broken and after much thought I have decided that that fact say more about scales than it does about me. Scales are faulty- they can’t be trusted. Digital, or that little pin with the rolling numbers- they can not be trusted! I mean one day you’re up, one day you’re down, that scale is like a drug! But I feel like what I’m doing isn’t working.

שׁAnd I’m pissed off. I’m so frustrated. I slave over allrecipes.com to find recipes with no butter,no flour but good taste and healthy ingredients. I am fucking cooking for the first time in my life because I want to lose weight. Yet my chins are still here- haven’t move an inch, all 4 of them.

I hate my 4 chins- I hate worrying about them in pictures, I hate chubby cheeks- facial cheeks that is. I just want to see a change- and I guess for that I need a number to drop off the scale. I need a chin to disappear and a cheek bone to reappear.

Is it that hard, body? Is it? Really? Maybe I just didn’t exercise for so long that even after a month+ of working out my body is still in shock. Like, “Huh?! What the fuck are you doing?!” and it just won’t budge, scared and confused. Maybe my diet isn’t working. I feel like I’m being so strict, but maybe I’m missing some important detail- except I cannot even consider going to some skinny bitch dietitian and hearing how she went from a size 1 to a size 0 in ninth grade and never looked back. Fuck it. I’ll beat that bitch, I really will not be able to control myself.

But I continue on. I go nowhere on the elliptical, I lift weights, I crunch my beloved belly, I eat near to nothing. And I hope that next time you see me I will be -1 chin, like this guy:

Most Rights Reserved

I know I have a HUGE ego, but sometimes I get really freaked out that someone is going to come into my little blog and  kidnap my word-babies.

My writing is to me like a child is to their parent- on a day when the child is behaving nicely, not being messy, biting, hitting, pulling hair and not screaming. I love my words. The words that I get out on the page are sometimes my best expression of myself, and I don’t want them to be stolen. I don’t want to think they are out there in someone else’s name. They are mine, and after a year when I lost almost all of my physical worldly possessions, I have learned that all a girl can really depend on in this life is her family, her friends, her dog and her words.

So I beg of you, please do not steal my words. In fact, let’s make a deal: I won’t kidnap your babies, if you won’t kidnap mine!

Women Create

I know so many amazing women.

In time, I wish to be able to write about all of them. But in this post, I want to focus on two of my closest friends in Israel. Both women are brilliant, smart, motivated, multi-lingual and artistic. Both women are immigrants to Israel. Both women are independent and brave. Both women are mothers, both have triplets (all together now: Oy vey! Keinehora!)! Both women are artists, who began to create art after they had created new lives. They are recreating themselves in a way. I am so inspired by these women and I want to share their art with you.

Hilary is my honorary second mom/sista-from-anotha-mista from Kibbutz Saad. As well as playing several instruments and being instrumental in introducing me to her band, who allowed me to share a wonderful and musical year with them, Hilary is an acclaimed artist, as of the last few years. Several years ago, she took a class and that class turned into beautiful flower paintings and landscapes. Then came her abstracts- her use of color is amazing and the first 3 of that installment hang proudly in my living room. They lend color, depth and personality to the otherwise white blank slate room. They make me think of Hilary and her strength.

Hilary has 5 sons and a husband. That’s right, the woman has 6 kids in her house! I mean her oldest son helps a lot and her husband is a champ, but then she had triplets and God Bless Her, she then had one more just for fun. She is a nurse full time and over time, so she cares for people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Her outlets, her music and her art are so expressive of her fun-loving personality, her kindness, her creativity, her open, adventurous side and her sensitive, feminine side.

Her latest installment of work is based on images of bamboo- the original piece was on request from a friend but as soon as friends and neighbors saw it, and the others- variations in size, color, negatives, neons, black and white- they began selling and going up in homes all over Israel, the US and Europe! Now, painting for fun is one thing, and it’s great- but on top of all of the other things to do in your life, to dream and act on a business concept, now that’s just fierce. But I understand her- I mean these pieces are good and they should be sold. I think that in the right markets, they could have serious mass appeal, which implies that her future work could have the same effect. I really believe in Hilary’s art and I love it. If you want to see more or get in touch with Hilary, contact me!

Marcia is a Brazilian queen, independent, strong, honest and kick-ass. Recently, she began designing clothes and, having been one of her first models I can tell you, this girl has vision, style and a serious understanding of how to make women look good. Her first two designs just hit stores all over Israel and I personally wear her wrap-meets-cardigan almost everyday. Marcia took this huge step- a new career, a new artform- within a year of just having triplets and building a new home. I don’t know anyone who would have the strength to do that. But she did. The first time I saw Marcia’s clothes, I already wanted one of each- they are flattering to all body-types and super sexy- dresses, tops, sleeves, oh my!

Marcia is the friend who met me at the airport when I made aliyah and helped me through the some of the hardest times of the past 5 years- and helped me celebrate some of the best times! Marcia has had quite an intense and amazing few years, she married a great man and gave birth to triplets! Yes, another set of triplets I am proud to know and love. With a big move and a broken leg, this woman has had her share of challenges this year.But she’s a champ and with her amazing family by her side, she’s kicking ass with her new clothing line!

Despite it all and with it all in her pocket, she still has the strength to start her own clothing design line, mass produce and market her women’s fashions. Her style is awesome, very feminine, very free-flowing, sexy, comfy but not shlumpadinka, curve-loving, beautiful fabrics and colors. Go here to see more and find a list a of stores, or contact me to get in touch with Marcia!

There are things we can all do everyday to support creative women like Marcia and Hilary- we can wear their designs and hang their art in our homes. We can talk them up, forward this post and other PR around to our friends and make sure we do our part to support these fierce women and their creations.

Go ahead, girls! Keep those creative juices flowing, we’re with you!

Only in Dreams

I love my subconscious! We’ve gotten so much closer these past few years and yet, I can never seem to catch up with that rascal-y rabbit. I listen to my gut now, which is a form of undressing my subconscious, but the best part is that my dreams are becoming so much more obvious!

I used to have obscure repeating dreams about scary Sesame Street, dreams which could mean many things, and came back several times a year to haunt me, taunting me as if to say, “You just don’t get it, do you?”

But recently my obscure dreams have turned a corner and they are not even trying to hide their meaning. It’s almost rude:

• A dream (a week before my last divorce court date) where I am in divorce court preceeding and my ex has a team of young, sexy sleek lawyers like on some TV show and the judge allows them to screen a 15 minute promotional video of how my ex is a saint. Not even remotely hiding my greatest, deepest fears.
• A dream where the country is at war and I am kidnapped and made to press a big red button. Not even attempting to conceal my fear of the power of my own anger.
• Dreams weeks and days before a live performance, in which I show up with no shoes, inappropriately dressed and having forgotten the song I am meant to sing completely, and forced to go on stage anyway. I mean, I’m just glad my subconscious didn’t send me to school with no clothes on. At least my mind is original, right?
• Recently, dreams about my family- some happy, even funny, and some angry- all with a subtext of longing and yearning for us all to be together again, knowing that it means taking the good with the bad.
• As for my upcoming trip, the long, secluded, no-cell-phone-or-laptop trip to Thailand I promised myself of the day I left my ex and many, many days since, I booked my ticket. So now, my subconscious has begun with its first of what will probably be many dreams of my getting lost, and sleeping in someones living room with strangers, in an uncomfortable box. I am afraid that in traveling alone I will get myself so lost or stranded that I will have to sleep in a box with strangers- nice self-confidence, self!

So what can I take from these strong, emotional, vivid dreams which my generous mind allows me to remember? Well, for starters, I’m not sure my subconscious thinks much of my ability to deduce the message from a more complicated dream-story-line. Am I insulting my own intelligence?

Secondly, maybe I’m getting closer to the core. Maybe when our dreams become more obvious and our gut voice gets louder, it means we are really learning who we are. The other day, I was thinking, trying to rationalize or make sense of the last three years of my life- having gotten married and divorced to a man I can truly say I barely knew. I really believe that I needed that experience. If tomorrow I meet Doc with the Delorean and he offers me a trip Back, I do not think I would go back and tell myself not to get married. I might go back and make sure I hid my diamond ring better and took more of my stuff- but stuff is just stuff. The last few years have been hard, and at some low points, I was truly stuck, alone, in a living nightmare. But I wouldn’t change it- it made me stronger, I know who I am, I know what I can take, and I know that I come back from it all. My sense of perspective has been altered forever, and maybe when we have these vivid dreams- some scary, some awesome- it’s because uncle subconscious knows we can take it and it’s the stuff we need to know we feel, even if we can only feel it in dreams.

For your subconscious and conscious enjoyment, Weezer’s Only in Dreams from the amazing Blue Album

Don’t Knock my Crocs!

Recently, Tom Gunn from Project Runway was on The Tonight Show with Conan O’brien and he said that the one fashion craze he does not understand is Crocs. He said that he understands that they are comfortable but that nothing can excuse how they look, “like a plastic hoof.” First of all, that is true. I admit that for a split second when I put on my Crocs, I know that under no circumstances should I leave the house looking like this, but I can’t help it.

Crocs are like walking on clouds. So soft, so happy.

And like drug addicts, we Croc-wearers enable each other. Every time I see someone else wearing Crocs, it just supports and encourages my addiction to comfortable yet ugly footwear. I don’t like the crazy colors- I have the khaki color. But I understand why people where them- the reds, blues, yellows and the other crazy nutty colors. They have personality and they’re flashy- they’re big, bright, ugly and comfy and they’re proud of it. Maybe that is what I love about Crocs- they don’t try to be something they aren’t. Like how heals try to act like they aren’t torture devices and ballet flats try to act like they aren’t compensating for not having heals and simultaneously ruining the bottom hem of your nice pants.

I love Crocs because they don’t ask anything of me- no upkeep, no conditions, no standards and no matching needed. But I do also wear their variation-on-the-Croc. I have the Mary Janes- they aren’t as comfy as they look unfortunately and ever since I fell in them and popped an ankle, we’ve been having issues. But I also have the boots. Yes, Crocs made boots and I don’t mind saying that I did not take them off all winter- and I want them this year in every color.

So, Tom Gunn, you think you’re so cool in your pin-stripe suits and slicked back hair, get off our backs! I never asked for your fashion advice- but if I ever find myself wearing a size 1 and strutting down the runway, (read, never) I’ll be sure to do so. Not all of us can be lucky enough to be married to Seal and weighing 100 lbs at the age of 40 after 3 kids. Some of us are every-woman. And we work hard, we play hard, we exercise in order to justify the tiniest rice cake snack. So, don’t shame us out of wearing our Crocs to the supermarket on Sundays. Popular culture and the need to be skinny have taken away our comfort food- don’t let it take away our comfort shoes, too!

Fuck Working Out!

I will never be one of those people who love physical exertion. I hate when those little work-out bitches say that spinning feels so good, running calms them, cardio completes their day. Not me.

Working out pisses me off. It riles me up, makes me wanna scream. Exercise sucks… but I do it now, because like beans, its good for your heart.

I hate all forms of exercise. Here’s why:

Walking outside (cause you know my ass is not running alongside traffic in daisy dukes like some soccer star) is just wrong. I walk from work in the city center of Jerusalem to my home- a nice 30-40 minute walk, depending how fast I take it. I take the dog, who sits faithfully by my side at work anyway and we walk home. At least it’s downhill.  On my walk home I pass my bagel stores, burger joints, pizza places, nice fancy restaurants. I smell meat and fish being cooked in the kitchen as I walk by sweating my fat ass off, knowing that a salad waits for me at home. I walk past the makolet (bodega) with its snack food calling my name and the skinny French immigrants and their chocolate stores, taunting me. Fat American Jewish girls ordering ice cream, as I can barely squeeze past their chubby cheeks on the sidewalk. If I could walk in a plain blank world with no delicious smells and no tempting food joints, then walking outdoors might not be so bad, but alas, my day is like one long temptation challenge on The Biggest Loser.

I don’t belong to a gym. I will not pay money to share a stinky locker room and see dangley old boobies in my face as I change. I will not sign up or wait for an elliptical machine when I  bought one a few years ago for less than the cost of 4 months gym membership. I will not be looked at while I sweat and drip and scowl. I will not watch my language or try not to look miserable just so that the gym yentas won’t mark me as the angry girl. I don’t want to go to silly classes and have some skinny bitch tell me what to do for an hour.  I certainly won’t find myself at a unisex gym, too intimidated to use the machines, oggled to death and watching grown men grunt, get red-faced and check themselves out in the mirror while they do so- If that’s what I wanted, I would have stayed married.

So I work out at home, where I really do have everything I need to weigh 20 lbs less than I currently weigh. Shameful. Dusting off the elliptical machine was a shitstorm of guilt and regret but I digress.

Being on the elliptical machine is so boring, no TV exciting enough to make me forget that I am running in place.

Lifting the free weights is awkward and I’m sure I’m doing it wrong- I’m positive that no untrained spaz like me could be doing this right. I will eventually hurt myself if I haven’t already.

Worst of all are the crunches and sit-ups. Fuck crunches and sit-ups. My belly is too fat to crunch right now and my back is too weak to help it get there. So the result is something between a flounder and a jelly fish beached on the shore at sunset. Helpless, hopeless, not pretty and very stinky.

Stretching isn’t so bad, I guess. But I highly doubt I can stretch myself into a size 8 from my living room floor. And don’t say, “You Should Do Yoga!” because all you get when you stick a high-strung, bloated bitch like me in a quiet, serene one-hour yoga class is some farting, a little uncomfortable laughter, the rude sounds of my cellphone which I inevitably did not turn off and  a walk-out 5 minutes later.

In conclusion- fuck working out! I will do it but I will complain all the way through. Because I hate exercise and nothing in this great world is going to change that.

And that is just one more thing I have in common with the great  Miss Oprah.

Operation Get Skinny: Join the PAA

Join the PAA.

No, not the Palestinian Authority Acrobats and not the Parents’ Asshats Association.

Pizza Addicts Anonymous

OK, well I am not such an anonymous person- as you already know I like spilling my guts out on the webpages of this blog- it helps me think, it allows me to feel and be honest with myself… and yourself and whoever else’s self will listen.

But I am addicted to pizza. Man, I love pizza.I mean, I grew up in New Jersey for God’s Sake where the pizza is delicious and made with the love that only a skinny man named vinny truly holds for cheese, sauce and crust. With toppings like baked ziti, eggplant, pineapple, or mountains of green olives like in Israel- or my newest recent topping-love: onion! The stinkier the pizza and the more fattening, the better.

When I was a kid, I remember that we had Pizza day once a week for lunch. The rest of the days I think we mostly brown bagged it, which was fine. But on this one wonderful day a week, we got steaming hot, oily, cheesey aromatic pizza with a thin crust and a messy shirt by 12:45 in the afternoon. I used to wait for these days to come around. Maybe I still do.

Today, as an adult, I should know better. One slice of Pizza has 400-4,000 calories, half a pound of fat and, and 0 nutritional value and yet it comprises nearly 100% of your daily required happiness. It’s sad but true. The pizza train is a one way trip to Fatassville. Population: me and 10 million Americans.

So I need to quit my one true love. The one thing that, aside from the dog, has always been there for me. When I left my ex with a couch, a TV and a bed, I moved into an empty apartment. Before my new fridge was delivered, I ordered Pizza. That pizza was there for me that first night. And it was there for me when I woke up the next morning. But I can’t stick by pizza the way it stuck by me. Because it’s making me chubby and lazy.

So I hereby officially break up with pizza. It’s not you, it’s my spare tire. We can still be friends (I say that now, but we both know it can never be true). I never meant to hurt you, you were always very good to me. I’ll miss you. *Tear*

Diet: Day 1

Misery. It’s just pure misery. I mean it’s only my first day of counting calories and my diet isn’t even technically legit (I refuse to eat reduced fat cheese. that’s sacrilege where I come from!) and still I am fucking miserable today. I’m HUNGRY!!

I got on the scale a few days ago. Here’s how it all went down…
Scale: ## Kilogram (you know my ass is not telling you how much I really weighed in at!!!)
Chubby Me: OK. I know that is too much, but I don’t know how much it fucking is in LBs. Breath. This might not be as bad as it seems.
(pause here to convert on my cell phone…  = ### Lbs)
Chubby Me: Shit! Fuck! What the hell? When the crap did that happen?
Scale: Well, it all started…
Chubby Me: Shut it! Isn’t it bad enough I just found out I’m fat?! Do you need to rub it in?! Jerk.

When I stopped talking to the inanimate object that had just calculated my new heavy weight champion boxing stats, I started to think. When did I gain all this weight? I mean I remember the delicious french fries, ice cream, mashed potatoe, white bread, hamburgers, cold beers and iced teas I enjoyed over the last few years, and as delicious as they were, they always seemed like an exception to the rule of eating healthy. Guess that was one of those lies we tell ourselves to keep going. Oh and I kept it going.

I did see my clothes shrinking but I thought it was the German dryer- it always shrinks my jeans. I just assumed it was because I can’t read the fucking German.  Grrr, Germans.

I don’t want to exercise. I don’t want to work out, sweat and kick my own ass. I DO NOT WANT TO DO CARDIO. I DO NOT WANT TO RUN, WALK, CRUNCH, LIFT, CURL, SQUAT or any of the sort. But I must. I know I must. I started with the walking. Check. But it turns out that I’m no longer 18 years old. Walking lightly for 40 minutes no longer helps me shrink  the belly I love so much. So I will work out… tomorrow.

But when I add it all up, it does equal ##Kilograms, or ### Lbs, and I’m not proud. I guess we do what we do to get by. I got divorced, got back on my feet, quit smoking, and now I have met my next hurdle. I don’t want to be skinny, my body isn’t built for it and I know the men love the cushion for the pushin’. I need to get healthier, more fit, than I am right now. I need to get into better shape, strengthen my core and get control over my eating.  So I will.

I’ll take you along with me for the ride in between my other rants. Feel free to share with me the story of your personal hell. I know I’m not the only one out here hungry as hell at midnight, thinking only of buttered popcorn, gooey brownies, Ben and Jerry and those little Keebler Elves. How many calories are in that sinful, naughty food-orgy fantasy? No. Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

Quickie: The Rule of Go Big or Go Home

Go big or go home!

There is no way to succeed, make change or make a difference without putting your foot in your mouth a few times on your way there. Because the second you speak, or at least the second I open my big mouth, there is always a fair chance that I will say something stupid. In my family, we call this Foot In Mouth Syndrome, FIMS for short.

(Usually, here is where I’d put a picture of a little kid his foot in his mouth but when I searched Google Image for “foot in mouth” I got the most disgusting images on my screen. DO NOT DO THIS SEARCH IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH! I threw up in my mouth a little and couldn’t stay on the page long enough to get a picture. So no picture for you!)

FIMS symptoms include mumbling, stammering, insulting people to their faces, divulging secrets, saying things that are obviously false and saying the worst thing at the exact wrong time. Physical reactions include blushing, backing up towards the door and in the hours after the FIMS attack, smacking ones hand against their forehead, repeatedly screaming, “I am such a dumbass!!”.

The thing is, that in order to create change, you usually have to make a mess first. Change doesn’t usually come easily or smoothly- you gotta rock the boat, you need to take chances. You gotta start a revolution by making some noise. I’m not talking about violence, unless you consider explosive retardation violence. For me, every new job or new activist project I have ever taken has begun with 4-6 weeks chock full o’ fadichot- mortifying embarrassing moments. Granted, I work in my second language so I am no stranger to a consistent flow of blunders. But it never fails. When I take a step in a bold, new direction, I always come down with a case of FIMS at some point in the very beginning. I always recover, move on to be my eloquent, successful self but first, I embarrass the shit out of myself.

My usual FIMS flub is an unintended indirect insult in the form of verbal diarrhea. Like talking shit about a politician that my donor, who I am having lunch with, helped campaign for in his last election. Now, am I right about the politician being a douche? Probably, and in the long run it might even help my cause to have discovered their relationship. But in that moment, I just unknowingly insulted my donor and for days, I commence the head-smacking and “Dumbass!” proclamations.

The list goes on- including holding in my pee weeks into my new job, too embarrassed to admit that I still have not found the bathroom and not having asked in the first week, I fear it’s too late now. Embarrassing and bad for the bladder.

I’m not saying all of this to scare you- quite the opposite.  Go ahead, do something bold, get yourself a spitting case of the FIMS and then recover. Go big or go home- rock the boat, you’ll probably fall in at least once so bring a dry set of clothes! Don’t not do things because you might make a fool out of yourself. Do things knowing that you will definitely make a fool of yourself. Make a big ass fool of yourself because that’s how you roll- taking hits for your team in order to go places and do big things. I suffer from chronic, regenerative FIMS and you don’t see me crying about it- I keep on trucking, rocking, making moves, and taking names.

FIMS-  Nothing hurt, except your pride!

Math and Growing Up Girl

I have a confession to make. In every math class I ever took, from Kindergarten to college, I uttered the bitter words, “I will never use this in real life!” and  “I won’t need to know this in my future career as a Broadway star (I was a gay man even at 12)!” and the ever famous, “When will I ever use this crap when I’m grown up!?”

Well, I’m a grown ass lady now and I admit it: On a daily basis I use math.

I am not a Broadway star. And I use math daily. But I didn’t always.

I wasn’t good at mathas a girl growing up, whether it was due to the difficulties I had concentrating, or the boy-minded focus of HS math teachers, or just a natural mutual repulsion, me and the arithmetic never hit it off.

In my years after high school, I depended on roommates to do the bills, friends to work out tip and later, I found a husband to do it for me. So strong was my aversion to numbers that when I met my ex-husband, I let him take on all of the finances, budgets and I just lived in clueless bliss. Now this may have also been a way to avoid responsibilities, granted- but I can’t deny that my lack of confidence in my math abilities, my hatred of working with numbers, was the common denominator.

My avoidance of +, -, x, /, %, <,>,$, and #s carried on. Until. Until the day I left my marriage. Until my lawyers asked me for figures I couldn’t give them. Until my savings began to sink to oblivion. Until I had to make a budget and stick to it- with the use of- gasp- numbers and math.

At work, I avoided making budgets, depended heavily on others to help pass the numbers end through while I wrote reports. Just plug them in, I thought. Looking back, it led to mistakes and missed opportunities to learn and grow. I was scared to make mistakes and I missed out.

Numbers are powerful. We know that money is powerful- but it isn’t if you cannot manage it well. It is the person who confidently has control over numbers, money, that holds the key- that has the potential to create change and sustain change. Lack of ability to fully control numbers, budgets and money is a glass ceiling in itself, holding women back from moving past certain levels of jobs to upper management, where the purse strings are held.

Teaching math skills and confidence manipulating numbers to young women should be just as important to feminism as promoting positive body image, self-defense and leadership skills. The gender gap and the glass ceiling is a product of patriarchy, and so is a male-centered method of teaching math, and the gendered separation of logic related toys (Legos for boys) and imagination related toys (dolls for girls) during childhood. But a large percentage of teachers are women. A large percentage of educators have the opportunity to help girls become just as confident as boys in this important skill-field.

Here is a great example of a math book written by women for girls- and an interview with the author on a mission. I’m with her, and these great ladies!

In 1992, Mattel’s Teen Talk Barbie said, “Math is tough!” and it was the fuck-up heard ’round the world. But when I said it as a child, I didn’t get too many gasps from the world’s concerned masses. Recently, I took on a job in the administrative arts (secretarianism) in a non-profit, originally thinking it was just a pay check, I was handed a mess of finances, to help the director get it in order and keep it in line. Budgets, incoming donations and expenses. Numbers. My friend and boss came in to my office while I slaved over the numbers. I was literally in the middle of a wrestling match- it  was me or the math and only one of us was coming out on top. There I was, all sweating and struggling with the numbers- she listened to my frustration and fear- she pushed me to keep on working on it, probably knowing how important it would be for me in the future. Thank you, if you’re reading.

I need math in my grown-up life. I now embrace numbers, I own them and I manipulate them with ease. OK, not ease necessarily, but definitely now with a calm about me. I do my best and it’s getting better all the time.

Math + Me = LOVE