|
|
03.30.05
"Yes," he said groggily.
"Really?" I said. "You took Tylenol SINUS Night Time?"
"Yes," he said again.
"And it worked?" I said.
"Yes," he said again.
So I went to the kitchen, poured some orange juice, then downed two Tylenol Sinus Night Time tablets. When I got back into bed, I said, "The Tylenol Sinus Night Time really worked?"
"What?" Brian said.
"Tylenol Sinus Night Time? Did it really work when you took it the other night?"
"I never took that."
"But you just told me you did?"
"No, I didn't," he said.
"Then what did you take?"
"I didn't take anything," Brian said, turning away from me and pulling up the covers.
"But I saw you," I said. "I saw you the other night. You took two green tablets."
"No I didn't," Brian said sounding exasperated. "Why don't you just check the email."
"What?" I said.
Brian turned back towards me, a little confused and self-conscious. "Oh," he said, "Never mind." Then he turned away from me again and fell asleep.
03.28.05
"Passover," I said.
"What?"
"It's Passover. Not Thanksgiving. You said Thanksgiving."
"Oh, did I?" My father chuckled. "That's funny. Your sister corrected your mother on that same point last night. It appears as if your mother and I both think it's Thanksgiving."
"Well," I said, "Passover is kind of the Thanksgiving of Jewish holidays." I thought about it a little. It was not an exact match, of course, but one does give thanks for being led out of bondage in Egypt and being given the Torah and then Israel, which would then be taken away again, etc.
Then I noted to myself that the secular gentile holiday of thanks is called Thanksgiving, while the Jewish holiday is called Pesach, or "Pass over", as in "Thank you God for passing over the houses of the Jewish people and sparing them when you were going around slaying the all the first born."
On Thanksgiving we say, "Thank you, God, for this great bounty." On Pesach, we say, "God, if you had only led us out of Egypt, it would have been enough. If you had only given us the Torah, it would have been enough. If you had only done a little, it would have been enough. Really, you didn't have to do so much."
Every year, Jews remind each other that if you really want to thank someone, you should flatter them by telling them they didn't have to do so much. It would have been enough if they'd done just a fraction of what they did.
Nu?
Once, a friend of ours was driving us home while we were in the greater D.C. area. Brian and I thanked him profusely and kept saying, "Really, you don't have to take us all the way back to the apartment. We are so thankful and you have done so much. You can drop us off here in this vacant lot."
Our friend, who not Jewish, said, "Really? In this lot?"
And since we are both Jewish, Brian and I continued, without being able to control ourselves, "Sure. This lot looks very safe and we don't see any muggers or coke fiends around. And it's only two-thirty in the morning."
"Really?" our friend said.
"ABSOLUTELY." We said, panic-stricken. "You've really done enough." We were almost pleading now. "Please don't drive the extra half mile to the apartment. It's not that cold for February, and we could use the walk. You've done so much already, and I doubt we'll get murdered."
Our gentile friend dropped us off in a vacant lot in the middle of the night in February, just outside the District, and we both walked a half-mile home in the night in the dark, unable to figure out what we had said wrong.
Dayenu
03.27.05
Still, it is almost April in New York, and I am very ready to stop wearing my winter coat (whose lining is rapidly disintegrating). Yesterday, we walked across the park to meet Marc and David for brunch (they were visiting from Orlando) and it was sunny and clear out and I actually got sweaty. I took off my hat and scarf and coat, and remembered again how gross it is to feel hot.
When we got back from brunch, Brian and I decided to go for a jog along the East River. Brian put on sweat pants, but I just wore running shorts and a sports bra. "You're going to be cold," Brian said. But I told him it was sunny and clear and that I had gotten sweaty just from walking through the park, so I would certainly be hot if I were jogging and dressed more warmly.
Brian was right.
By the time we got outside, the sun had absolutely disappeared. The sky was the color of concrete and the wind was blowing. After five minutes, I could no longer feel my hands. Other people were jogging or cycling or strolling along the East River, but they were all wearing long sleeves or hooded sweatshirts. Or winter coats. After ten minutes I realized that not only was I extremely uncomfortable (my arms were now completely numb), but I looked like an aseasonal asshole. I was that person. That person who runs around in shorts and a sports bra even though it's 40 degrees and windy outside. That person whom I have always despised. I was she. Running around in my little shorts and sports bra, chicken white and winter flabby, numb from fingers to shoulder.
One good thing that came from feel so ridiculous and being so uncomfortable was an incentive to jog quickly.
03.24.05
Recently, I was on the subway on my way to work when I noticed that the man across from me was both sleeping and very fat. He was very heavy, indeed, but his legs were really very fat. Really. Like he had to have special jeans made for his unusually proportioned very gigantically fat legs. I couldn't stop staring. I looked up again at his sleeping, mouth-agape face. Yes, he was heavy. But (looking at his be-special-jeans-ed legs) his legs were definitely disproportionately large. Yes. They really, really were. I couldn't stop staring, but luckily, he was asleep. How odd, I kept thinking to myself, And where does he get his jeans. I am not so fat, and I have a hard time finding pants that fit.
The train stopped at Bowling Green, and the man with the fat legs continued to sleep. I got off. As I made my way up the stairs and out of the subway, I noticed the man in front of me had really, really long feet. I mean really long. So much so, they looked like flippers. Or clown shoes. But they were dress shoes. And he was dressed nicely in a nice looking suit. He was well-groomed and professional-looking, including his professional-looking dress shoes, except that they were extremely long and thin. I mean really truly long.
I watched this man make his way up the stairs, and I continued to follow him in the wrong direction for a short while. I wanted to see if the ends of his shoes appeared to have feet in them, or if his shoes were really some sort of weird business clown shoes.
There is so much available in New York City -- things I'd never even dreamed of. Waiters will sing to you and dance on the table, people will deliver videos right to your apartment. There are gyms here just for dogs. Maybe there are business clowns. Maybe people dress up in nice-looking suits and ridiculously long business-looking clown shoes. Maybe their attachés are filled with colorful balloons and those cans with the springy worms inside. Maybe really slick fortune 500 companies have these business clowns come and mix things up to improve morale or do Powerpoint presentations concerning productivity or diversity training.
It could be.
Maybe.
Or maybe the man just had ridiculously long feet.
A guy with disproportionately fat legs and another with incredibly long feet. On the same train. Wow! Only in New York.
03.21.05
I couldn't make out Brian's expression in the dark, so I jabbed him in the ribs and said, "Do you remember that fight we had when you said you didn't really think about me during the day when you were at work? What was that? Six years ago? Do you remember that?"
Brian grunted mildly.
"Do you remember that?" I said, jabbing him again. You said you didn't think about me while you were at work."
"Of course I remember it." Brian said, recoiling a bit. "We had a big fight. We were in Bageland. And you started to cry. Then Dave and Heather walked in, and it was awkward. I had two bagels melted with Swiss cheese and tomato. Can you believe that? I used to order two bagels. And I was thinner than I am now."
"I can't believe you just segued into bagel melts."
"I still don't like Munster cheese." Brian said. He would always get his melts with Swiss and I would get mine with Munster. "I didn't used to like olives," he said. "I didn't used to like mushrooms. I didn't used to like peas. I like them all now. But I still don't like Munster cheese. I don't know how you can eat it."
"Well, I can't believe you like Parmesan," I said. "It's so stinky."
The room was dark and quite. Somewhere in the city, a car alarm went off.
"Even fresh Parmesan?" Brian said.
"Fresh Parmesan is okay. But the processed stuff is gross."
The light in the apartment diagonally across from our window went on, but I fell asleep before I could catch a glimps of anyone moving around inside.
03.18.05
So I stuck my pinky in to see if the dressing tasted okay. Did it taste a little rancid? I looked on the label. It was called "Tangy Ginger Dressing." Yes. It was certainly tangy. I stuck my finger in again. Very tangy. Too tangy. One more dip. Nope. Not tangy. Definitely rancid.
I loosely screwed the top back on and left it in the sink. As I was cutting up vegetables, I noticed the dressing was burbling up and pouring down the side of the bottle as if it were molten.
I decided this was not normal
It continued burbling up, fizzing rancid ginger dressing for the next ten minutes. I panicked. "Shit!" I thought to myself. "Just what I need right now: Botulism."
It burbled up for another half hour. I ran to the phone and called my friend Amy, who is in medical school in Atlanta. When she answered the phone, I said in my most collected voice, "HELP. I'VE EATEN BOTULIZED SALAD DRESSING AND I THINK I'M GOING TO DIE." I told her about sticking my pinky in the dressing, and it burbling up out of the container.
"You're not going to die," Amy said. "Though you may experience a prolonged period of abdominal discomfort coupled with a violent bout of diarrhea and vomiting."
"I might have eaten blotusim."
"You only dipped your finger in twice."
"Three times," I correct her. "It's been 45 minutes now. How long will it take for me to know whether I have food poising?"
"The effects of some organisms can be felt in as soon as an hour. Others take as many as two days."
I could feel the clock ticking. "What should I do in the mean time?"
Amy suggested I drink water and take Pepto Bismol. "But if you start getting very sick, you should not call me. I'm just a student and I'm in Atlanta. You should call your local doctor."
I drank copious amounts of water and took Pepto Bismol. When Brian came home, I told him what happened. He just shook his head and said that hopefully I had learned my lesson and would no longer make him drink milk whose expiration date was about to pass.
03.16.05
This morning I was hit by a mailman on my way to work.
03.15.05
IRA
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN
IRA
ME
IRA
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN
IRA
MIDDLE-AGED MAN
IRA
MIDDLE-AGED MAN
IRA
YOUNG BALD GUY WITH TATTOOS
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN
YOUNG BALD GUY WITH TATTOOS
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN
IRA I haven't been away. I've been working on my new banner. And on this page, and on this page, which I still haven't quite finished. I've also been getting letters from you know who. Here is a picture Brian took of himself with The Gates. And here is a picture Brian took of me in Florida wearing my $16 skirt. More later.
03.08.05
Most these sites appear to have something to do with plants and/or use the phrase "biodeisel". I'm thinking more along the
lines of coming home, eating soup from a can, browsing the internet,
then going to bed. Sometimes you floss your teeth, but sometimes
you're just too lazy. You know what I mean. Like really really
low-impact aerobics, but with life.
This train is bound for glory. Hop on board!
03.07.05
Both Brian and I were taken a little aback by the film. It was so Jewish. Almost every other day in the film was Kol Nidre. Judaism was not overly orientalized or caricatured. Yet, there were bits of dialogue (via intertitles) like this: You dare to bring your jazz songs into my house! I taught you to sing the songs of Israel - to take my place in the synagogue!
Jack Robins/Jakie Rabinowitz (Al)
Cantor Rabinowitz (Dad) . . . and . . .
Jack Robins/Jakie Rabinowitz (Al)
Cantor Rabinowitz (Dad)
Jack Robins/Jakie Rabinowitz (Al) Blah, blah, blah. I feel like I'm lecturing. What's wrong with me? Let me switch gears: There is a big guy who walks through the train as I ride home from work. He is often disheveled-looking and speaks in a booming monotone as he tells us about how we should give him money so he can give out food to homeless people. I always felt he was very irritating to listen to (booming monotone and all) and suspected he might be using the donated funds to buy food for himself. Today, I saw him on the train again. He looked quite cleaned up, which is to say his shoes were nicer than mine. He started his spiel about about "IF-ANYONE-HERE-IS-HUNGRY-OR-HOMELESS . . . " but then the train stopped, the doors opened, and my friend leaned out an gave a bagged lunch and some chips to an authentic homeless person, saying--perfectly normal-sounding voice--, "Here you go, buddy. Have a great day." The doors closed and he continued, "IF-YOU-HAVE-A-DOLLAR,-A-QUARTER,-A-NICKLE,-A-PENNY . . ." When he walked by, I put a dollar in his cup. In the same normal-sounding voice, he said to me, "Thanks, darling."
03.06.05
Mostly, though, I only write unsexy things like email messages and grocery lists. Sometimes, I eek out a couple of blog entries a week. I write about crazy people I see on the subway or I make fun of my institutionalized uncle. Occasionally, I post pictures of myself and my loved ones.
Often, I think: Why do I maintain a website dedicated to myself? Why do I spend all this time writing about my deranged uncle or the crazy people I see on the subway? Who even cares?
Sometimes I get to feeling quite down. Especially when I see that people have swiped pictures of myself which I have made available on the internet and posted them on some godawful message board where they make snarky captions like "Having a bad day?"
I have seriously considered posting my own witty comments on their boards. Something sassy and acerbic like, "Fuck you, assholes." But then I remember I am as much at fault, as I have posted those picture in such a public place. I get to feeling really stupid when I think about this.
And when I get feeling really really low, I google my own name. Of all the Deborah Schwartzes in all the world -- and my lord! are there many -- I am the one with the biggest google web presence. There is a Deborah Schwartz who is a photographer, a Deborah Schwartz who wrote for Baywatch, a Deborah Schwartz who is the Deputy Director for Education at the Museum of Modern Art, a Deborah Schwartz who is a writer/editor for nerve.com, a Deborah Schwartz who directs community theater. You see, many of us Deborah Schwartzes are arty types. Many Deborah Schwartzes seem to be at least a decade or two older than me and relatively accomplished (maybe not so much the community theater one). And still, it would seem that the only Deborah Schwartz with a fan site (albeit self-generated) is this here Deborah Schwartz. Though I am younger and less accomplished than my fellow Deborah Schwartzes, I still manage to beat them all out in a google search.
If I cannot be famous, at least I can be ubiquitous.
So that's why I keep this site up. Because if I dropped it, I would lose my Blue Ribbon of Most Searchable Deborah Schwartz. I would lose my ubiquity, which is not quite fame, but almost as good.
I must keep up my site to keep up with the Deborah Schwartzes.
03.02.05
"In Bethesda?" I said.
"Yes. I still think they had the best burritos I've ever had."
"I liked that the burritos came with lots of sour cream and guacamole and stuff."
"Guapo's." Brian sighed.
"Guapo's," I sighed back "And the Greek Taverna."
"Why is it so difficult for people to make a good vegetarian moussaka? We didn't know how good we had it. The Greek Taverna."
"Remember Amirt Palace in Ocala."
"Five times spicy!" We nuzzled a bit, then Brian brought up Bageland in Gainesville, the way they made their tomato and swiss bagel melts. He sighed again, and said, "La Flor."
"It was so convenient."
"We ate there three times a week when we lived in Sunnyside. It was so cheap."
"And their vanilla bean and bourbon French toast. It sounded wonderful. I really should have ordered it," I said. "I hate having regrets."
We were silent for a moment, regret on our tongues. We were both thinking of Golden Wok across the street. It burned down a little over a year ago. The sushi wasn't so good, but it was 50% off if one dined-in. We both grew somber. Brian patted me on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll find another cheap sushi place. And we'll have fun looking."
I brightened for a moment. "That Italian restaurant on Prince Street. They have an amazing pasta with spinach and artichokes and arugula and fennel."
"I loved my goat cheese ravioli."
"Let's go back there soon, Brian."
"Yes. Let's."
|
tikkun olam in space provided below
friends
neighbors
please feel free to contact me. I can be reached at: |