Things My Mom Sends Me @thingsmymomsendsme-blog - Tumblr Blog

In My Own Little Corner

When I was little, I spent almost every Friday night at my Grandparents' house. I had a routine: eat dinner, run around, talk to myself, make fake long nails out of scotch tape, color my fake long scotch tape nails with highlighters, ask my Grandparents a bunch of questions, like: "Can God see me when I go to the bathroom?", get tired, plop myself on the couch, and watch movies.

I wouldn't watch just any movies, though. No, no. I'd watch movie-musicals. And I'm not talking about Grease. Everyone always wants to bring up Grease.

I'm talking about a treasure trove of old-timey classics from Rodgers and Hammerstein, Kander and Ebb, and Sondheim, to Willson, Bernstein, and the other Styne-with-a-y-no-Hammer. I voraciously worked my way through every last one in my Grandparents' collection. And when I ran out, I'd watch them all over again. I was insatiable. I'd ask to borrow my favorites so I could watch them at home. And when merely sitting and beholding these films wasn't enough; I'd stand up, move a few inches closer to the T.V. screen, and flail around to musical numbers with reckless abandon.

I would think to myself: surely people besides grandparents and parents knew how amazing these movie-musicals were, no? I couldn't be the only one, right? Was there anyone out there? It was lonely in Dorkland.

My budding devotion knew no bounds; and thus, I went through a rather long phase of what could best be described as "movie-musical proselytizing".

You'd find me on the playground. I'd be leaning against a flippy bar where my friends and I were always doing lots of flips. It was hot. I'd push my uneven bangs off my forehead and squint in the midday sun as I chattered with two Brittanys. Brittanies? Maybe Brittnees. Or Brytknees.

Brittany 1 would say something like: "I like the end of The Little Mermaid when she gets her voice and then her dad makes her sparkle and then she gets her legs and and and and then she marries Eric."

And then Brittany 2 would chime in: "Me too. My mom got me this um this Little Mermaid locket at Disneyland and and and uh and it was super expensive is what she said."

And so then I'd ask: "Have you guys ever seen the movie Gypsy? There's one with Rosalind Russell and one with Bette Midler. It's a musical about a mom and her two daughters and one daughter runs away and the other becomes a stripper but her mom doesn't want her to but she does anyway and then a bunch of other strippers help her to be a better stripper and then and then she becomes the most famous stripper."

Or I'd be at a slumber party, lazing about in a mini moo-moo embellished with some pizza-grease stains. Megan 1, Megan 2, Brittany 1, and I would have our sleeping bags laid out all tetris-like and we'd be pouring over a selection of VHS tapes, figuring out what to watch.

Megan 1 always had to be first. That's why she was Megan 1: "I pick Ferngully. Let's do Ferngullyyy."

Megan 2 would counter with: "Homeward Bound, Homeward Boooound. C'monnnn."

And, of course -- good ol' Brittany 1: "But The Little Mermaid is my favorite ever of all time favoritest movieeee."

I no longer wanted to be part of Brittany 1's world if it meant I'd have to watch The Little Mermaid even one more time.

So I'd point to my contribution to the VHS pile: "This is The Unsinkable Molly Brown. Debbie Reynolds is in it and she's poor and works at a bar and dances but then she meets a man with a deep voice and they find gold and then and then they move to a big house and the other rich people in their neighborhood don't like them."

Or I'd be in class. The best days in class were 'Show and Tell' days. I always felt surprisingly confident on 'Show and Tell' days. You could tell 'cause on 'Show and Tell' days, my hair would be up in the high, high, highest ponytail. There was ne'er a ponytail higher. It was Half-Asian Jake's turn and then I was next. I brought my favorite doll.

Half-Asian Jake closed with: "...and and and that's why Wolverine is the greatest X-Men card you could ever have ever."

Such a relief when Half-Asian Jake was done. He always spat when he talked.

A little floofing of the highest ponytail and I was ready: "This is my favorite doll that my Mom gave me. I named her Dorkis after Julie Newmar's character in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers which is a musical about seven men who kidnap seven ladies and keep them in a house and then marry them."

I didn't ended up converting anyone. Almost 99.9999999999 percent of the time no one even cared what I was talking about; but that was okay -- I'd just keep talking. I learned not to feel too affected by my peers' indifference. I knew there had to be kindred-not-old-people spirits out there and I'd find them one day. Till then, I'd just daydream about it -- while doing jazz squares by myself on the blacktop until recess was over.

In a show next week! Telling a lot of stories from this blog.

Girl at Work

Mom and Dad instilled a strong work ethic in me from a young age. They wanted me to know how important it was to work hard for the things I wanted. After all, they did -- and it paid off. They got the things they wanted: a small 4-bedroom home in a middle class neighborhood with only minor tree-root damage on the front patio, a Honda, a Jeep, and enough money to go on various family cruises with Carnival Cruise Lines.

Mom would ask me what kind of job I wanted when I grew up. Even at age 6, I had it narrowed down. I told her, "I want to be an actress, a cashier at Target, or a waitress at a bowling alley." I was sure of myself in that I knew, if given the opportunity to hold any of these esteemed positions, I would certainly thrive.

Age 16. First real job. The Olive Garden. I was a host and I oozed hospitaliano. I had to wear a tie that the company provided, and even though it was the longest tie ever; so long that it would get caught in my pants as I was zipping them up, 'cause sometimes I would put my pants on last, which is necessary for you to know; but long tie, schmong tie -- it didn't stop me from giving 5-star service when seating patrons ever so carefully at a table in the Riesling room, or maybe at a luxurious booth in the Pinot Grigio room. Besides allowance, this was the first time where I earned my own money for the things that I wanted. I cherished the ability to (kind of -- actually, just barely) take care of myself. I bought myself jeans and Taco Bell.

In fact, there's only ever been two periods of time in my adult life where I wasn't working. Freshman year of college in San Francisco; where I spent $800 in one month going out with new college friends, and trying to find myself. "Finding one's self is expensive", I'd tell Mom and Dad. Summer came around, classes were done, and I was employed faster than you could ask yourself: "Isn't a money squandering Jew an oxymoron?" (Answer: nope.)

And about a year ago, I was unemployed for three months. At first I was so scared of being jobless that I could've puked and I hate puking more than anything. I almost hate it more than I hate fascist dictators. But maybe I WOULD puke on a fascist dictator, if given the chance. Anyways, Mom and Dad told me to give myself a break, relax, and enjoy a little bit of time off. I'd have some auditions scattered here and there. I'd go to lunches with friends and wax poetic about what the future holds. I would also go for a lot of long runs and hikes. I'd combine the two and go on hike-run hybrids. I spent so much time running and hiking that I got sick of how much time it gave me to clear my mind. My mind was so clear that I fucking hated it. Where was the clutter? Where was the worry? And then I'd remember: I had no source of real income. So, I got a job. I missed the sheer thrill of answering to someone else, I guess.

But as much as Mom and Dad have touted the importance of work, and as steadfastly as I've clung to that, and will continue to do so, I still dream of the day when I'll have enough money to do whatever I want all of the time. Maybe I'll get four more dogs, and hang out with all five of my dogs on my big couch with the reclining seats while watching reruns of The Office. Maybe I'll buy a burrito every day. And then plan a weekend trip to some place not even close to me that claims they have the best burritos. Maybe I'll take Mom and Dad on a Celebrity cruise instead of a Carnival cruise. Maybe I'll finally get the dent on my Honda fixed. I don't know! I don't know. These are just dreams. And until then -- it's all work. But that's okay. At least I don't have to wear a tie now.

The Littlest Jew

Mom and Dad met in Israel on a kibbutz. Which is a commune for Jews. And people who aren’t Jews, but don’t mind living with a bunch of Jews. Dad was fresh out of the Israeli army and Mom was taking the ‘I don’t want to stay in L.A. and go to community college. I want to get OUT and start LIVIN’!’ route. About two months after Mom and Dad’s meet-cute at a makeshift commune nightclub, they were engaged. Then came all of this hulabaloo with Mom having to go back to the U.S., then having no money, then finally making it back to Israel, and then Hava Nagila, boom shaka laka, and baby makes three.

I was a year old when we moved to the States. My sister was born 4 years later. I got lucky with dual-citizenship. She got lucky with never being stopped by Israeli airport officials interrogating her on why she wouldn’t stay FOR-E-VER.

I didn’t grow up with any Israelis; or any Jews, for that matter. My friends were a hodgepodge of Filipinos, Vietnamese, Mexicans, and Euro-Mutts. There were no intense cultural or religious divisions, really. At least none that we knew of. None that stopped us from being friends. We were all equally dumb and innocent twerps. Sure -- I got the the occasional, “Are all Jews as short as you and your family?”, or the equivocal, “Do you believe in Jesus?”, to which 7-year-old me would retort, “I believe he was a man, like our Dads are men.” It never caused a stir. But try explaining to a bunch of pig-fed little girls at your slumber party that your Dad won’t let you eat pork in the house because it’s not ‘kosher’, so that means: “We’re gonna have our pepperoni pizza in the garage. But it’s okay, ‘cause my Mom set up a table and my boom box in there for us, so we can listen to Hanson." I hoped that garage pizza didn't make me weird.

I vividly remember that during class in third grade, my teacher pulled down a giant map over the whiteboard and told us that, one-by-one, we would go up to the map and point to where we were born. It was clear that California was the 'it' place to be birthed. Then it was my turn. I sauntered up with assuredness. But that assuredness was soon squashed by the fact that I could not, for the tiny life of me, find Israel on the map. I just stood there, staring. Completely confounded, utterly embarrassed, trying to stifle tears. Why was I the only one? This was like garage pizza.

My teacher finally came to my aid and pointed out Israel. It was the speck above Egypt.

I was born in a speck.

It may have seemed so insignificant, but half my family was in that speck. My Dad was from that speck. I was brought into this world because of that speck.

And in a profound moment of adolescent-self-realization, I concluded: I was that speck. That speck was me. Specktacular.

My teacher asked me if I would tell my classmates a little bit about being from Israel and being Jewish. I most definitely WOULD: "I go back to Israel every few years to see my family. There's a lot of them and everyone yells in Hebrew and eats a lot. Being Jewish is fun because of extra holidays."

As kids, we didn’t want to be the least bit different from one another. We wanted the same everything as everyone else. But each one of us eventually had our moment where we wised up to whatever it was that made us unique. Those moments were cool. We're all far more interesting twerps now.

She Fakes the Violin

By the age of nine, I had become adept at annoying Mom into submission when there was something that I had to be apart of.

I had my sights acutely set on being in fourth grade band. Every fourth grader who was any fourth grader was signing up and picking their respective instruments, and I'd be damned if I wasn't apart of this trend. After all, I had actively taken part in other trends, like: rolling up my denim shorts, buying TLC and Alanis Morissette cassette singles at The Warehouse, and forming exclusive clubs with other girls where we'd run around and talk about how one day we'd all have humungous boobs. (Little did little me know that I'd only end up with moderately sized boobs.)

I spent one afternoon at my sitter's house, contemplating how I'd go about convincing Mom that I was destined to be a flautist, or that I would play the clarinet with the utmost devotion. I simply couldn't tell her I wanted in because everyone else was signing up; that would lack real ambition on my part. I had to up the ante. I needed to verbally paint Mom a picture of a young girl, a wind instrument, and a future full of possibilities.

So when Mom picked me up, I started talking. And I didn't stop. There were so many things I WASN'T good at: softball, math, eating peas, math. But talking was not one of them. I was in the zone. And by bedtime, Mom was willing to say yes to anything. Whatever it took to shut me up.

Subsequently, I got to meet with the music teacher for an instrument evaluation. Apparently, my arms were too short for wind instruments. (Little did little me know that throughout life, my arms would be too short for a lot of things.) I was devastated. Instead, I was assigned a violin. It was definitely not what I had imagined. But I couldn't back out. I had talked too hard to get to where I was.

Mom rented a violin for me. Toting it around school, I felt important. It was nice. And on the first day of music class, it seemed easy enough. "This is how you rosin your bow.", "This is how you hold your bow.", "This is where you put your fingers." Second class, we learned 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'. Still pretty easy. Third class, we started a new song, 'The Gypsy's Dance', or something. I was finding it difficult to keep up. Fourth class, I hit a big, fat, ugly wall.

I hated the violin. I was so, so bad at it. Everyone around me was plucking away with ease. Their gypsies were dancing. My gypsy was dying. It was awful. Mom would ask me how I liked playing the violin and every single time I would tell her I LOVED it. But I lied. I lied right through the gaps in between my tiny tic-tac teeth. She would ask me to play something for her, but all I could play was 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'; so I played it 100,000 times. I'm sure Mom wanted to hear something else, but every time I finished 'Twinkle, Twinkle...', she'd beam, applaud me, and say, "That was so great, sweetie! You're a natural." I was such an asshole.

I didn't have the heart to tell Mom the truth about my disdain for playing violin, for my music class, and for my music teacher, Mr. T.; who smelled like full-fat milk and Vicks VapoRub . I figured the only way I could stick it out was to keep living my lie and fake it until the school year was done.

In class, Mr. T never made any of us perform a solo. It was just a bunch of kids playing the same crap in unison, over and over again. And I was getting very proficient in looking like I knew what I was doing. Class in and class out, I wouldn't actually play a single note. I would, however, pretend to play full length songs -- with gusto.

The final culmination of our musical efforts was a district wide concert where all of the 4th grade violinists would perform five songs. It would be a defining and glorious moment for many. But for me, it was anything but.

Mom and Dad sat on the wooden bleachers, straining to get a glimpse of their wonderful daughter, who had since been replaced by a deceitful little turd. Song after song, my short arms and I worked furiously to pull off a convincing performance.

When all five songs were done, I almost cried; I was utterly defeated. My short arms hurt, my ponytail was disheveled; I was a mess. Mom and Dad rushed up to me with huge smiles plastered on and I couldn't hold it in anymore. I broke down and told them that it was all a complete sham -- that I was a complete sham. Mom held my face in her hands, and tenderly told me that she knew I'd been faking it since long before the concert. But that, nevertheless, she was impressed by my solid effort to make her believe otherwise. That, so what if I was the worst violinist ever? It was a great performance! And that she and Dad were proud of me, no matter what.

After that, we went to Fuddruckers and my short arms and I ate a burger and quickly forgot all about how lousy we were.

And we never picked up a violin again.

I'm Starting to Do Things Like Mom Now

My boyfriend and I adopted a dog. Like Mom, I worry. I worry about him making dog-friends, and peeing in the right places, and contracting cryptosporidium from the communal water bowl at the dog park. I want him to know that I'm the leader of the pack, and that he better listen to me, and that I make that Cesar Milan "Tsch" noise 'cause I'm really trying to be a good dog-mom, and pleeeeeease eat your food, or I'll lose my miiiiiiiiind. I just want your poops to be healthy, solid little nuggets. It's ridiculous how much I care about your poops. And; like Mom did for all of our dogs growing up; I sing for him, I dance for him, and I have one-sided conversations with him. I speak my mind, he licks my mouth.

I drive like Mom. When I change lanes on the freeway, I slant my body in the direction that my car is moving. If I speed up to move around someone, I grip the wheel, lean forward, and haul ass, while shaking my head, mumbling, "This guy..." If someone on the road really pisses me off, I've been known to give quite the classy, "Fuck you, DICK!" with my puny middle finger jabbing through the air, so they can take a good look. Not very Mom-like, I know. But sometimes....sometimes, I'll put on the most serious stink face, and with as much Mom-sass as I can muster, I'll shout, "HEY YOU. YOU BETTER KNOCK IT OFF." I'm sure I've left them inconsolable after that.

"I just want to be comfy", was something I always heard Mom express in reference to clothing. "Ooh, this shirt is comfy." "These shoes are so comfy." "Feel this sweater. Comfy!" Now I'm 27, and I should be showing off my luscious breasts (not), super long legs (not), my pretty decent tush (eh). But instead, I wear jeans and baseball hats all of the time. And I don't care if my very fashionable sister looks me up and down every time she sees me and tells me I 'look like a tiny lesbian who doesn't try very hard'. I don't care, 'cause I'm comfy.

And then there are times when I'll have one of my Mom-like episodes. My boyfriend will spill a drop of paint on our rug while we're fixing up our room, and I'll do the following: make crazy bulgy eyes and bellow, "WHAAAATTTTT DID YOU DOOOOOOO????!!!!" Kick an empty box on the floor and tug on my hair a bit. Sputter, "Well, this is just FUCKING GREAT." and storm out of the apartment. Take a 'cool-down' walk around the block, and talk to Mom on the phone, who'll say, ever so gently, and in her infinite wisdom, "Yeah, I know how it is, sweetie. But you need to calm down and apologize, 'cause it really wasn't that big of a deal and you sound crazy right now." So I do. 'Cause it wasn't, and 'cause maybe I was a little crazy.

And 'cause that's what Mom would do.

Here's a Dad post. 'Cause Dad IS half responsible for making me and my sister. He put in the work. We're his Goddamn kids, too. And I'm saying that last part like Mara Wilson in Mrs. Doubtfire.

Things I've inherited from Dad:

Not taking myself too seriously. This all stems from when I was in high school, and boys (all three of them) would call the house-phone for me, and Dad would pick up, and in his Middle Eastern accent, would say, "Hello Clarice". As in "Silence of the Lambs". As in Anthony Hopkins eating people with a side of beans. Thus began a desensitization process.

Having strong opinions. For instance -- Dad: "Jack Nicholson is the best actor ever." Me: "No freakin' way. It's Kevin Spacey." Dad: "You're a moron."

Telling horrible jokes. And retelling, and retelling, and retelling them. The fact that they may not be funny, or relevant, or anything, doesn't matter. To us, they're HILARIOUS. And people can just sit there, and shake their heads, and we won't care one bit.

Being such a weird unassuming dork, that it's endearing. It definitely works for Dad. I can only hope the same for myself. Wiiiink.

And there's also the love for spicy food, the musical "1776", rubbing my nose when I get excited, and falling asleep during everything.

Being half of Dad ain't half bad. In fact, it's awesome, 'cause he's awesome. Also, praise be to him for my olivey skin-tone. I'd say I only get sunburned once a year.

Mom

You're the best, Mom

And the best Mom

I know Moms Day is coming up

But I wanted to be early

Unlike that one time

When I procrastinated on a big ass science project

And you got so mad

And yelled, and yelled, and yelled

Like "TALIAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"WHAT THE FUUUUUCK WERE YOU THINKING!?!?!?!?!?"

And you did the crazy eyes

And the scary pursed mouth

And grounded me

So I threw a shoe at my closet

'Cause I was mad

And it made a dent

And I said something profound like

"You're ruining everything for me, MOM."

To which you retorted

"GOOD. Deal with it."

And I did

I dealt with it

And I was better off for it

(Even though you ungrounded me for a bit

So I could go to a cast party

For that play I was in

Thanks)

Because you didn't keep me on a tight leash

Kids on leashes

What's that all about?

I felt I was able to do what I wanted to do

And be who I wanted to be

Like that one time

That I smoked pot when I was 16

Out of a pipe shaped like a snail

And came home high and told you

"Mom, I'm high. I'm sorry."

And you said

"It's okay. I'm glad you told me."

And when I lost my virginity

In a garage

Maybe Dad reads this

Nevermind

You were not only a Mom

You were a friend

You knew when to give me a break

And you knew when to scream at me

In the middle of a Ralph's parking lot

I appreciate you

For loving me unconditionally

Even when I went through that phase

Where I was always on the family computer

Downloading music illegally

Specifically from Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals

Or when I peed my pants

In your Honda Civic

'Cause I took it for a drive

When I only had my permit

And I accidentally cut some guy off

And he chased me around the neighborhood for a while

Sorry

But you're the best, Mom

And the best Mom

The Scary Stuff

This is dedicated to my very special childhood phobias that Mom had to deal with.

Balloons. I'd go to friends' birthday parties ('Cause I had a few of them. Friends. Who would invite me to their parties.) and of course there'd be some asshole clown making balloon animals and I'd say "NOPE" and stay in the other room with the snacks. Everyone else would be happily playing with their balloon dogs, cats, flowers, swords, spatulas, whatever. I'd convince myself that a girl doesn't need a stupid balloon to have fun. Not when she has Chex party mix and an imagination. I'd question the existence of balloons. What is their purpose other than to torment me? And if they popped; well then - that'd be the end of it. That'd send me straight into a small-scale panicked frenzy, where I'd just run around screaming "Noooooo! Nooooooooooo!". We've all had our moments.

Fireworks. These were supposed to be fun and fantastical and yada yada. Not for me. No way. Unexpectedly bombarding. Dementedly loud. And for what? FOR WHAT? Everyone always wanted to go see fireworks; so I'd be dragged along to some field, to sit on some picnic blanket, where I'd spend the entire night being 'that one weird ass little girl with the serious firework issues'. I'd have my hands over my ears, I'd be rocking back and forth, humming loudly, while simultaneously crying softly, to distract myself. And I'd keep, and keep, and keep asking Mom when it would all be fucking over. Sometimes, I'd just sit in the car.

Ursula, the Sea Witch, who was on "The Little Mermaid" poster that hung above my bed. A half-woman half-octopus nightmare. Sometimes I'd stare right at her horrible face to see if I could just be brave enough and hack it, 'cause Mom gave me that poster and it was in a nice frame and I loved it. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. Looking at her and her giant purple breasts before I fell asleep each night would cause my subconscious to whip up some terrifying dreams in which Ursula was my disapproving grandmother. I had to take the poster down.

And finally -- a fear so agonizing, so consuming, that I still have yet to release myself from its dastardly grip: puking. There are people out there who like to puke. They say it makes them feel better. I would rather have a headache, a fever, a cough, the chills, cold sweats, a sore throat, pink eye(s), a consistently running snot-faucet for a nose, and someone continuously slapping me, than vomit. I can count how many times I've ralphed in my life. It's three. Once when I was 5, and we went overseas to visit family. I got some crazy Scarlet Fever thing and had to throw up in a tub, 'cause it was just shooting out of me at too rapid a pace. Once when I was seven, after I had eaten a tainted turkey burger for dinner at the neighbors' house. Never had dinner with those neighbors again. I wonder if they took it personally? And then the third time was when I was 8 and had a 'tummy bug'. (They make it sound cute. It is abhorrent.) I was lying in Mom and Dad's bed that morning, watching Nickelodeon, when on came a Waffle Crisp commercial, and off I went to barf. And in 4th grade, my friend at school threw up on the playground and I ran away from her. Just ran away. Now, every single time I feel even an iota of nausea, I'll pace, I'll worry, I'll call Mom, I'll shake my boyfriend to wake him up and warn him "I think I might throw up." and then ask him "Will you hold my hair if I do?" to test his dedication. He always says yes. I never end up puking. It's been 18 years now since I was last face-to-bowl with a toilet.

I've definitely conquered some of my fears. I'd say I'm doing pretty well now. I'm okay around balloons (kind of), I can enjoy a good fireworks display (kind of), and Ursula hasn't been in one of my dreams for a very long time (...maybe 6 months). I guess I need to get drunk and yack to get over the last one. But at this point, I'd rather keep the streak alive and shoot for 20 years of barf-lessness. It's a personal goal.

Email from Mom:

One day, when you were little, I picked you up from Grammy's, and on the way home, some other driver cut me off and I almost hit him. I was so mad, but I was trying to watch my language around my sweet little girl, so I yelled out "Idiot!" and you said, "No, Mom....that's an asshole".

Diary

Mom gave me my first diary when I was seven. She always encouraged creativity through reading and writing, and NO VIDEO GAMES. "They'll make your brain bleed, honey. Seriously." But I was still able to watch "Full House" and "Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman". Tit for tat.

My diary was pink with a picture of Jasmine from "Aladdin" on the cover. I always felt close to Jasmine, since she was the brown one. All of the girls at school would say stuff like, "I'm Ariel, 'cause I have red hair, and I like the beach." Or "I'm Belle, 'cause I have brown hair, and I like books." So, I played too, "I'm Jasmine, because my Dad is a short brown man, and I come from a place where there's a lot of sand." Regardless of the fact that Jasmine was an Arab and I'm an Israeli Jew, I still could relate 'Middle East' wise. Pass the hummus.

Anyways, I wrote a ton of stuff in this diary. They weren't really fleshed out entries so much as they were "Dear Diary: Scribble Scribble, I like these things, look at my cursive T." Sometimes I wrote about my lunch pail, wanting to be best friends with the cool new girl from Vietnam, my progress with doing flips on the monkey bars, getting student of the month, then almost having that title revoked for calling a boy a penis, and some bitch named Lexi who was super Greek and super mean to me. Fuck her. Finished that diary, and on to another.

Quite a few entries in my next diary were dedicated to my unrequited love for Michael Flatley: Lord of the Dance. I would watch "Riverdance" on repeat till I was blue in the miniature face. I thought Michael was it for me. I was so jealous of that tall, pale Irish lady, 'cause I would never get to be that for Michael. Would he ever just throw caution to the wind and ask me to be his dance partner? All 3 feet 8 inches of me? I would practice everyday and skip "Dr. Quinn" if that's what it took.

I recently Spring-cleaned the crap out of my bedroom and found a journal from my freshman year of college in San Francisco. I had come a long way since my Jasmine diary. Most entries were me quoting songs by The Cranberries, and counting down the days till I lived off-campus and was a real city gal; riding that nasty ass municipal railway into the center of it all, to get a really expensive green tea. Then there were entries that were your typical "Next year's gonna be different. I'm going to really LIVE LIFE." And, "One day it's all gonna pay off." A few were "So, there's this guy..." and some were REALLY interesting, like, "I'm thinking white linens with bold print pillows."

It was always important to have a place to document the things I felt. Even if they weren't groundbreaking or radical things; they were still things that mattered, and they were very much apart of me. Like my tiny heart pitter-pattering for Michael Flatley. Jeez, I never told anyone that. Every other girl had a crush on Devon Sawa, for chrissakes; so I had to explain myself somewhere. And even flipping through the pages of my far more sophisticated journal; WHO would give two tiny little rat asses about pillows? Diary would. Journal would. They would give THREE tiny little rat asses.

And that's why it feels good to write sometimes.

Mom sent me this picture of her and Dad looking all hot and young. Like, "Look at your parents. LOOK at us. You are LUCKY."

When I was little, Mom said, "Do what makes you happy, sweetie!". So I said, "Okay, MOM...", and did tap, and then softball, back to tap, then back to softball. Let me tell you two things I was never ever good at: tap and softball. Especially softball. Bleeeegghhhhh, softball.

I was a tiny little poster pipsqueak for incompetency in sports.

My position was always somewhere in the outfield. Some made up 'left right center right fielder' bullCRAP. But, here's the thing; I had a good time. I was very well adjusted at being a have-r of fun.

Fun things that I did when I was a left right center right fielder: Chewed on the leather strings of my abnormally small elf mit. Spun in circles. Turned the opposite way and looked at how big the field was. It was really big. Sang songs to myself. Critiqued myself. Talked to myself. Eventually composed mini-monologues; 'field theatre'. Imagined what it would be like to be good at sports. Dropped fly balls. But threw them in with vigor to try and make up for it. Danced. Thought about post-game SNACKS!!!!! I always hoped there would be good cookies and Capri Suns, or the big variety pack of chips and Squeeze-Its. I would take two of each if there were enough left over. Don't underestimate my hunger; I was working hard out there. You're just all too infield to notice.

And when it came to batting: I had the stance of a uneasy Pomeranian, and zero hand-eye coordination. Getting three strikes wasn't as bad as the other, more 'athletic' girls made it out to be. 'Cause after some bat-flailing and failed attempts at hitting anything but air, I would just go and sit all comfy in the dugout and do those chants! FUN! Like: "We're number one, can't be number two, we're gonna kick the whoopsie out of you. UH."

One time, my team was beating another team so bad, that my coach let me PITCH, like 'Wouldn't that be hilarious. Talia is NOT good and the whole team can quietly agree on that, and try to boost her ego. Great sportsmanship on our part.'

The other team ended up scoring enough runs to tie us, and they put me back in left right center right field. So I said, "Okay." Back to dancing.

I think Dad really loved that I was committed in my own funky way, regardless of my inadequateness. Mom did something about it and plopped me into community theatre. Made absolute sense to her. Soon after, to me, too.

Looking back, I can say I had heart. Miles and miles and miiiiiles of heart.

I was hoping to end this with a 'Damn Yankees' reference, and I DID IT. I did it.

Important Questions

"Mom! I went to Planned Parenthood, and they told me you're not supposed to wear underwear to bed. Like air out your vagina every night. So, I should do it?"

"Mom! I just accidentally ate a piece of bread with a little bit of mold on it. Not a lot. Just a tiny fuzzy piece. Am I gonna throw up? 'Cause I can't throw up. I'll fucking die."

"Mom! I want to buy nice bras, but I feel so guilty spending money. It's Jew guilt, isn't it? My boobs are so small. Remember when they were big?....Or whatever, MOM -- bigger."

"Mom! I know Dad says no pork in the house. But what about bacon flavored ranch?"

"Mom! When I was a kid, did I annoy the shit out of you? Be honest. Did I talk too much? Did I ask too many questions? Was I generally a good kid? What kind of dog was Caroline?"

"Mom! I just accidentally ate a piece of fruit with a little bit of mold on it. I'm so scared. Do I have food poisoning? Do I? I'm gonna fucking die."

"Mom! I'm a pretty good jazz dancer right?......Mom?......Why aren't you saying anything?"

"Mom! When is Rosh Hashanah this year? When is Yom Kippur? When is Hanukkah? When is Passover? When is that other one? No, can you please just tell me the dates? I don't trust Google. JEWgle. Heh Heh............Mom?"

"Mom! If I save up $$$, and then cut down on going out to eat, can I buy a house and have 4 dogs and travel a lot in like 6 months?"

"Mom! What's that thing you do if you have a sty in your eye? Put a grape on it?.....Wait.....Garlic? Wrapped in cheesecloth? I don't have any of that. I'll use this grape."

A Mom song.

Mom loves to make this comparison.

Email from Mom:

Do you remember when you were about five and you played dress up and went outside and tried to walk the neighbor's cat with a leash you made out of yarn?

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