A Ferry Ride Away

I have been a very bad blogger. A lot has happened since I last communicated with the blogging world. I traveled a bunch in the month of December. Got stuck in airports due to weather. Flew through Iceland (Icelandic people are very good looking) and I got engaged. I, the sports playing tomboy got engaged. From now on instead of bf (boyfriend) in my blogs he will now be F (fiance).

I am not going to go into the story of how the engagement happened but I will say that it took into account who I am, tears, neurosis, being overwhelmed and all. He did it well. I have never really thought of myself as married, so he definitely had his work cut out for him.

Last weekend the F and I went to Half Moon Bay which is a surfing area near San Francisco. We walked around, ate and watched surfers. As we parked in different places and poked around different stores, I realized something about me. Although in many cases throughout my life I am the pilot in a situation, acting on my own, paving my own way, I realized that with my F I am a co pilot.

As we pulled out of a shopping center, me in the passenger’s seat, I too looked to see if cars were coming even though I was not driving. This was not a one time occurrence, but something I always do. When we take lefts, I too look to the right and the left. When we back up, I too turn around to make sure we will not hit the car behind us. The F  has noticed this during our relationship. He cannot understand why I feel like I need to be alert while he is driving. To him I say, “I am your co pilot.” I like to stay alert to double ensure our safety. I proceeded to tell him that I was like a super hero. He asked if I was like wonder woman? I thought for a moment and said, “no.” I said, ” I am the Robin to your Batman.” Wonder Woman worked alone. I work as part of a dynamic duo.

It was after that conversation that I realized maybe I can do this marriage thing. The idea of being part of a superhero team/dynamic duo sounds pretty cool. I can still be my own pilot at times but, sometimes, it is OK to turn to Batman for help and support and for Batman to turn to Robin for the same. I also get all of Batman’s family to love and support me as well. This sounds like a good deal.

As I head towards the next stage in my life I will work to be the best Robin I can be. I will continue to look over both of our shoulders while backing up to ensure the safety of our dynamic duo.

Words you may need to know the meaning of for this post:
Latke – Potato Pancake
Menorah - nine-branched candelabrum used on the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah
Dreidel - a four-sided spinning top, played with during the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah

This year I experienced my first Hanukkah without my family. Hanukkah is not the kind of holiday you fly home for. Although Hanukkah is a widely celebrated Jewish holiday it is not one of our biggest. My theory is that because Hanukkah falls around Christmas time, it was dubbed The Jewish Christmas. I am sorry to break it to people, but it is not. Here is what Wikipedia says about Hanukkah. I think the best thing I saw was from my cousin M. Walmart seemed to think that Ham was something that would be good for Jews during Hanukkah and did advertising within their store to promote this. To that I say whoops.

My family has never been a big gift-giving family. When we were little my brother and I would get one big gift and the rest were little things (Hanukkah has 8 nights which means the opportunity for 8 gifts). One year I got a dollhouse and my brother got a cassette player. That was the cassette player that stopped working because he over played Ice Ice Baby on it a few too many times.

This year my mom sent a Hanukkah care package to me and the bf. In it were Hanukkah napkins, dreidels, candles, and Latke Larry.  Latke Larry is a dancing bearded doll that holds a latke and sings (amazingly, the voice of the doll is Jerry Stiller’s, the father on Seinfeld). I had bought a menorah with my mom when she and my dad came out to visit me a couple of weeks ago. I was officially ready to take Hanukkah by storm. Hanukkah has a couple of foods that are associated with it Latkes (potato pancakes) and jelly donuts.  This Hanukkah being my first away from home I was determined to semi-replicate the Hanukkahs I had grown up with. I was going to light the menorah, sing prayers, and make latkes. For those of you that are not familiar with latkes, they are not a main dish but, instead, a side dish. Not being a talented cook, I had no idea what to put with them. I called the bf as he headed home and he quickly responded he would figure
something out, but that it would be meat. Sundown quickly approached and it was time for me to dive into the unknown of latke making. I grabbed the mix (I forgot to mention my mom also sent that to me) as there was no way in blazes I was going to make these suckers from scratch, and started to mix the three ingredients together. I heated up the frying pan, poured some vegetable oil in and was ready to go. I had mixed everything in a bowl and let the mix sit as directed (things that make me nervous: when a mix says let the ingredients sit so
that it can thicken). After my latke mix had turned into a paste-like substance I started to make teaspoon-sized balls. One by one I place them on the frying pan. They sizzled away in the oil quickly browning on both sides as I flipped them over. One by one they looked to be done and I placed them on a plate. They looked dark brown on the outside but not quite cooked in the inside. Yum.

Around this time the bf returned home from the grocery store with what he called tri tip. This was not something for us to make from scratch but rather something that had already been cooked by a place called Harris Ranch. It was very well packaged and, to be honest, I was not excited. The option on the instruction was to microwave the already cooked meat for 8 minutes or put it in the oven. We thought it might taste better in the oven.

While the “meat” was cooking we lit the first candle on the menorah while singing the prayers and each opened a gift that we had gotten for each other.
The buzzer for the meat went off and the bf took it out. The meat was as pink as my face after an hour out in the sun. At that moment I decided there
was no way I was going to eat this. The bf was determined. He had spent the money and he was going to eat it. He threw it back in the oven while
hoping for a small Hanukkah miracle. As you may have guessed, that miracle did not happen. When the meat was pulled out minutes later instead
of being pink it had a grayish tint. This reinforced my decision not to go near it. He on the other hand kept trying to eat it all while saying this
is not very good. We then each took a latke. When I bit in the inside was not cooked, while the outside was over cooked. We had 24 latkes and a tri tip that could have fed a small army and none were really edible. We both turned to each other and said, “Want to scrap this and have frozen pizza?”
10 Minutes later with frozen pizza on paper plates we sat there and watched the menorah as it glowed. My first Hanukkah was not a culinary success, however, as I sat there with food on my plate, sitting next to someone that loves me and I love back, I realized that it was still a success.

On a side note, latkes stink up your house. I woke up at 3 in the morning overwhelmed with the smell of latkes, feeling as if I was being suffocated
by the fried potato smell. Death by latke.

I am at that age where many of my friends are getting married. Whenever I get an invitation to a wedding I cannot help but think of my very first wedding. I was four or five and my uncle was getting married in Chicago. I was really excited about the prospect of a. getting on a plane to Chicago, b. getting to see my family and c. going to a wedding! My mom had borrowed a dress for me from her best friend’s daughter, who was around my same size. This dress was dark blue, velvet and had a white collar. At that age I did not own a lot of dresses. I did not like dresses. I would rather wear my baseball hat (it was actually an OshKosh B’Gosh® red train hat covered in buttons), sweatpants and a t-shirt. Usually I could get away with smuggling my hat into events but for this wedding, the wedding of her brother, my mom said absolutely not.

Let me explain my “look” at this wedding. I was really small when I was little, I had very short hair in order to hide my actually curly hair, I had on white tights that, within minutes of putting them on, had already bunched up around my ankles and, lastly, I had on black patten leather party shoes.

I was at this wedding with my two cousins. My brother was the oldest, then my boy cousin, then came me, and lastly my girl cousin. We were all fairly close in age. I loved hanging out with my cousins.

Most of the wedding went on as a wedding does. We mingled, ate, mingled, ate, watched the ceremony, ate some more and did a bit more mingling. The real party did not start until the reception…

The reception in my five year old mind was the biggest thing I had ever seen. For one it started at a time when I would usually be going to bed. The lights were low and there were huge chandeliers everywhere. The best part, however, was the music. For the most part my cousins, brother and I were inseparable. Moving from table to dance floor as if we were a caterpillar, my brother in front leading the way while my youngest cousin pulled up the rear. From the time we heard/saw the DJ we knew there was only one song we all really wanted to hear. That song was La Bamba. This song had been revived with the release of the La Bamba movie about the singer Ritchie Valens life. La Bamba was one of his larger hits.

My brother, being the oldest and wisest, took the lead. We huddled together to discuss how were were going to request this song. My brother had just danced the Twist with my grandmother and we knew walking up to the DJ and requesting the song was something he could… no, must do.

My 9 year old brother sauntered in his suit up to the DJ to request La Bamba. We were so excited. We danced to every song. During the slow songs we swayed side by side, all in the anticipation of La Bamba. Then a problem arose. I had to pee. I could hold it, I thought, as I did not want to leave the dance floor and risk not hearing THE song. I continued to dance and still no La Bamba. I did not know what to do. I was too little to wander to the bathroom on my own. I had to find my mom, but what if I missed the song? I could not hold it any longer. I ran to find my mom, my blue velvet dress flying out behind me as I raced around. I finally found her and told her the situation. She rushed me to the bathroom and just as I entered the stall it happened. I did not make it in time. I was crushed. My mom, without missing a beat took off my white tights and patent leather shoes and wrapped them in paper towels. She told me to wait in the hall while she ran to the hotel room to get me sneakers.

There was an elderly woman in the hall that kept looking at me like I had just robbed a bank until my uncle appeared. He just stood there with me. I was barefoot, tight-less in my little velvet dress. I know he knew what had happened but he never said anything. My mom returned with my sneakers (KangaRoos) to be exact. I put them on sock-less and headed back to the dance floor more hesitant then I had before. Just as I reached the dance floor La Bamba was ending. I had missed THE song, I was heartbroken.

This weekend I will be heading to my BF’s sister’s wedding. I will be sure to dance, bring and extra pair of shoes and realize that if I miss a song it is OK I can always find it again.

Before I write this post I would like to apologize to the big man/woman/omnipotent power above. Although, I still do not quite know what to think about you, I did want to say that this post is not intended to be disrespectful. I know you have bigger fish to fry then Lil ol’ me, but I did want to throw that out there.

Yom Kippur came and went this last weekend. Yom Kippur is the Jewish day of atonement. To those that have ever been to confession I like to compare Yom Kippur to one big day of confession. Although this is not completely accurate, it usually helps paint the Yom Kippur picture for those not brought up in Judaism. From sundown to sundown we fast, go to temple, and in many cases wear white to sanctify purity (many wear the white clothing they will be buried in). We apologize for the sins we have done to others and look to move forward. This year was my first year not spending the high holidays (Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur) with my parents. I found a Temple in Napa, signed up and that is where the BF and I went. Something to note, my BF is not Jewish so I need to give him a big shout out for coming with me as this was all new to him. Usually, I go to a service at night a service during the day and another in the afternoon to close out Yom Kippur. This time, because the Temple was not very close, we just went to the service during the day. The BF decided to accompany me in fasting. One thing you should know about me is I eat snacks about every two hours (I say this is because of my blood sugar but I think I am also neurotic). Fasting for me is just plain hard.

We arrived at the Temple in Napa Saturday morning. I was already hungry and not looking forward to the service. I arrive wearing almost all black while everyone else, appropriately so, was wearing white (I could not find a white shirt that morning). The BF and I entered the Temple where we  brought down the average age by 20 years. We sat on an aisle in case we needed to make a quick get away. Looking to the front of the Temple, at the Bema (this is the place where all of the action happens, basically it is the temple’s stage) stood the Rabbi, the Cantor (the person that leads in the singing of all of the songs) and a guitarist. I had seen them all last week at Rosh Hashana and here they were again. They all wore white, the Cantor had wild and zany white hair and a piercing voice. My favorite part might be the Rabbi. There she was all 5ft 1 inches. She had flown in from Reno, Nevada to lead the service. She had spiky hair, a white suit with a bell bottom pant and wait for it…. white Sketcher Shape Ups. That is right, my Rabbi was working the very shoes that are supposed to improve your posture and tighten your buns. The BF said she looked like Martin Short, I would have to agree. When she sang and hit certain notes her voice would quiver almost like a bird or something being stuck in her throat.

The BF has a much better attention span then I do. He read and sang along to everything. I participated as well, did some introspective thinking about sins I had committed and made sure I apologized, however, my attention span is not as good. I spent some time observing who was the tallest in the room, who had a New York or Boston accent, and I could not take my eyes off those Sketchers Shape Ups.

After 3 hours the morning service finished and we headed home. I was very hungry and getting a bit cranky and dizzy. To celebrate the end of the fast we had plans to go to our neighbor’s house and we needed to make something. Again, this was not something I was supposed to be doing during Yom Kippur, but it had to be done. I was to make a Kugel (noodle dish). Things you should not do while fasting… make food. There I was: me, a Kugel and a box of raisins to put in the Kugel. The raisins kept saying, “eat me, do it.” I tried to resist but I took one. I took one juicy raisin and popped it in my mouth and continued cooking. The guilt came over me. In 4 hours I could eat, why was a ruining it with a raisin? I put the Kugel in the oven and there staring at me was the box of raisins. I reached in and grabbed one more. Dammit! Why in the world did I grab another raisin? I went to lie down because when you fast, one gets sleepy. Some how the raisins called to me again. “Eat me” they said. I did it, I grabbed another and then 10 minutes later another and then another. What was I doing? The guilt overcame me. In a flurry I text-ed my mom. “I ate 5 raisins” I said. After 5 minutes I received a text back from my dad saying, “raisins are not food.” He is older and wiser so I chose to believe him.

I have yet in my 28 years made it through a fast. I used to save airplane peanuts in my room and when Yom Kippur came around, during our temple break, I would sneak a pack. I am bad news to the Yom Kippur fast. I am a fasting hoodlum.

I would like to say this, whether a gifted faster or not Yom Kippur allows me to take a day to stop and think about what I have done and what I can do better. This is a privilege that I have only in the last 5 years or so appreciated. I need to sprinkle a little Yom Kippur throughout the year and I cannot promise you that I will not eat 5 raisins during the fast next year. May this year for everyone be filled with sweetness, happiness and laughter and may we all take a moment to stop, think and listen to others and ourselves.

About 5 years ago, or maybe a little longer, my mom told me one of the best phrases I have ever heard. She told me to “Turtle Up!”.

Turtiling up means putting on your hard turtle shell and letting the bad things bounce off it. I like to picture myself as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle warding off  bad things and the not so nice people of the world.

I have been feeling recently that my turtle shell has gotten a bit soft. The world has felt sad lately with all of the recent natural and man made disasters. I was watching the news about Pakistan last night and got very overwhelmed by the natural disaster at hand. The whys and whats came out. Why did this happen? Why was it not me? What will happen to these people? How can I help?

Throughout my childhood I have been a worrier. I can worry about anything. Much of my childhood consisted of me worrying about things out of my control. I remember being around 8 years old and worrying about AIDS and world hunger and not being able to sleep. I even created a mantra to say before bed warding off the worry monsters until the morning when I could talk about it with my mom (she always had the ability to quiet the worry demons).

Late at night and in the morning is when my turtle shell is most vulnerable. Night time is like coming off of a long run. I am tired and my guard is down. The morning is much the same, however, instead of finishing a run I am gearing up to run through the day. My body is not warmed up, my legs are creaky.

In the morning on my walk to work I must pass 10-15 homeless people, all asking for some sort of assistance. Every morning on my brisk walk I fly by them barely making eye contact. Every morning I feel sad and think what can I do? What if that were me? Last week amongst all of this sadness I saw amazing glimmers of hope. On two occasions, I watched people go out of their way to buy two different homeless people breakfast. That is when I realized that although I am only one person I can do something that simple. Kindness does exist. My faith was somewhat restored.

This brings me to this past weekend. The BF and I live next to a city that went bankrupt about 4 years ago. There are no jobs, extremely high rates of violence and poverty, and a hard reality that it will take a long time, if ever, to turn this once bustling city into what it once was. Every time I drive through I see vacant buildings, liquor stores and falling down houses. As the BF and I drove through this weekend I saw something that truly amazed me. There were cars everywhere throughout the city, parking lots were full. People were walking around smiling. What was going on? Oddly, I immediately thought there must be a church near by. As if on cue there it was a big, white, baptist church flooded with people. We drove two blocks and the same thing happened with another church. I could not help but smile. We are all looking for the world to make a little more sense and be a little less overwhelming. I may not always agree with what religions say and do but I have to say at that moment it felt like everyone in that church was just like me. They were looking for a little peace and a little community. They were looking for something to believe in. It made me feel like I had company even though being Jewish I am on the other end of the religious spectrum (or am I?).

This is what I take from the last week. The world is overwhelming and sad in many ways. I will never understand how I got so lucky. Sometimes the vastness of the world and the things that go on in it help me put my little worries in perspective such as looking good in my jeans. We are all looking for a little something to help us make sense of the world around us. I need to continue to turtle up like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and while doing this look towards those around me and towards myself to make my shell stronger. It does not need to be too strong but just enough to not feel all of the dips of the world.

The Jewish High Holidays are just around the bend. I found a temple out here to go to and although it will be hard without my family I think it is the perfect timing to strengthen my shell and do a bit of reflection.

P.S. I know this is off the subject but there is a woman snoring loudly behind me on the ferry as I write this. She is snoring so loudly she keeps waking herself up.

When July rolls around every year, I think of one thing, overnight camp. I went to numerous camps growing up and until I was 12 they were all day camps. At thirteen my mom convinced me it was time to try sleep away camp (I think she was afraid I would never leave home. To be honest I don’t blame her).
I did not want to go but after much prodding and the fact that my best friend would go with me I agreed. I was very into sports so it was decided I would go to a two week, sports, overnight camp.

I went to this same camp for two years. My first year, surprisingly, I liked it. My mom and dad would send me letters and Archie comics. My grandmother would send me cards in her perfect penmanship and in return I would send back letters explaining to them that I missed them, I was crying a lot but I was OK.

The second year at this camp was a different story. The camp was pretty much the same as the year before but for some reason my homesickness reared its ugly head from the get go.The trouble started when I brought two left cleats which until I received the right one meant I had to play soccer in my basketball shoes. I also arrived to find out that as a 13 year old self conscious girl I would have to take group showers. This threw me a bit off kilter. I had enough trouble undressing in front of my camp roommate let alone showering in a large room with the entire dorm. Lets just say I wore my bathing suit a great deal that summer. My mom, dad and grandmother would write me letters. In return I would tell them how miserable I was and how I wanted to come home. I was a bit melodramatic. One letter to my parents even included the line, “the toilet paper is too rough. I miss the toilet paper at home.”

I had a piece of bubble wrap and each night my roommate and I would pop a bubble symbolizing the end of a day making it one bubble closer to going home. My roommate and I would lay in our separate beds at night and talk about life, love and the pursuit of happiness. Mostly, we talked about going home. Due to the fact that I was not a happy camper (sorry bad pun) my worries started. I was continually hungry due to the intense excercise I was doing so at night my stomach would growl and move around. By day it was just a stomach growl but at night I was convinced that there was some sort of creature growing in there (I had a visualization of The movie Spaceballs the movie where the the monster comes out of the guys stomach) . It was impossible for me to be pregnant but somehow at night my crazy thoughts would grow into a reality and then when I would wake up in the morning I knew they were ridiculous.

I survived camp, made it home and never went back.My stomach growls would show up much later in life.

Before I entered college I had to get a physical. The only person that could see me was a male resident who was helping out while my primary care physician was away. I introduced myself to the doctor and he started the exam. He took out the stethoscope and listened to my stomach. There he heard the rumbling that I had become so used to. He listened a bit more and then asked, “when did you start hearing noises in your stomach?” I had never been asked this question and could not remember the exact time frame. I did however flashback to being a 13 year old at summer camp. I told him I was not sure but that I thought 13. I then proceeded
to tell him that the noises had made me think I was pregnant at thirteen. He then asked a very logical question, “how did you think you were pregnant
from those noises? That would be impossible” I told him I have a very active imagination and some how thought immaculate conception. Why in the world
I had to admit this to the doctor I have no idea but he started to laugh. The best part was when I told him was that I was Jewish which had made the whole situation even more confusing. I then asked if I should be worried. He told me that is was just stuff moving around and completely normal. I left the doctors office feeling a bit like a fool but relieved to know that my noises were normal. The doctor on the other hand had a huge smile on his face and could not stop shaking his head.

Due to the fact the BF is in Israel, I having been living alone. My apprehension about him going had only to do with one thing, staying alone in the apartment
at NIGHT. I love my alone time during the day but at night, when the bewitching hour arrives, well, that is another story.

There is a tree outside our living room window which in windy weather knocks against the window. By day this tree is just that, a tree. By night however this tree changes and becomes a forest monster wanting to enter our apartment.

Two nights ago, I awoke at 4 am to banging. My heart began to beat quickly as I got out of bed. I summoned up all of my bravery, put my fists up, and went into the living room to kick ass and take names (Mom, sorry for the poor language). When I got to the living room, I found nothing. Just to be sure, I yelled out, “Is any one there?” No one answered. Although, looking back on it, why would anyone answer if they were trying to take me by surprise. I am not sure what I expected, but I was ready to take them down Kung Fu style.

I have never been good with sleeping in a house alone at night. For as long as I can remember I have been both afraid of the dark and of robbers. I can remember being 5 and not wanting to go alone up to the third floor where my bedroom was. I would make a family member come with me. Either that or, if I ever had to get something and it was night time, I would run my little legs up the stairs as fast as I could and come right back down.

Our basement where the laundry is located was another story. I swear that the hot water heater would come alive when I got down there. It was as if its pipes were arms and it was out to get me. It also probably did not help that, as we were growing up, my older brother used to like to lock me in the basement and turn out the lights. From there I would scream and scream until one of my parents let me out or, in some cases, the same brother that locked me in would free me. Ahh, siblings. Oddly enough, there were occasions where my mom and dad would find me curled up on my older brother’s (the one who turned out the lights in the basement) bed because there I felt nothing bad could get me. My parents bed was also a safe haven.


In addition to the dark I have also always been afraid of being robbed.I have been very lucky—knock on wood— in this respect. I think I may get my fear of robbers from my dad. He is always locking and double locking the door. To this day he will call to whomever has just come in the house and say, “Did you double lock the door?” When he is sleeping he does not wake up for much BUT he will always wake up to remind us to double lock.

It would be the dead of summer, we had no air conditioning and I would keep my windows locked in my third floor bedroom. I thought this would keep me safe even though I would be drenched in sweat.

One of my best, most creative stages took place when, for a number of years, I slept with a pink cloth belt, a leather belt and two dowels under my pillow. I thought that if someone were to break in I would be able to belt and dowel them to death. Picture this: Me at 8. I was skinny, had knobby knees, a very short haircut, lanky arms and a penchant for mismatched pajamas. Who was I to think I could take on someone twice my size with a pink, child’s cloth belt?

Every week the cleaner would come and change my bedding. Every week, like clock work, she would take everything that was under my pillow and place it on my bed
without saying a word (although she must have thought I was a bit nuts). Every time this would happen I would collect my “robber protection” and place it back under my pillow only to do it again next week.

I used to avoid staying alone at all cost but if I had to I would turn every light on in the house. This was not exactly pleasing to my energy conscious dad.

No matter my age I still like to have some sort of light on when I sleep. I feel that this light protects me from all of the bad things out there.

I am getting better at being alone at night, but I am more then happy when I do not have to do it.  Also, I am thinking that Kung Fu lessons should be something I incorporate into my life.

Disclaimer:

1. I know it has been awhile since my last post as I have been away.
The blog post you are about to read is my most recent adventure. I will post the others after but this was too good to not post first.
2. My BF is in Israel for the rest of the month. This means that he will not be editing my blog for commas etc. I would like to apologize for my lack of commas, grammatical errors and anything else ahead of time.

Now for the good stuff.

First let me describe the flight pattern of my journey home. Tel Aviv Israel to Amman Jordan to New York to Boston (I know I live in California but I needed to split up the flights so I stopped at my parents house for a day and 1/2).


I arrived at Amman Jordan from Israel feeling good. My Royal Jordanian flight from Tel Aviv to Amman had included leather seats, free orange juice and barley anyone on the plane. I got cocky and thought to myself, I am going to have a great flight home.

Everyone who has a transfer in Amman Jordan has to stop at a transit desk to receive your next boarding pass. I exited out of the first plane and walked up to the transit desk to wait in line.

In line I was one of two Americans. Everyone else was from neighboring middle eastern countries. Woman were covered head to toe in religious garb. Most of the men wore either long white robes or suits. My white skin, American clothing and purple backpack made me stand out.

After being cut in line twice I finally arrived at the transit desk. I was given my boarding pass to NY and told that my new boarding time was now 4 hours later then my original boarding time. I tried to ask questions but no answers were given and I was hurried along through a set of glass doors. There I was alone in the Amman Jordan airport.

Some things you should know about the Aman airport before I continue.

1. it is very small.

2. It is very crowded

3. It is like being taken back to an airport in the 80’s.
There are no computers to look stuff up on and very few telephones.

4. It is over staffed, all men and woman are in either suits or religious clothing.

5. Even though there are more then enough staff no one quite knows what is going on. The airport staff asks if they can help you and then says they have no idea what to do.

6. Everyone is very nice.


Alright, continuing on. I asked in customer service about the fact that I was missing my flight from New York to Boston because of the delay and if I could reschedule or talk to someone. the man I asked said over and over again, “we do everything we can here. I do not know what is going on but you will be fine.”I walked away and tried to figure out if I could find another resource. Due to the amount of time I had left of my delay I decided to eat some food.

I finally I decided to approach the issue again and found a woman this time. She directed me back to the transit desk through a door that said staff only. I went through that door and was immediately stopped. Problem two for me of being stuck in this airport is that many of the employees did not speak English. In trying to explain why I needed to get back through one of the employees asked me in a last attempt if I spoke Italian. I said no but a little of Spanish. After much frustration on all of our ends they finally let me through. Luckily, they had sorted out my connecting flight. I almost cried while I said thank you over and over again to the transit desk man.

Fast forward. 4 hours has passed, I moved seats in the airport about 12 times when finally we were allowed to go to our gate. I realized my dream of getting on a un crowded plane was just that a dream. The entire airport headed to “my” gate. I went through security where men and women are separated and I got patted down. From there we all put our bags on tables where men in suits searched them. I swear these guys were like the boy band of the Amman airport. They worked in very slow sync as they lightly flirted with what seemed to be un attached women. I wanted them to start dancing and singing.

I finally got to the gate where the disorganization continued. The employees kept looking for a Mr. Charlie.  I looked around and it seemed to be all women going on this flight with at least two children per woman. SWEEEETTT I thought sarcastically. 12 hours with a ton of very young children.  Now this is where it gets good. As I waited to board a group of men walked by. They were not in religious garb or suits but rather big t-shirts, sweatpants and slip on shoes. These men, all except for one were over 6 feet and built like walls.

I did not pay a ton of attention to them as I just wanted to get on the plane. Then a 16 year old yelled out, “can I take your picture?” I had no idea why he said this. Another 16 year old come and sat next to me and said, “did you know that is Timbaland?”  I said, “no way!” That is correct.The rapper, mogul and producer Timbaland just walked by. I guess he had played a show in Beirut the night before.Timbaland and his 6 person entourage were flying to NY with me, from Amman Jordan, on a Royal Jordanian flight. I could not help but laugh. What were the odds?

I wanted to go up to him and high five him and say, “loved your work with Nellie
Furtado.” Or “Hey Timbaland I have some new rhymes I would like to share.” Or my favorite, “hey let me give you the link to my blog.”

I finnaly got on the plane. Timbaland and one of his buddy’s was sitting in first class. Where was the rest of his crew? I will tell you where the rest of his
crew was. Two were two rows in front of me while another couple had to sit in the very back of the plane by the bathrooms.

The flight was horrible. The bathrooms on the left side of the plane all broke.
Children ran up and down the aisles for 12 hours and screamed bloody murder. Trash was thrown everywhere. I have to say the best part of the flight was watching Timbaland’s crew in front of me while this was happening. They just kept shaking their heads in disgust while wearing huge headphones.

Finally the flight was coming to an end when a flight attendant passed out surveys of how Royal Jordanian had done. Very few people took the the survey except that is…. Timbaland’s crew. Each one filled out the survey as they had hated the flight. I could not help but giggle again.

Four things happened after this flight.

1. I stood next to Timbaland while I got my luggage. I did this on purpose. We never said a word to each other but I think he knew in another life we were friends.
2. I will never take Royal Jordanian again
3. I got delayed in NY for another 4 hours.
4. I am going to start using an entourage.

Tomorrow, the bf and I will be heading out on a adventure. We will be flying to Germany, staying a couple of days and then heading to Israel. He will be staying in Israel the next month and unfortunately I will have to fly back early to go to work.

In preparation for this trip I have already done the following.

1. Started to make numerous lists of what I need to pack.
2. Spent way too much money at the drug store buying things I don’t necessarily need such as innersoles for my already comfortable sneakers and more deodorant to accompany my already-almost-full deodorant in my bag.
3. Downloaded my entire work desktop to a flash drive for fear the world may end and I may need to send out that ever important spreadsheet.
4. Spoken to my mom, dad and brother a few too many times.
5. Joined the world traveler plan on AT&T just in case there is an emergency.
6. Gone to Marshalls more then once and other stores to make sure my trip wardrobe is sufficient (I already have enough clothes but I guess everyone needs six new t-shirts).

From the looks of this list one would think I would be leaving for the entire summer. Alas, I will only be gone for a little over a week.

For some reason the preparation for trips, no matter the length, is more than a little overkill. I do not understand why I feel the need to re-stock my entire life for one week away, especially when I am going to places where I can always buy things I have forgotten.

My mother, because she knows me all to well, has written and said the same thing over and over to me in the last week, “DO NOT OVER PACK.”
I laugh at this because I know I will. My hand will continually reach into my bureau drawer and pull out that one last T-shirt and one last pair of socks to accompany my already full suitcase.

Since I am leaving tomorrow, I would now like to list things that have yet to happen, but will with in the next couple of hours.
1. I will make more lists
2. I will make even more lists.
3. I will have my ever patient bf help me pack because god knows it is not my gift.
4. I will unpack my suitcase once to make sure I have everything and re-pack it.
5. My bf will roll his eyes.
6. My bf will roll his eyes again.
7. I will double check to make sure I have my retainers (I still wear them as to not to mess up the beautiful orthodontic work from high school. Having to get braces again at 28 is not as cool as having them at 14).
8. I will finally close my suitcase.
9. After I close my suitcase I will try to stuff my hairdryer in the front pocket. This tactic works about 50% of the time.

This may sound a bit neurotic and I assure you it is. If I could hire a professional packer I would instead of being left to my own devices.

I tease my bf and say that I am preparing him for parenthood. If he can deal with my lack of packing abilities and do it with grace then he can deal with a child.

I do assure you that I will be fully packed, unpacked and repacked again by the time I have to leave tomorrow. I can also guarantee you that I will forget something either on the kitchen table or in the bathroom that I would have liked to have had. However, I know that no matter what I bring I am ready for this upcoming adventure and will have many a story to tell from it.

Bring it on travel gods!

The son in the Sikh family got a new set of speakers (yes this is the same family my bf climbed through the window in a confused attempt to break into our apartment). This means that our walls have been shaking to such musical artists as Tupac and Biggie. I like Tupac and Biggie a great deal, however, hearing our walls shake is not soothing. I want to be that old woman that goes over, knocks on the door, shakes my finger and says, “turn it down son.” Alas, I am not that person so instead I thought I would write a post about boys and their bass. This is not to sound sexist, however, it seems that boys like to crank up the music, especially the bass and let the walls shake. In college I shared walls in my dorm with boys and girls. From girls rooms I would hear the likes of Beyonce and Justin Timberlake. From boys room much of the time I could not hear the music but rather just the bass shaking the walls.  This can also be seen walking around the streets. TWC (tinkered with cars) most likely will be driven by a man blaring music with so much bass you can almost see the vibrations of the music. My first exposure to bass was due to my older brother and I was not a fan.

I grew up in a house in the city that was tall but not terribly wide. By the time you got up to the third floor, where the bedrooms were, space was limited. My room and my brother’s shared a door. We kept this door shut with bureaus on each side to make sure we could not get through. He did not want his little sister impeding on his cool 3 1/2 year older self and I did not want him coming in my room because I was trying to play it cool. Truth was I looked/look up to my older brother.

 Every morning, my brother, through much of middle school until the end of high school would play music while getting ready for school. It started with Easy E and Vanilla Ice’s Ice Ice Baby. Ice Ice Baby was played so much it actually broke his cassette player. It was never played softly but rather with the bass pumped and the not so nice lyrics loud enough for all to hear. My social work mother loved this as she got to hear this too as she got ready in the morning.  Easy E was banned early on. If you are not familiar with Easy E there is a lot of swearing. Most mornings went like this, mom says “turn it down!” Brother says, ” Mooooom, no.” Mom says, “Do it now!” Usually this continued until it was time to leave for school.

From Easy E and Ice Ice Baby came the Doors, Grateful Dead and Phish. I also got a taste of Bon Jovi, Jane’s Addiction and many others. His eclectic taste and love for music made me the only fourth grader to be able to draw Grateful Dead bears (I would draw them on people’s jeans. I am a rebel I know) and also sing all of the words to Janie’s Got a Gun. I did all of this while wearing a baseball hat and Umbro shorts.

If my brother had not played his music so loud with so much bass I may never have known such an eclectic mix of music, including my least favorite - the never ending songs of “jam bands.” Why do boys need to always pump it up? Is it a way of exploring their man hood, not only to those around them but also to themselves? All I will say is this. Most never grow out of the bass phase. My brother still loves his speakers, turn tables and bass at the age of 32. I have to say if that is the worst thing he does, then that is pretty good. Pump it up! I am fist pumping right now you just can’t see me.