Happy Holidays all. Will write again in the new year!

I wish you a merry Jew Christmas.

When mentioning our Xmas tree I inevitably get asked: "But aren’t you Jewish?" To which I respond with an awkward, stuttered, elaborate explanation that my kids’ grandparents are Christian so my husband and I try to give them both cultures. But the truth is I want the tree. I relish in the tinsel, cherish the cherubs and luxuriate in all the shiny, sparking ornaments. Plug it in, light it up and I glow with pure, gleeful, unadulterated pleasure.

Growing up strictly Jewish I used to get physical pangs when watching shows that featured a Xmas tree. It looked so wonderful. Happy families around a fireplace, singing songs around this gleaming tree, aglow in glitz. And what did we get? Some crappy dreidel, chocolate money and poached fish. It sucked. I felt hard done by. Surely if we were the chosen people we’d get the better holiday?

So when the opportunity came to marry a non-Jew, a true yok with bona-fide Christian parents, I jumped at the opportunity. What a win. I could keep all of my beliefs, my kids would still be Jewish but happy, joyous days I could get the tree, and the presents, and the latest old-timer, cobweb-dusted singer with a Xmas hits album. I could have it all and eat my kneidlach too.

So we have a big tree, all the songs, all the smaltz I missed out on. And yes my grandparents are probably turning in their Jewish graves. But ag, eh, you know, I do it for the kids.

Peace up.

A wise man with long, day-glo painted nails, make-up and shoulder pads once said “War ,war is stupid and people are stupid”. Well he sang it but that does not make the words any less powerful. War is, of course, stupid. There can be nothing gained from the killing of people, except for money and fuel/oil/land and then you have to kill more people to hold onto it. Now I get the “When attacked you need to fight back argument.” Or I did. But really does it solve anything? Do you not just get yourself into an infinity sign of revenge and hate. You’d think most people would know this. But really it’s just a small bunch of people who’re singing along. Basically Yoko Ono and Michael Moore. The rest of us are stupid. Idiots who vote for, pay for, don’t protest, don’t stand up and say Stop, just sit back and watch shock and awe on CNN. Or on Fox, because that’s where most stupid people go for information. George, I’m afraid you’re going to have to steal back your wardrobe from the 2009 catwalks, grab that sequined mike and sing much, much louder.

TGIF, Not.

There’s the strangest tradition in America. No, it’s not the Horn of Plenty (not what it sounds like foreign people*). It’s a day called Black Friday. A day where thousands of people line up for hours, pre dawn, did you read that, PRE dawn; there you read it now, to shop for bargains.

You would assume this is a poor thing. Street people who simply must have a Flat-screen TV for $20 because that’s the only way they’ll ever be able afford one for their trolley. (I wouldn’t usually mock street people but I got screamed at by one recently for only giving him a couple of dollars rather than the $10 he requested, so I can have a small dig.) But no it’s everyone. Black, white, old, young, Jew, Muslim, rich (well not really the rich but defiantly the middle class and ex Lehman Brothers CEOs) poor, fat, thin. All lined up in cosmic harmony, that is, until the doors open. Then people are literally willing to kill to get their hands on a small, fluffy, electronic hamster toy called a Zhu Zhu, that’ll be broken the day after Xmas.

Now perhaps I’m being cynical. Me? Really? We can after all afford to go into dept to buy our daughter an American Girl for Christmas. But waiting 5 hours in line to save $20 is utterly straightjacket, Jack Nicholson in his nest, cuckoo.

There are true bargains to be had. About 6. Beyond that you are shopping for things you don’t want, don’t need, are never going to use and are only $5 less than the original asking price. But by God you’re going to have them, because you’ve developed deep vein thrombosis from 6 hours in line and you want something to show for it.

The only way I can come to terms with Black Friday is my theory that this is not in fact “shopping” this is “sport.” The strongest, quickest, best strategies win the prize. And everyone else is obviously Darwin’s strongest proof. It’s this challenge that draws thousands, the marathon of shopping. Black Friday should be renamed World Series Shopping and ESPN should cover it with Imelda Marcus commenting. Now that would be worth tuning into. Until then I shall spend Black Friday, as I did this year, at home in my PJ’s shopping online.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horn_of_Plenty

The ol' ball and fur-lined chain.

My husband has been feeling slightly wounded dog about my last few posts. He feels a bit vilified, eunuched, the punching bag for all woman who read The Feminine Mystique, The Beauty Myth or anything by Gloria Steinem in college, marched for female rights, grew their underarm hair and examined their vaginas with a hand-held mirror. And now, as stay-at-home 50s-style housewives, have switched to Woman’s Weakly (no spelling mistake there).

Well I’m here to shout it from the blogtops that my man is actually one of the good ones. He does the dishes, vacuums, does laundry, is (mom look away, look away), great in bed, even better in position 37, is a fantastic father, has a nice, shiny, platinum credit card and all my friends think I’m lucky to have him. I’m not so sure they think the reverse. “Poor Noel.” Being married to THAT tiny, could-blow-at-any-second grenade can’t be easy. And I guess sometimes it’s not. Except that I am unbelievably dexterous at position 102 plus I’m funny.

So why do I make these snide, somewhat cruel remarks about him. Well it’s fun. And sometimes it’s just what married couples do. They get on each other nerves. They push the “Do not push that button because it’ll start nuclear holocaust” just to see if it will.

In marriage you see each other at your worst. Him, on the couch, watching sport with a beer ala Homer Simpson. Me, in my big brown gown, plucking the hairs out of my chin ala Blanche from the Golden Girls. Charming. But then we get those nights where we fancy up, spritz on some of the expensive stuff, share a bottle personally delivered from Bacchus and fall in love all over again.

We were chatting the other night about what we’d do if we were ever to split up. I vowed never to date again. Not for him, but because honestly it seems too much like drilling nails into your skull. He protested and insisted I marry again, not for me, but because he can’t be arsed to pay alimony while supporting a blonde stripper with huge tits. Oops I did it again. Sorry babe. Back to how wonderful you are.

And you are. I do love you. Where the fuck are those cute white puppies and cupids I ordered? Ah here they come. And the fields of corn just high enough for us to run toward the sunset in? There they are. So take my hand you big, gorgeous lug of a giant and let’s step into marriage Utopia. And on your way, do me a favor, take out the trash.n

Motherhood. Cheers.

There are those rare times when I get lemon bitter and jalapeno pretzel twisted about being a stay-at-home mom (usually Monday to Friday up until happy hour but including feeding and bedtime.) It’s a thankless job. You schlep, dress, play with, teach, feed and Cha Cha around the lounge for your kids and they reward you with a Oscar worthy tantrum and a threat that they’re leaving to go live with the cool mom down the corridor.

It’s this “meaner” my husband comes home to at night. A frazzled, tracksuited up, bitter Sue Ellen-like creature clutching her whiskey for dear life. “Oh I’m so sorry”, he says. But he’s not. He gets a get out of jail free card every morning when he goes to work. “Cheers love you have a good day.” Fuck you.

The truth is I did choose to stay home with my kids. I did it for several reasons but mostly because I thought it would be different. Everything I learned about mothering came from watching Family Ties. At the end of each episode the kids, no matter how akin to Satan they had been in the day, would realize their follies and profusely, remorsefully, with huge Bambi-eyes apologize, hug that woman with the mad, fizzy, yellow hair and tell her how much they appreciate her. Not my kids. They don’t get the moral of the story. Turns out life isn’t a 80s sitcom and then you die.

Oh I know, it’s not all bad. I’m not chained to a desk, I don’t have to squeeze into a pencil skirt, I get to play with invisible people. And then there are those heart-throbbingly endearing moments when my family actually acknowledge the work I do, and, head-banging drum roll please, thank me for it. Like when my youngest told me I should be on Top Chef because I make the best chicken soup from Wholefoods. Or when my eldest told me that I’m the best mom in the world because you can only have one mom. Hallmark moments. Of course sentiment is wonderful in its soap-sud rarity but nothing says “Thanks Mom” like a pair of Prada Boots.

Running with the lambs

Last night I declined a glass of wine. True story. I signed up for the 2010 NYC Marathon without any concern or consideration for my booze habit. And it hates me now. The problem with signing up for a marathon is that you actually have to train for it. And training means getting up and going for a run even when you've been out the night before. I did not know this. Why didn't anyone tell me?

But now I'm committed. My friends are most upset. I understand. I would be if one of them refused a drink from me. Moderate to raging alcoholic mums are like that.

I've also purchased the Nike Sportband. I'm still waiting for it to arrive but I assume once it does I'll be able to run longer, faster and harder. On my list of Ways to spend money because I signed up for a marathon and they have so much nifty stuff, is new running gear. I run in tiny little shorts a woman my age has no right owning let alone training in. I am very attached to my shorts though. I love to feel the Hudson breeze (that's what I'm calling it, scientists are not so sure) up my legs as I run. It's like running naked, but New Yorkers look at me funny in the shorts.

I'll keep y'all updated on my running progress. So far I'm up to 5 miles which, in the scheme of a marathon, is 2 pieces of Nigiri sushi for dinner when you want steak. Sigh. Off for a run.

Batty for Halloween.

Hilary Clinton is the 67th United States Secretary of State. Carol. W. Greider won a 2009 Nobel science prize for her discovery of how chromosomes are protected by telomeres and the enzyme telomerase. Abigail Johnson, the world’s richest woman, oversees 161 Fidelity funds with more than $650 billion in assets. Me? I mould Twizzlers onto Oreo cookies in the hope that they’ll look like Halloween bats.

It’s not rocket science I know. And I’m certainly not going to win any awards for it. But I do take the annual school Halloween bake sale with a seriousness that other woman might use to solve world peace. I do it for the kids. The suffering children (mine) deserve a bit of effort. So they can point out to their friends: “ Oh my mom did those” with pride while spending their allotted $2 on the lazy mum’s 3-minutes-to-make Rice Crispy treats, which are, apparently, a continual best seller.

This year I spent no less than one week online looking for ideas. I devoted almost an entire day to make the cupcakes. And? Eh, they’re okay. I’m certainly no Martha Stewart, she clearly belongs in the first paragraph, but they’re good enough for the 3rd grader with the discerning palate and critical eye. What I did discover online is that I am not the only woman passing up the chance to fix corporate America or go to the moon. Far from it. There are hundreds of Halloween cupcake/cake/cookie/sweet makers out there who are devoting giant chunks of their lives trying to outdo moms like me. Possibly thousands.

And so I’m proposing a truce. That next year we all get together (on Google wave, yes kids your mom knows what that is, or rather I’ve heard the word I have no idea what it actually is) and use our combined talents to do something powerful, positive and good for the planet and humanity. No buying that? Okay Biyatches. I’ll see your crappy cupcakes at the bake sale table and raise you 2010 World Cup soccer-playing spiders.

The Clap.

Sometimes you just clap. I read this in a children’s book once and it stuck. And while I could be way more happy clappy and significantly less judgmental, these words have softened my criticisms a tad. When my husband asks me to comment on an advertisement he’s making (yes he’s one of the madmen) and I don’t like it, in the past I would have said something like, “That’s shit, straight-out-of-ad-school, first-thought crapola.” Lord knows why, but this used to irritate him?? But now I just clap. And he seems to be happy enough with that. If I really like something he’s doing I just clap louder.

Family vacation stories. Just clap. Your pals are moving and you are selfishly sad. Just clap. He said/she said? Just clap for whoever is doing the saying. Your friend’s new hair-do. Clap lots. The poor dear needs it. “My Johnnie’s so smart, his teacher says he’s the cleverest kid in the class, isn’t your daughter in that class?” Clap.

But isn’t that lying? No, no, no. You have it all wrong. A clap is just that. A congrats. A well done. Bravo to you. It comes with no more commitment than that. That’s why it’s such a perfect thing.

Thanks for reading this blog. Thunderous applause.

Monday. Again.

Love

It can’t be easy being a poet. The constant search to combine verse, rhyme, reason, repetition, switch words, muddle them, pull a middle finger at grammar, check your sonnet for it’s allotted 14 lines, your onomatopoeia for musical flow, your iambic pentameter’s shoe size.

Still, this cannot be the reason, or rhyme, why so many poets are a depressed, glum, angst-ridden, alcoholic lot. Keats, Faulkner, Byron, Fitzgerald, Edgar Allen Poe, Tennessee Williams, Hemingway, Plath, Kurt Cobain. All suffered from bouts of depression and more than a few were raging alcoholics. The list is endless.

Dr James W. Pennebaker, a Professor of Psychology at the University of Texas in Austin, theorizes that being a published poet is a high-risk occupation. More dangerous than being a fire fighter or deep-sea diver. (Disclaimer: I found this guy on the Internet so he could in fact be a postman doubling as a professor online.) Why? Because apparently suicide rates are much higher among poets than among authors of other literary forms (whew!), as well as the general population.

Now this is a blog about a wedding. I know. So far it doesn’t seem that way. But bare with me, the connective thread is coming like a lightning bolt, or at least a small, energy-efficient light bulb.

As you know I recently went to a wedding in Africa. My daughter’s Godmother married her soul’s mate. The wedding was sublimely beautiful. But there was one part in particular that touched me.

I was a bride’s maid. Part of my duty was hanging out with the bride and drinking champagne while she dressed. Terribly hard work.
So while I drank and we chatted and I drank, I watched my friend transforming from my pretty pal in her t-shirt and slouchy pants into the most beautiful bride I have ever seen.

Eventually the bride’s father came to walk his daughter down the aisle.

I am relatively okay with words. I’m certainly no ee cummings, but I do fine with an adjective or four. But the look I saw in his eyes rendered me without any. There is no way I could describe the love one sees in a father’s eyes the first time he sees his daughter as a bride. And it dawned on me. That’s why poets are such miseries.

They’ll spend a lifetime scouring, searching, seeking in head-banging-against-a-brick-wall vain, the words to capture what they never will. And trying to ensnare that achingly naked, true moment with quill, pen or type will render them miserable, alone, with a bottle of jack smashed on the floor and pills scattered like rose petals around them.

It’s not easy being a poet. Now you know it.

A country wedding. sniff.

I had a farm in Africa.

Very briefly. And it was really more like I went to a wedding in Africa and stayed at someone else’s farm. Ahhhhhh country life. Green sprawling pools of grassy swaying things that I suspect were corn but I couldn’t be quite sure because they weren’t wrapped in plastic. Hundreds of geese of the un-canned variety. Country roses the size of poodles. Croaking frogs, birds of a feather, cows so symmetrically designed they’re obviously being groomed for Herme’s bags. My husband pointed out majestic Blue Cranes lining our pathway as we drove the long and very less traveled dirt road to the venue. I would have taken a tourist shot but was holding onto my boobs for dear life, at my age I can’t take any gravity chances.

It was beautiful, romantic, captivating, awe-inspiring and breathtaking. The hosts were ridiculously gracious, the food droolingly sublime. But, as it turns out, I’m allergic to nature. All those geese roaming free? There are 3000 of them. Not there to add postcard value, but to provide soft, feathery cuddliness for a duvet. One of my worst allergies*. All around me tiny little pollen trespassers started setting up home in my nasal passages, and why not, they had the world’s most comfortable duvets. I was sneezing, sniffing, snorting, my nose had become the Mississippi, my eyes Rosemary’s Baby’s, my head was pounding like Ozzie before the senility. Those were not flowers I dropped down the aisle but crunched up bits of tissue, a Hansel and Gretel trail of Kleenex. None of it made for a very attractive bridesmaid.

Fortunately the Bride’s mom had some meds that saved me from projectile-snotting all over the priest, so crisis averted. And the moment I got back to New York I stuck my head behind the nearest taxi and inhaled. Allergies gone. My lungs acclimatized. Thank God for pollution.

What about the bride you all shout? Because really, no one cares about a snotty, sniffy, neurotic, Woody Allen-with-girly-parts, bridesmaid. Wait. Patience my readers. That blog is next.

www.kraal.biz

* A list of my allergies: nuts, sunflower seeds, strawberries, cats, dogs, hamsters, hairy pets, pine nuts, grass, feathers, dust mites, mould, intolerance and stupidity.

I wondered, while down on my hands and knees scrubbing my toilet lid so rigorously that its enamel is pealing, if I’ve always been this scared of germs? I seem to vaguely recall a happier time in my life when I played in mud, hardly ever washed my hands, picked my nose and ate it. Those times are gone. The surgeon general, fox news, and anxious mommy blogs the world over, have instilled in me the fear of microscopic bacteria, viruses, fungi, and protozoa. Even though I can’t see them, I know they’re there. The Clorox ad tells me so. Out, Out damn, enlarged for TV, turd-looking Escherichia coli. OUT.

And the news networks lap up your fear lector-like. “Tonight at 5, why your tomatoes could make you sick.” “This morning at 9, Is your coffee table giving you diarrhea?” “We interrupt President Obama’s speech on healthcare, to tell you that your spinach could be giving you hives.” It’s scary stuff. I certainly haven’t eaten spinach in a while. And don’t even get me started on Jalapenos.

Unfortunately I’ve passed the fear onto my children. “Bye sweetie have fun at school.” “Mom, you forgot our Purell”. What I should tell them, with a wave and a strong shove, is: “Go, be free, enjoy the grossness that is childhood, dig for gold, play in the mud, hug your friends.” Alas, seconds before I set them out on the world, I remember that their friend had a runny nose yesterday and I lather them up. I certainly don’t want them bringing any germy hitchhikers home. I just spent 2 hours cleaning the toilet.

Gyming nothing to the imagination.

“How is the gym thing going?” Why, thank you for asking. Very well, actually. I’m up to a 30 minute run without feeling like I might die. So that’s good.

I do, of course, have a gripe. A woman who shall remain nameless because I don’t know her name, uses the treadmill in front of me. She starts by stretching. Now this is a fancy gym. There is a designated “stretch” area. But X insists on doing it on the treadmill.

It would be fine if she was just flexing her arms or warming up her ankles, but X does a full 360 degree stretch. She downward dogs, Kama Sutra’s her leg over the machine’s edge and dry humps the handle bars with such rigor I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for the machine. All the while her bum takes center stage in my vision. There’s more. Buttocks I can handle. If anything it’s major incentive for me to keep running. But the woman has camel toe. Big bushy camel toe. That’s how tight her lycra tights are. And it’s unavoidable because it’s right in front of me. Hello someone else’s vagina. I’m so not please to meet you.

I know what you’re thinking. Just move. I’ve thought about this. Some mornings when X is getting her full stretch it’s hard not to. But I do consider her the lesser of many evils. At least her stretch only lasts a short while. It could be worse. I could have the bloke with B.O, the instructor who grunts when she runs (you know who you are Monica Seles on steroids) or my personal least favorite Perfect Barbie. I can still have a bit of a laugh at X. I have the feeling Perfect Barbie feels the same way about me.

Wonder Woman flies again. Bitch.

A friend of mine recently launched a range of energy drinks. She was kind enough to send us some to try. They’re good. Very good. You can read about them at www.vuka.com. But this blog isn’t about the drinks, it’s about my friend. Lets call her Wonder Woman (WW).

I think most people have a friend or member of their family who’s a classic over achiever. They excel at everything. That’s WW. She has 4 businesses, 3 gorgeous, talented kids, 1 loving husband, runs marathons to raise money for sick kids and on top of everything is blonde with great tits. Don’t you hate her already? I know I’ve tried. But she’s also really, really nice. Damn her.

Now I wouldn’t mind it so much if I was half the woman WW is. But truth be told I’m way to lazy to be that perky. I could probably start a few businesses, running a marathon, how hard can it be? But if I had all that on my plate I would bitch and moan about it to all who would listen. WW is one of the happy, positive people. Her family are like the Von Trapp family on Prozac. Her hills are alive with the sound of rave music. All that positivity is obviously productive, I mean look at what the woman has achieved, but where’s the fun in it? Where’s the whine?

Now I only have one job. Mom. Two, if you throw in Wife. And I spend all day bitching to whoever will listen about how hard my job is, how there’s no “me” time, no recognition for a job well-done, blah blah blah. You name it, I’ve complained it. More jobs would mean more moan, and well, even I don’t have enough Jewish angst for that. So I think I’ll stick to what I’ve been doing and live vicariously through the achievements of my friend. And maybe, just maybe, all that abundant, exuberant, Yes-We-Can-Obama-like energy will rub off on me. Cue: “Shiny Happy People” dancing song and those bluebirds from Snowhite.

Wild South Africa. Grrrrrrrr

Hands up all the ex pat South Africans who’ve had an American ask: “When you lived in Africa, did you have wild animals in your back garden?”. And then, go onto clarify that they are specifically wondering about lions. Right, I thought so. It’s not just me.
Now I don’t want to ruin any Henri Rousseauesque image you Americans have about living in South Africa. But I do feel we should clear some things up.
The only wild animals I had in my garden (beside my children) were small, guinea pig looking rodents called Dassies. It’s disappointing I know. You were hoping for at best a lion, at least a zebra. But let’s not negate the tiny Dassie. They are quite wild. And, I’m sure they can be ferocious and vicious when provoked, or when not looking like cute little Peter Rabbits. There were no giraffes or buck and I’m quite sure I would have noticed a Hippo.
Sorry.
I do have some good news for those of you who are, at this very moment, blocking all your South African friends from Facebook because they are obviously not as exotic as you had hoped. The Dassie is, in spite of the huge height difference, the African elephant’s closest living relative. So the truth wouldn’t be too playdough in structure for you to say: “ Some of my best friends are South African. They had elephants in their backyard.”

Some other things I would like to clear up while I have the forum.
I do not come from Britain, Australia or Canada. I sound nothing like them.
Thank you for saying you think my accent is cool. Back in South Africa I sound like Fran Drescher. Johannesburg is not near to Cape Town and no, I don’t know your South African friends who live there. I also don’t personally know Nelson Mandela although he does seem to have met or shook hands with someone who knows someone I know. Cricket is the greatest game ever played. And I do feel sad for you that, until now, you thought it was a little insect. It’s a sport. I swear. Look it up.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_Hyrax

This is not a Blog.

This is a Sorry. Sorry to those 3 loyal fans who come here daily. I have been uber (I use "uber" rather than "super" because that's what they use to describe Heidi Klum, uber model. It just sounds cooler. roll it around off your tongue. It's fun.) busy doing the mom thing. The kids finally started school again. I was first mum at the school at 6.30am banging at the gates. Summer holiday is a month too long. There I said it. One can only frolic with one's kids on a 24/7 basis before mom's little helper gets served up at 1pm rather than the traditional 5pm. And now that school has started I have all the free time in the world to spend running missions for my kids. Thus no blog. So once more, because I'm really hoping you 3 keep coming back, sorry. I shall blog again soon.

How to get Madonna's arms in 78 000 easy steps.

Despite promising in a previous blog to shun all exercise in favor of my couch,
I find myself, once again, a member of a gym.

I joined for 2 reasons.

1:
Cheap childcare. For 2 hours I pay only $9 for a nice play area and a break from the kids. That’s why I joined. I didn’t realize that the nice-looking young man, who got me to sign on the dotted line, was in fact Satan. Sure the kids are having fun. But I’m getting harassed by the treadmill, bullied by the Stair Master, spanked by the butt machine and I think the abdominal weight contraption pulled my hair. All the time I could see Lucifer laughing at me while filing my contract in the SUCKER MOM section of Hades.

2:
Something had to be done about my “Oprah arms”. Even my husband who has always tiptoed (as quietly as a 6.8 giant can) around the subject of flab, has raised an eyebrow at them. He stopped short of actually flicking them when he saw my “Are you shitting me?” look. This is a true story. He will try to deny it.

This is what I think about gyms. They are places where people with outrageously good bodies go to show other people how good their bodies are. I say this, as every single gym I have ever been to has more people standing around than actually working out. And the standers are never the tubsters. Never. The standers are the bodies we want. The bodies we get puffy, sweat-cultivated-acne-pockmarked and beetroot faced to have. The standers never sweat. They never have Lake Erie etched into their t-shirt back. They don’t heave, wheeze, moan or desperately gulp-suck their asthma inhaler for breath. They just stand; “Here is my gorgeous body. Look at me you pathetic excuse for what a human being could be, look at me.”

So why do I bother? Well, I believe that with the right amount of torture, pain and suffering I can reach the point where I will no longer have to go to the gym to work out. I will be able to just stand. I will have achieved ridiculously good body nirvana and the coin you bounce off my well-toned ass will no longer sink into an abyss.

Until then I’ll be using the equipment I’m paying for.

cigar smoke hell or our apartment.

I just walked into my apartment and it smells like a cigar pit. I don't even have words to make this funny. To make you chuckle.
Share your smoker hell stories please. The more of us there are, the more chance we have to stump them out (see a vague attempt at not so funny humor there, but it's a start).

Diet madness.

I am a naturally thin person. But lately I'm thinking maybe this isn't enough.
Maybe I too should be dieting. After all it's all I see on TV. One diet plan ad after the next. It's all I read in magazines, how to get thin in 3 days, how be a size 0 (which for me is the size of an open mouth starving), ad after ad of emaciated women who look like 12 year old girls, followed by an article on self worth.

Now I've never been tempted to try any of these diets, firstly because I love my food too much. Secondly, if I had to starve enough to squeeze into a skinny jean I'd have zero boobs left. Zero boobs and no hips. My husband would be able to take me to any restaurant in the Village with rainbow pride. And thirdly I have daughters I'm trying to set an example for.

But today I did come across an article I feel could work for me. True I'm only going to take from the article the parts I want to. But that's my prerogative.
I've posted the article below. Read it now then you can read the rest of my blog. Or, you can read the rest of my blog and then read the article and it'll be like that movie Memento. But in blog form. It would be Blogento.

I am personally testing this theory by having a tub of Cherry Garcia while sitting on my couch. I plan on doing no exercise today bar lifting the remote control. I'm doing this in the name of science of course. I weighed myself this morning. I shall weigh myself tonight. And if the weight is the same I shall never exert myself again. I shall get wobbly, and floppy and will become a large, throbbing target for the heart attack reaper but by God, I shall be thin.

Why Exercise Won\'t Make You Thin

my alphabet is missing a Z

2.49am

There are those incredibly lucky people who sleep. I know they exist because there are three of them who live with me. Heads hit pillows and that’s it. Lights out, see you in the morning. In fact I do suspect there are lots of these lucky beings out there. When I look out across at the apartment next to me, as one does in NYC, I see lots of lights off. So I assume they’re sleeping and I hate them for this.

Then there’s the apartment straight across from me, and the one 6 floors down. Their lights are on. I can see them wondering around. Baldie is making a sandwich and white briefs is watching TV. They are like me. People who can’t sleep. People who wake up at the slightest, lightest noise (admittedly in NYC that’s usually an ambulance or a crack whore). People who, to quote Faithless can’t “get no sleep”.

These people are usually herbal tea drinkers, naturotherapy-sleep-aid stockpilers, over-the-counter-anything-with-a-PM-attached-to-it takers. I know because I am one.
I use all the remedies, all the “cures”. I know what Valerian is, I’ve kava kaved, I’ve counted almost all the sheep in New Zealand (except for their cricket team, I’m saving them for 5am). And still, here I am, up at 3.10 am listening to my daughter snoring in the next room.

I got medical help once. Or 4 or 5 times. None of this sleep institute stuff, I hear they watch you sleep and that creeps me out, besides how do you watch an Insomniac sleep (these are the banal, stupid thoughts we have, Baldy and I at 3.20am.) But I have been to my MD and been he prescribed wonderful little pills that did actually give me a night or 6 month’s sleep. My MD did tell me that I was far to young to be having sleep problems. I agreed, took the pills and no longer had sleeping problems.

Problem is, that while the nice billionaires at the drug companies claim their Wonkaseque looking, miracle sleeping pills are non addictive (and really who can argue with a man in a white coat with a whatsit sticking out of his pocket) I find that they are. Not so much the pill. But Sleep. Sleep glorious Sleep. It’s a lovely thing when you get it. And I want it bad.

But a little voice keeps me from popping one every night. In fact I haven’t had one in 6 months. Because I don’t want to be that reliant on a pill to take me to Lucy and her sky of diamonds. I want sleep like everyone else. I just don’t.

So tonight it’ll be type meditation. Hopefully the sound of my fingers on the keyboard will lull me to sleep. So far it’s not working. Tomorrow I’ll forgo caffeine. The day after that I’ll meditate to crappy dong dong dong chants. If that doesn’t work, I’ll be up. So do pop in for a cuppa chamomile if you’re in the area at 3.39am. It’ll be nice to have the company.

My smoking gun

We rent our apartment in NYC for all our arms and a few of our legs. For what we’re paying we could easily buy about 8 foreclosed houses in Vegas or a condo in Orlando.

But living in the greatest city in the world comes at a price, that’s just how it is.
Increasingly however, this A4 size price-tag has become unbearably hard to bear. The reason: Smokers.

Smokers surround us. All their stinky, smelly, hazardous, harmful fumes come directly into our apartment. It seeps in through the vents, light fixtures, windows and air-conditioning. The smell is nearly always detectable. Now I’m a reasonable person. I understand that a smoker has an addiction. I understand it’s hard to resist a man in cowboy boots, on a horse, telling them how good they look with a cigarette in hand. I know it’s a struggle for them quit.

Thing is, I’m not trying to make these air-polluters quit. I don’t care how much poisonous tar and chemicals they inhale into their own lungs. Maybe one day they can get sick enough to get one of those nifty devices you press on your neck to talk. They’re perfect for Darth Vader impersonations. They’d be the hit of any Star Wars convention. I’d invite them over to Halloween.

What I vehemently, ferociously, frantically, vein-popping-out-of-the-side-of-my-head angrily object to, is having to inhale their smoke. I don’t fart in their lounge. I don’t drop rotten eggs in their bedroom. I don’t empty my garbage onto their balcony (although at times that is tempting). But they seem to have no problem doing it to me. And more frighteningly to my children.

Of course we’ve brought this up with our neighbors. And of course, because they’re addicts, they don’t get it. They’re fighting so hard for their right to kill themselves, that in their foggy, smoky, cigar-ridden, selfish haze they’re unconcerned that they’re harming us too.

We do actually have a clause in our lease. Lucky us. Our lease says the following: Smoking is strictly prohibited in all parts of the building (other than within a tenant’s apartment) In no event, however shall a tenant permit anyone to smoke within it’s apartment if….. (B) any smoke or odor from the tenant’s apartment is detectable anywhere outside of such a tenant’s apartment.

Of course Management couldn’t give a lab rat’s nicotine injected, cancer ass.
Management has basically offered for us to move. In other words they are kicking us out, not the smokers. I would laugh at this if laughing didn’t aggravate my newly acquired smokers cough.

So what’s a nice, tax-paying, law-abiding couple to do to protect the health of themselves and their kids? I guess we’ll have to sue. Or move. Or both. And that will cost at least a mansion in Detroit.


For those who are interested here are some interesting facts:

Second-hand smoke (which is sometimes called environmental tobacco smoke or ETS) contains toxic substances, over 40 of which cause cancer. Some of these substances are in stronger concentrations in second-hand smoke than they are in the smoke that goes directly into smokers’ lungs.

ETS is causally linked with a number of adverse health effects in children (under 18), including:

* lower respiratory tract infections (i.e. croup, bronchitis and pneumonia)
* Increased fluid in the middle ear
* upper respiratory tract irritation
* reduced lung function
* additional episodes of asthma
* increased severity of asthmatic symptoms in children
* reduced oxygen flow to tissues, comparable to children with anemia, cyanotic heart disease or chronic lung disease †

ETS is also associated with:

* Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS)
* acute middle ear infections (otitis media)
* tonsillectomy
* meningococcal infections
* cancers and leukemias in childhood
* slower growth
* adverse neurobehavioural effects
* upper respiratory tract infections (colds and sore throats)
* unfavorable cholesterol levels and initiation of atherosclerosis (heart disease) †

oh crap. it's monday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0GHi81jDhw

RIP DJ AM

When Michael Jackson died I was sad. But it was a nostalgic sad, a moonwalk down memory lane for the man he used to be. Farrah Fawcett, I was moved by her struggle but really didn’t have an emotional connection to her. I didn’t see Charlie’s Angels. But the news of DJ AM’s death has really shocked and moved me.

I am not a fan/groupie/stalker of his, I wouldn’t recognize his music or style, but because I am an avid reader of the celeb mags (It’s all I can get in with the kids you understand, my husband buys them for me, okay, okay, I love them and would rather read one over War and Peace any day. You can put down that water-board now.) I know his life story, and that’s what’s making this so hard.

Adam Goldstein (DJ AM) had a huge drug addiction. He overcame and survived that.
He was massively overweight, had stomach surgery to lose the weight and did.
He dated Nicole Richie and survived that.
Then in 2008 he actually survived a plane crash that killed everyone else on board except for himself and Travis Barker.
The man was clearly a survivor. And yet….

It’s just too sad for any more words.

On a lighter pop culture note Noel Gallagher has left Oasis after a fall-out with his brother. Does anyone really give a fuck?

Hi, my name is Robyn and I’m Technology’s Bitch.

I’m only writing this because my phone and Internet are down. Time Warner Cable might as well have chopped off my right hand. They’ve rendered me useless. I can’t email, talk or connect to another human being besides my kids and they’re playing their DS. More importantly I can’t update my Facebook status. How will everyone know that I’m having Internet problems if I can’t share it with 100 plus of my closest friends? I am because I Twitter.

So here we are. You and me. Merely killing time until they’ve hooked me up, mainlined my addiction and fed my habit. Your hair looks very nice by the way and I do like that color on you.

My best friend Lips (I won’t go into details as to why she’s called that, suffice as to say that your imagined reasons are far better than the boring truth, so stick with those.) is also an Internet junkie. Lips and I type-talk everyday. More worrying we type laugh. Hahahahahahahahaha. Gone are the days where you’d need to hear a person’s giggle, see their smile or hear their laughter. Hahahahahahahaha is good enough. In fact it’s better. You can make yourself a cuppa tea midway through a type-laugh, do your hair, pluck your eyebrows. You don’t need to concentrate on the conversation. It’s funny, you’re having a laugh, your type-laugh says as much and you no longer look like Frida Kahlo. Love it. Hahahahahahahahaha.

Hamptons, schmamptons ...

The Hamptons reminds me of the popular kids at school. Rich, beautiful, immaculate. They trim their hedges better than Bella Brazil does Tribeca bush. (NY ladies, trust me on this: 212 240 9434 ask for Carla and prepare to be violated). Montauk, not so much. It’s like all the dorks, freaks, outsiders, loners and stoners got together and decided that they too deserve some beach. Why should the rich and gorgeous get all the perks? And thus, there’s Montauk. Flabby bum capital of Long Island. And that’s just fine with me. As a barely-5-foot Jewish woman I doubt I’d make the cut in The Hamptons. I’d drown in a sea of 6-foot blondes. I’d fumble the hand movement when high five-ing P.Diddy. My designer label would say “Target”. Plus, as far as I’m aware, my husband isn’t wanted for fraud, money laundering and or embezzlement.

And so Montauk it was for me, my husband and our 2 daughters. Hubby taught my eldest daughter to surf. She got up, standing, first time. Hello, that’s STANDING FIRST TIME. We lounged, drank cocktails, ate seafood and frolicked in the sea. A fabulous time was had by all. And we’ll go back next year. Along the way I’ll roll down our windows, stick out my bum and give the popular kids a big, stretch-mark ridden, wobbly, pale, full moon.

Where to stay: We stayed at http://www.soleeast.com/. The food, pool, drinks - like awesome dude. Do not expect great service, one cannot rush a surfer. Be prepared to have to ask for more shampoo.

Hidden yum: http://thehideawaymontauk.com/Home.html

No one picked my keys. Or, My 2009 party.

Birthday parties.
They always start with these elaborate, fabulous ideas in my head. A pool party. Bring all. Kids will be running around, splashing, laughing, playing, topping up mom's wine. Gorgeous friends, all color-coordinated in pastels and beige, sipping martini's and munching truffle-infused cheese and who-knew-you-could-fancy-it-up-so-much crackers. Breasts popping out of flimsy dresses, booze-induced sexual innuendos, boys patting each other on firm bums, glasses are clicking so often that we don't even need the stereo, laughter and happiness galore. Except for the designated drivers who are simply miserable.

Well that's what I had pictured. What I got was rain. So party canceled.

But that isn't the moral of the story. I do feel that because this is my first ever blog, it does need a moral. I will not be so righteous in the future. Nor have I ever been in the past (except for my brief time as a Zionist radical but again that's another blog)

So we decided to invite friends over for some truffle cheese at our place. Our place being a typical tiny NY apartment with views of the Statue of Liberty. You know, typical. Bring all. And they did. Not a pastel ensemble in sight. My pretty friend Jo baked a 3-tier, chocolate, Jewish princess cake for me. It was delicious. The kids managed to smear some of it onto the floor and walls but we did manage to salvage most of it into our gluttonous mouths. I scored great gifts. We laughed and clinked glasses. No one flashed.

And guess what? It was great. That's the moral. So quick you could have missed it had I not pointed it out in this sentence and the following sentence. The moral is that if you have great friends you can have a party anywhere.

Actually, because it's my birthday, I'm going to change the moral. Moral police be damned.
The new one is: Getting older sucks. I don't care how many woman pretend that it doesn't bother them, or how many times we have to read that botox-tsunami'd Jennifer Aniston is happy to age gracefully, it's just not true. So best we age drunk, and with lots of friends and screaming kids than all alone getting your face dot-to-dot needled at the dermatologist.