Drink L’Chaim, To Life!

As I mentioned in another entry not too long ago, I did not grow up in a household that endorsed or celebrated New Year’s. My mother, in fact, has always looked upon the holiday with a certain level of disdain. Unlike Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, secular New Year is not about self-reflection or improvement. It’s, and I quote, “an excuse to get riproiously drunk and ensure you start the next year entirely hungover.”

Needless to say I grew up in a stone-cold sober household, where alcohol was about as commonly consumed as pork chops were eaten. So when I got to college and suddenly discovered that New Year’s Eve celebrations were some of the most meticulously planned nights for inevitable inebriation, I was ill-prepared to participate in the raucous night time party.

And like a daughter with an umbilical cord relationship with her mother, I spent the subsequent four New Year’s Eves drinking lattes with my mom. This year I have resolved to venture beyond the confines of the womb, get dressed up in the best outfit the local consignment shop has to offer, and watch midnight fireworks over the park. If I am feeling particularly daring, I may even sip a 4 oz glass of champagne.

In the end, though, I hope my evening resembles the following–a tasteful (slightly tipsy) Kate Spade-inspired celebration:

Awkward Encounters in Abigael’s

There are several reasons why I avoid midtown Manhattan. First, I loathe crowds. And regardless of time of day or year, there are perpetual mounds of people to contend with. Second, a bombardment of life size billboards throws me into spasmodic shock. As you might guess, I’m not too good with overstimulation. And third, I always manage to bump into someone I know but am not particularly fond of schmoozing it up with.

Last night, at my father’s behest, I made a reservation at the classiest kosher restaurant in town– sadly situated between Herald Square and Time Square. Though far from thrilled with the restaurant’s location, I promised myself that a delicious grilled portobello and palm salad would make the trek well worth my schlep. But as a wise Yiddish proverb proclaims, “Man plans and G-d laughs.”

Upon entering the restaurant, I encountered two former classmates, their husbands, and what I suspect were their pregnant bellies. After exchanging pleasantries, the conversation went silent. And I, a person who prides herself on her ability to schmooze up anyone about anything, became a momentary mute.

I could have asked what they were occupying their time with, but I knew the answer: married life.  Similarly, they could have asked me about my day to day life; however, the answer was obvious: anything but married life. And so we stood awkwardly next to each other wondering what had transpired over the four and a half years since we had occupied the same classroom.

Then one of my former colleagues broke the silence. “You know, Yaffa, I still think you’re going to be president someday.” The other future mother quickly confirmed that she too held the same belief. And despite my denial of political aspirations, they pressed further. “You’re the girl who leaves the [highly glamorized Jewish] ghetto and makes a difference in the real world.”

In that moment my heart smiled. Instead of the usual why-are-you-single-you-old-geezer schpiel, my high school friends acknowledged that perhaps there was more to life than procreation. If not for then, than for me. And that not every Orthodox Jewish girl is on the same biological timeline.

Not wanting to ruin the moment, I thanked them for their kind words and reassured them that according to my horoscope 2012 would be the year I found professional and romantic stability. I then departed for my father’s table, slightly less peeved about my midtown schlep, but still unwilling to make a weekly habit of it. True love– in Yaffa terms– means meeting below 14th Street for all culinary related encounters.

 

One cashew less at a time.

I have a (not) so secret thing for Christmas trees.

It’s that glorious time of year when I compile a list of resolutions to ring in the new year. While I must admit I have failed to meet three of my previous year’s resolutions, I refuse to be discouraged. In fact, I plan to carry them into 2012, all the while compiling an entirely new list.

So without further adieu I present Living on a Latte’s Entirely Caffeine-Free New Year’s Resolutions List of 2012:

1) Eat less cashews. Between you, me, and all the American children with nut allergies, I will admit I have an unhealthy addiction. As in consume a 32 oz jar of cashews in two days addiction. And this addiction has translated into some unnecessary flubber in the abdomen, hips, and tuchis area. This year I resolve to make better cashew-related decisions– perhaps even buy the 100 calorie packs from Trader Joe’s.

2) Not be afraid to ask for what I want. In the coming year I am planning to make a drastic career change, and this will require me asking some very powerful people in some very important places for some very competitive positions. In order to do so, though, I must be bold, determined, and fearless. Or as my sixth grade English teacher phrases it, “Like the lotto, you have to be in to win it.”

3) Diversify my blogosphere reading. If one were to do a quick scan of my blogroll, one would notice something very quickly: I religiously read fashion, food, and politics blogs. But it’s time for me to embrace my inner techie and read Wired’s daily blog or subscribe to Andrew Sullivan’s religion-esque blog. It’s time I engaged the Renaissance woman, dormant for the last 22 years, and challenged myself to learn about subjects beyond my comfort zone.

4) Send more handwritten letters. Heaven knows how much I adore snail mail. And if I expect to receive a steady flow, I must reciprocate. Therefore, I have resolved to spend my Chanukah money on some classy stationary from the best of Etsy and send all my biddies some handwritten love notes. (If you’d like to be included in my letter love fest, let me know!)

5) Master the art of heeled boots. As those who have followed my blog since its inception know,  last year I resolved to learn the art of walking in heels. And while I am far from Lady Gaga in Alexander Wang footwear, I have made some minor improvements. But given the season and my love of everything boot related, I believe a more specific goal may be more effective so heeled boot walking it is.

What are your resolutions, loyal readers? I’d like to expand my list and need some inspiration.

Like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sans jelly

The other day I bumped in one of my former best friends. In high school, she and I sat in the back of our Jewish law class consuming vast amounts of cheerios and apple slices as our rabbi rambled on and on about the importance of  a woman covering her hair when married. In a classic adolescent exchange, she supplied the food and I supplied the notes from each day’s lecture.

Then we graduated, and she married quickly, giving birth to her first baby boy while I was studying abroad in England. Saddened– and perhaps a bit dismayed– that I was not around for the birth of her first born, she decided to limit all contact with me. I forgave her and frankly understood. Without an educational setting to unite us, we didn’t really have a whole lot in common.

But then yesterday, there she was– with hubby and her now two baby boys. And I, confused as to how she had wandered into the least Orthodox Jewish friendly neighborhood of the city, was at a loss for words. She was therefore forced to make the first form of verbal communication.

“My Yaffa, you look so grown up!” Um, I look grown up? Which biddie here has a husband and two sons? And which biddie here is single and semi-directionless in terms of her future? But not wanting to exhibit my signature sarcasm, I politely thanked her and reciprocated the exclamation.

“So what are you up? Still single?” Well I very well knew I couldn’t answer either question honestly. This was the girl who asked what Oxford was when I said I studied there. And this was the very same girl who remarked at age 15, “A woman without a husband is like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the jelly.”

I kept my answers brief. I worked in law and had no current suitors, but I was contemplating volunteering at a pet shop in the new year. Despite my brevity, I knew I had lost her. Law? Pet shop? Baby-less at 22? The only appropriate response was that I was a shonda, cherpah, and boosha- all Yiddish synonyms for embarrassment to the community. However, my high school amiga was too kind-hearted to verbalize her thoughts and so she remarked, “I would expect nothing less from you, Yaffa.”

With that we parted ways, and I spent the entire walk home contemplating what she meant. Did she predict I would be barren and broke right after college? Because honestly, I could have told you that was my future at age 10. Or did her comment imply that she thought I walk be an aspiring professional, always on the go and with a fondness for the feline species?

Regardless of her actual intentions, her words played on my mind. Even in high school I was far from conventional. I was the eccentric teenager who took photography classes at secular college during the summer time. I was the geek who built robots and launched rockets when I spent time with friends beyond the Orthodox bubble. Moses, I was the girl with friends beyond the Orthodox bubble.

Perhaps her comment was just a reiteration of a fact: I march to the beat of a different drummer. I take the path less traveled, and I order my peanut butter and jelly sandwich sans jelly. And frankly, after looking at her tired and worn expression, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Getting my Jewish boy a cappella groove on.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year indeed. The Maccabeats, the Yeshiva University group responsible for last year’s holiday sensation “Candlelight,” have released a new Chanukah single. And this time they’re taking their inspiration from a fellow beardless Jew, Matisyahu.

In their video for “Miracle,” the Maccabeats dare us to believe in the impossible, derive our strength from the One Above, and embrace eight nights of caloric celebrations. They also remind me just how attractive boys seem when they can hold tunes. Or as Uncle Jesse might phrase it, “Have mer-cy!”

Yes, I’ll admit it, while baking Chanukah cookies with my favorite child in all of New York City, I played this new hit single on repeat. And all Aldie could say is, “Seriously, Yaffa, marry them… preferably the one who randomly dresses up in the astronaut costume and parades around in their music videos. I’d come to your wedding if you had it in space.”

And with that brief introduction, I leave you with the breakout hit of Chanukah 2011: 

 

And this is why I don’t live in Utah.

On the first day of 10th grade my class merited the infamous Rabbi Francis lecture on why men and women could never be platonic. We– the ladies– were show dogs, and every man’s objective was to land the the winning show dog. He noted that said dog dressed modestly, spoke little, and knew how to bake one hell of a challah.

While I stared in disbelief at his rather absurd pup analogy, my classmates nodded in complete agreement. They were content being compared to animals on display, and more importantly they truly believed that was how every boy with a yarmulke viewed them. In that regard, my classmates determined to wear the longest skirts possible, pursue professions within the confines of the Jewish community, and master the art of Friday night dinner.

I, being the difficult one that I have always tended to be, grimaced in the corner. This, of course, attracted Rabbi Francis’s attention. And when he questioned my response, I said, “I disagree.” Fearing I had male friends, he invited me to schmooze with him about the matter after class. During said chat, in which he chastised my liberal ideology, he informed me that Orthodox Jews were not the only ones who thought in this manner.

And seven years later, while I still vehemently disagree with his claim, I have discovered that he was right in regards to the latter issue– that other groups of people, in this case Mormon, shared his sentiment. And hence, avid readers, I have decided that I will under no circumstances move to Utah. No matter how fabulous their Tabernacle Choir may be.

Below I provide audio-visual proof of my aversion to Salt Lake and Co.:

You’ve offended my sensibilities, and other tales of subway vengeance

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Monday morning rush hour riders do not like to engage in any verbal activity. However, they are willing to take any of the necessary physical steps to secure their coveted spots in overly crowded departing trains. I am no exception to the rule.

And I particularly do not like participating in conversation with an individual whose every word offends me. Case in point: This past Monday, while Aldie and I waited for the A train, a woman paused beside us and asked, rather innocently, when I was due. Now I know I’m not the world’s skinniest minnie, but seriously, do I look seven months pregnant?

Livid, I responded, “Any minute now.” Then the train arrived, and the conversation ceased entirely… until the next morning. While waiting for the very same A train, Aldie and I noticed the woman on the platform. Aldie determined to break his vow of silence in order to address her verbal misstep.

“Excuse, miss, but my babysitter isn’t pregnant. And she’s certainly not ready for the responsibilities that accompany motherhood. Do you know how expensive children are?” Then to illustrate that I, indeed, was without child, he unbuttoned my coat and highlighted my pseudo-flat stomach. “See, no baby. And no flab. My point is simple: You’ve offended my sensibilities, and hers. And you should apologize.”

The woman, rather shocked, responded, “My, you have a large vocabulary.” To which Aldie said, “And?” “And I am sorry for mistaking your babysitter for your pregnant mother.” I gave Aldie a look of approval, and he accepted her verbal articulation of remorse. Then I bought Aldie a croissant and told him that if he ever wanted to adopt a 20something obsessive compulsive coffee drinker, he should give me a call. Immediately. He smiled, and my ovaries whirled.

The day I voted for Moses.

It was the 2004 Presidential Election and yours truly was ineligible to vote. Despite my angry letters to then President Bush, I was not granted special voting dispensation. The only election I could participate in– a mock school election, in which each student cast a ballot for her presidential nominee of choice.

While the liberal in me wanted to embrace Kerry with open arms, the American Jew in me was skeptical of his foreign policy. But Heaven knows I was not going to vote in the Texas Ranger. And so I did what any Orthodox Jewish girl distressed with her political choices would do, I voted for Moses.

He truly was a model of Jewish leadership. Bold, determined, and a whole lot of feisty, Moses led a nation of kvetchers through the desert for forty years. And with the exception of that one incident with the rock, he never lost his cool. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, and when in doubt, Moses sought counsel from the Highest Counsel (you down with G-O-D?).

But perhaps most notably, Moses was pretty darn humble. And given his major accomplishments, he easily could have been riding the high and mighty train. However, he checked his ego at the door, and as a result succeeded in leading a rather rowdy group of Jews through a desert wasteland.

If only Mr. Cain had consulted his Bible before embarking on his political adventure. He might have learned a thing or two from my presidential pic of 2004. In particular Cain could have mastered the art of humility, rather than constantly depicting himself as the world’s cockiest political candidate.

While his rise to fame would have been significantly slower, he might still have been able to save face. Well, maybe not. He would still have had to know a thing or two about Libya:

And abortion: .

But, in all seriousness, if Cain had been a little less himself,  he and I could have had a few more months together. And now the raging liberal in me is left with one less source of comic relief. No, Rick Perry isn’t a close second. Perry forgetting the Department of Commerce in an economic debate is not nearly as humorous as Cain’s campaign manager smoking a random cigar during the filming of his campaign ad.

This is all a long-winded way of saying, Cain, you will be missed by this here loonie leftie. That, and you’re no Moses.

Things I’m Really Good At.

Any girl can tell you that there are certain times of the month when she finds herself in a state of hormonally generated chaos. She feels things– lots and lots of things– which she can’t quantify, but so profoundly affect her emotional well-being. Some scientists call it pre-menstrual syndrome. I prefer the term UKD, or uncontrollable kvetchy disorder.

It is during these days that I find myself in a persistent state of self-doubt. Suddenly I am convinced I am unable to do anything  well, and it has therefore become tradition that during my darkest hours I sit down and continue to build a list I began months before– “Things I’m Really Good At.”  Below is a taste of the items that have my made my slowly expanding list:

1) Consuming caffeine. Seriously, if there a coffee olympics I would be the Michael Phelps of the latte competition. I have an uncanny ability to drink vast amounts of caffeine and still remain completely calm. I also am particularly skilled at befriending the right gay male baristas who have a love of all things Selena and are happy to share unlimited cups of coffee with fellow Selena fans.

2) Alphabetizing files/books/cds (do people actually buy those anymore?). I’ve always been averse to the Dewey Decimal System. As a believer in the KISS (keep it simple, stupid) philosophy, I think a more simplified organizational structure based on the ABCs is the most effective way to organize almost every facet of one’s life. And, ladies and gents, after 22 years of structuring my life in such a way I can say with certainty that I am extraordinarily speedy at completing this task.

3) Blowdrying my hair. You think I jest, but when you’re me and flying out the door at 5:45 am Monday-Friday, you don’t have time for a slow dry. You need to be chick-chock; in and out; one, two, three. And after a little finagling, I have mastered the art of the quick dry. Also, did I mention that my hair looks pretty spanking straight and suave when I am done with my 150 second air dry? Be jealous. Be very jealous.

4) Remembering minute details of peoples’ lives. Some might mistake my remarkable memory for my first grade best friend’s mom’s birthday as an old school version of stalking, but I promise I’m not that creepy. I just listen, and like a human sponge, soak up all the random factoids my friends, family, and subway acquaintances offer on a daily basis. And when people aren’t disturbed about my memory for their personal details, they are often pleasantly surprised that someone actually took the time to really listen to their life stories.

5) Choosing ripe avocados. It’s a talent, and not one my mother taught me either. I am self-taught avocado connoisseur. With a simple gentle squeeze I can fully assess the ripeness of an avocado and determine then and there if said avocado has a place inside my next batch of guacamole. Given my avocado addiction, this has proven a most useful skill.

And 6) Party planning. My backup plan if both the legal and journalism professions fail me, or I fail them, is to become a wedding planner. As my propensity for alphabetizing might have indicated, I have decent organizational skills. And wedding planning is the perfect venue to showcase my skills. It also gives me an opportunity to take part in creating one of the most meaningful days in any person’s life.

Now given my rare skill set I certainly have reason to smile, or at least not kvetch.  After all, I’m one in six billion.