Well, sometimes somewhat unconsciously, my love of proverbs seeps into my day to day interaction with my favorite six year old, Aldie, who has an inexplicable disdain towards banana peels that bear a brown spot or two. Even when I beseech him to peel the fruit before condemning it to hells of some G-d forsaken subway trash can, Aldie usually refuses. Remarking, “But it’s gross,” he disposes of the perfectly edible banana nine times out of ten.

This morning, however, I determined to no longer participate in the bananacide occurring in my midst. It was time for action, and so without a second thought, I barked, “Never judge a banana by its peel!” Aldie, startled by my rather loud proclamation, paused and then said, “Is this another one of your crazy life metaphors?”

Though my intentions were entirely literal (and perhaps noble, if you’re into saving awkwardly shaped yellow fruit), my rather brash remark did, indeed, contain a deeper message: Stop being so darn superficial. Give things a chance. Experience them. Acquaint yourself with the ins and outs of them. Walk a mile in their shoes (if by things we mean people). And then and only then pass judgment.

Aldie stared at me, realizing my mind had embarked on an impromptu philosophical journey, and commented, “Ok, this one time. For you.” And would you believe it? The banana itself had not a single spot. It was any monkey’s dream, and for my little blonde headed monkey it was reinforcement of this morning’s subway lesson.

Aldie even took it one step further, when he remarked, “A banana’s kind of like a Starbucks latte. You’ve got to drink past the foam and milk to get to the really good stuff- the espresso.” Love. Of. My. Life.

As one of the aforementioned New Yorkers, I found myself this week in a state of perpetual action. As my high school principal once said to me when I refused to silence myself during a Bible class in which the issue of homophobia arose (ok, it’s didn’t arise until I raised it, but anyhow), “Speak little. And do a lot.” Though I haven’t fully mastered this ancient proverb– I still talk a great deal– I have managed to internalize the “do a lot” bit.

This week my loyalty skills were put to the test, when a friend indeed became a friend in need. Spending three nights in the hospital with her, and much of my day running errands on her behalf, I began to understand the concept of running on adrenaline, or some sort of caffeine-driven fumes. Rearranging my evenings, maximizing my one hour lunch break, and limiting my sleep time allowed me to attempt to be the best possible friend I could be.

It also reinforced my reliance on my drug of choice: the Almighty Latte. And as stressful situations often do, it drove me back to my original coffee haven, Starbucks. I will admit that since returning to New York I have been playing the coffee field, sampling Gimme Coffee!, Balthazar, Joe’s, Cafe Grumpy, and on the rare occasion Bowery Coffee too.

But this week was all about the ‘Buck. I returned to my roots– my core caffeine values– and chose to run on the original grind. I reasoned that given the chaotic nature of this particular week, in which every single day had several calendared events, I needed to reinstitute some stability in my life. Some people eat comfort food when they are down on their luck; I drink Starbucks skinny vanilla lattes. Same concept. Starkly different price points.

And I must say it was wonderful to reconnect with my past– revisiting pseudonyms (namely: Liz and Jesse) I used to employ when ordering my drink du jour; chatting with baristas who knew me when I was lowly intern; fighting for the corner seat during the morning rush. As I departed each morning, afternoon, and evening from Starbucks, I was energized, emotionally prepared, and ready to embrace my personal adage, “There are no decaffeinated folks in New York City.”

After all, as T.S. Elliot, the only literary superstar to make an appearance on my Wellesley hoop (used in the traditional Wellesley senior hoop roll), phrased it, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” And if my calculations are correct, I’ve had quite a caffeinated 22 years thus far.

And until he made that comment I had been doing pretty well abiding by one of my New Year’s resolutions– to not complain about the things I am unwilling to make an effort to change. For example, I am constantly plagued by dry skin during the winter months, but I am not ready to shell out the requisite $45 for a decent humidifier. Hence, instead of kvetching for all the world to hear, I have taken to using excessive amounts of hand cream in silence.

The same principle can be applied to my continual bout of singledom. With my future so undetermined, I do not feel like I am in the best position to throw on my Spanx and embark on a man hunt– especially when I have two entire seasons of Downton Abbey to catch up on. And so instead of engaging in a nightly tear fest about my lack of love life, I have embraced a new British period piece television show and picked up a few babysitting gigs.

To my grandfather, this is just plain wasteful. And frankly I get it. If I lived at home and saved money on rent, I could afford the cost of a JDate account. But instead I am choosing to put my career before my uterus. For that, I respectfully apologize. But even Aldie came from non-traditional beginnings– think: petri dish.

“Don’t leave it to fate. JDate.co.il”

And as a girl who has always made a habit of challenging the status quo, I plan to give myself just this evening to bemoan my single status (with the help of a little Mariah Carey and some diet coke). But come tomorrow, I’m back on the New Year’s resolution abiding path. I’ve got mountains to climb before I sleep. As Betty Bender, an author of sorts, once said, “Anything I’ve ever done that ultimately was worthwhile…initially scared me to death.” Or, in this case, my grandfather.

In my haste, however, I neglected to mention to any of my fellow biddies that I was embarking on said journey. Fast forward two hours. It is approximately 2 am, and I return to my dorm ready to embrace my inner idealist once more. Upon entering my dorm room, I am greeted by a group of six girls– all apparently praying for my safety and contemplating whether to put in a call to campus police.

My roommate, the most concerned of all, is shocked to see I am in entirely one piece. I should note that this incident occurred around the time of the Wellesley town fondler, who had a propensity for appearing on Wellesley’s campus, dropping his pants, and giving himself a spiritual experience upon encountering a student. And yes, I somehow managed to forget or neglect that fact when I decided to frolic through the Wellesley wilderness.

Now while my roommate had thought the worst, another friend, Caroline, quickly chimed in that she knew I was all right; that I could survive in the desert for a week, so long as it had a local coffee ship; and that she completely understood and supported my need for personal space.

Tuning into the sense of urgency that had seemed to permeate the room, I replied, “Um, what are you all talking about? I just went for a walk, a thing I do every so often when the eat-less-challah bug strikes me.” But then it all began to sink in. This was my George Bailey moment (a la It’s a Wonderful Life), when I saw my life without me in it. And while I had been enduring a rather painful sophomore slump, in that instant I was reminded that I was significant. At least to six girls in that crowded dorm room.

While watching “The Mountaintop” on Broadway this evening, I recalled that night three years earlier. While I am no Martin Luther King, Jr, I have a reason to fight. To be “the best possible Yaffa I can be,” as Mama B would say. I may not move as many mountains as he did, but like him, I have and should fight to stay alive, to fight the good fight, and to leave the world slightly better than in the state I found it.

It’s a cliched goal– no doubt. But it’s one that every so often, when I endure the inevitable post-holiday depression, I gravitate towards. It’s my calorie-free soul food, which manages to give me an ounce of comfort when the temperatures are below freezing, I am facing the brink of July unemployment, and kittens are chasing after me like they know something about my future I don’t know.

Ernest Hemingway once said, “Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” So here I am channeling that hurt away, all the while wishing I could head back to Wellesley for a midnight stroll. (FYI, avid readers, this is your warning should I disappear from cyberspace for more than two hours.)

Now imagine my surprise when I discovered half a lemon in my fruit drawer. Knowing its shelf life was limited, I determined to do what any girl home alone on January 1st would do, make myself a drink. And after tracking down some orange juice and coconut rum, I did just that– employing the remaining lemon in the creation of the Bahama Mama.

Two ounces later, and I remembered why my drink of choice is Diet Coke. I felt tipsy, queasy, and all kinds of no-good, very-bad feelings. I poured the remnants down the drain and curled up with an equally no-good, very-bad movie: Morning Glory, in which Rachel McAdams plays an aspiring news producer who winds up living happily ever with her equally attractive male co-producer. It was a standard Grade C movie, and it was just what the doctor called for.

While I was not drunk– after all I had taken a mere two sips– I remembered why my standard indulgence is not cheap alcohol. It’s a downer, and frankly, at the start of a new year, the last thing I need is a depressant. I need to be able to reflect on the 2011 highlights: completing a senior thesis, starting a new job, interviewing a prolific southern rapper, nannying for an equally prolific midwestern rapper, and increasing my caffeine tolerance. And if I am not completely lucid, I am unable to take in the magnitude of my experiences.

So here’s to a year of sobriety, in which I end each post with a literary quote– this time from Jack Kerouac: “Be in love with your life. Every detail of it.” And Moses do you notice the details when you’re pumped up on lattes and not liquor.

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:

]]> http://thegreenstraw.wordpress.com/2011/12/31/drink-lchaim-to-life/feed/ 1 Yaffa http://thegreenstraw.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/awkward-encounters-in-abigaels/ http://thegreenstraw.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/awkward-encounters-in-abigaels/#comments Tue, 27 Dec 2011 21:10:30 +0000 Yaffa Fredrick http://thegreenstraw.wordpress.com/?p=2054 Continue reading →]]> 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.

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.

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.

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: